‘No, I want to buy bedding plants. We’d never be able to carry them.’
He shakes his head. ‘We’ll be back in an hour.’
We watch them walk down the path. At the gate he gives me a wink.
Zoey says, ‘Now that would definitely annoy me.’
I ignore her. I eat a slice of kiwi. It tastes of somewhere else. The sky skitters with clouds, like spring lambs in a strange blue field. The sun comes and goes. Everything feels volatile.
Dad hauls the lawnmower from the shed. It’s covered in old towels, as if it’s been hibernating. He used to look after the garden religiously, used to plant and prune, tie things back with bits of string and keep some general order. It’s a wilderness now though – the grass bedraggled, the roses nudging their way into the shed.
We laugh at him when the lawnmower won’t start, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just shrugs at us as if he didn’t want to mow the lawn anyway. He goes back into the shed, comes out with some shears and starts cutting back brambles from the fence.
Zoey says, ‘There’s this pregnant teens group, did I tell you? They give you cake and tea and show you how to change nappies and stuff. I thought it’d be rubbish, but we had a great laugh.’
A plane crosses the sky, leaving a smoky trail. Another plane crosses the first one, making a kiss. Neither plane falls. Zoey says, ‘Are you listening? Because you don’t look as if you are.’
I rub my eyes, try to focus. She says she’s made friends with a girl… something about their due dates being the same… something else about a midwife. She sounds as if she’s speaking to me down a tunnel.
I notice how a button strains in the middle of her shirt.
A butterfly lands on the path and spreads its wings. Sunbathing. It’s very early in the year for butterflies.
‘You sure you’re listening?’
Cal comes through the gate. He dumps his bike on the lawn and runs round the garden twice.
‘Holidays start here!’ he yells. He climbs the apple tree to celebrate, jamming his knees between two branches and squatting there like an elf.
He gets a text, the blue light on his phone flashing amongst the new leaves. It reminds me of a dream I had a few nights ago. In the dream, a blue light shone from my throat every time I opened my mouth.
He sends a text back, quickly receives one in return. He laughs. Another text arrives, then another, like a flock of birds landing in the tree.
‘Year Seven won!’ he announces cheerfully. ‘There was a water fight in the park against Year Ten and we won!’
Cal finding his way at secondary school. Cal with friends and a new mobile. Cal growing his hair because he wants to look like a skateboarder.
‘What are you staring at?’ He sticks his tongue out at me, jumps out of the tree and runs into the house.
The garden’s sunk into shadow. The air feels damp. A sweet wrapper blows down the path.
Zoey shivers. ‘I think I might go.’ She holds me tight, as if one of us might fall. ‘You’re very hot. Are you supposed to be?’
Dad sees her out.
Adam comes through the gap in the fence. ‘All done.’ He pulls the deck chair closer to me and sits down. ‘She bought half the garden centre. It cost a fortune, but she was really into it. She wants to start a herb garden.’
Keep-death-away spells. Hold your boyfriend’s hand very tight.
‘You all right?’
I rest my head on his shoulder. I feel as if I’m waiting for something.
There are sounds – the vague chink of dishes from the kitchen, the rustle of leaves, the roar of a faraway engine.
The sun has turned to liquid, melting coldly into the horizon.
‘You feel very hot.’ He presses his hand against my forehead, brushes my cheek, feels the back of my neck. ‘Don’t move.’
He leaves me, runs up the path towards the house.
The planet spins, the wind sifts the trees.
I’m not afraid.
Keep breathing, just keep doing it. It’s easy – in and out.
Strange how the ground comes up to meet me, but it feels better to be low. I think about my name while I lie here. Tessa Scott. A good name of three syllables. Every seven years our bodies change, every cell. Every seven years we disappear.
‘Christ! She’s burning up!’ Dad’s face glimmers right above me. ‘Call an ambulance!’ His voice comes from far away. I want to smile. I want to thank him for being here, but for some reason I don’t seem able to get the words together.
‘Don’t close your eyes, Tess. Can you hear me? Stay with us!’
When I nod, the sky whirls with sickening speed, like falling from a building.
Thirty-two
Death straps me to the hospital bed, claws its way onto my chest and sits there. I didn’t know it would hurt this much. I didn’t know that everything good that’s ever happened in my life would be emptied out by it.
it’s happening now and it’s really, really true and however much they all promise to remember me it doesn’t even matter if they do or not because I won’t even know about it because I’ll be gone
A dark hole opens up in the corner of the room and fills with mist, like material rippling through trees.
I hear myself moaning from a distance. I don’t want to listen. I catch the weight of glances. Nurse to doctor, doctor to Dad. Their hushed voices. Panic spills from Dad’s throat.
Not yet. Not yet.
I keep thinking about blossom. White blossom from a spinning blue sky. How small humans are, how vulnerable compared to rock, stars.
Cal comes. I remember him. I want to tell him not to be scared. I want him to talk in his normal voice and tell me something funny. But he stands next to Dad, quiet and small, and whispers, ‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘She’s got an infection.’
‘Will she die?’
‘They’ve given her antibiotics.’
‘So she’ll get better?’
Silence.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Not sudden, like being hit by a car. Not this strange heat, this feeling of massive bruising deep inside. Leukaemia is a progressive disease. I’m supposed to get weaker and weaker until I don’t care any more.
But I still care. When am I going to stop caring?
I try to think of simple things – boiled potatoes, milk. But scary things come into my mind instead – empty trees, plates of dust. The bleached angle of a jaw bone.
I want to tell Dad how frightened I am, but speaking is like climbing up from a vat of oil. My words come from somewhere dark and slippery.
‘Don’t let me fall.’
‘I’ve got you.’
‘I’m falling.’
‘I’m here. I’ve got you.’
But his eyes are scared and his face is slack, like he’s a hundred years old.
Thirty-three
I wake to flowers. Vases of tulips, carnations like a wedding, gypsophila frothing over the bedside cabinet.
I wake to Dad, still holding my hand.
All the things in the room are wonderful – the jug, that chair. The sky is very blue beyond the window.
‘Are you thirsty?’ Dad says. ‘Do you want a drink?’
I want mango juice. Lots of it. He plumps a pillow under my head and holds the glass for me. His eyes lock into mine. I sip, swallow. He gives me time to breathe, tips the glass again. When I’ve had enough, he wipes my mouth with a tissue.
‘Like a baby,’ I tell him.
He nods. Silent tears fill his eyes.
I sleep. I wake up again. And this time I’m starving.
‘Any chance of an ice cream?’
Dad puts his book down with a grin. ‘Wait there.’ He’s not gone long, comes back with a Strawberry Mivvi. He wraps the stick in tissue so it doesn’t drip and I manage to hold it myself. It’s utterly delicious. My body’s repairing itself. I didn’t know it could still do that. I know I won’t die with a Strawberry Mivvi in my hand.