Before I Die aka Now is Good

Fifteen

‘I’m on line,’ Dad says, pointing at his laptop. ‘Do you want to do your restless pacing somewhere else?’

The light from the computer flickers in his glasses. I sit down on the chair opposite him.

‘That’s annoying as well,’ he says, without looking up.

‘Me sitting here?’

‘No.’

‘Me tapping the table?’

‘Listen,’ he says, ‘there’s a doctor here who’s developed a system called bone breathing. Ever heard of that?’

‘No.’

‘You have to imagine your breath as a warm colour, then breathe in through the left foot, up the leg to the hip and then out the same way. Seven times, then the right leg the same. Want to give it a try?’

‘No.’

He takes off his glasses and looks at me. ‘It’s stopped raining. Why don’t you take a blanket and sit in the garden? I’ll let you know when the nurse gets here.’

‘I don’t want to.’

He sighs, puts his glasses back on and goes back to his laptop. I hate him. I know he watches me leave. I hear his small sigh of relief.

All the bedroom doors are shut, so it’s gloomy in the hallway. I go up the stairs on all fours, sit at the top and look down. The gloom has movement to it. Maybe I’m beginning to see things other people can’t. Like atoms. I bump down on my bum and crawl back up again, enjoying the squash of carpet beneath my knees. There are thirteen stairs. Every time I count them it’s the same.

I curl up at the foot of the stairs. This is where the cat sits when she wants to trip people over. I’ve always wanted to be a cat. Warm and domesticated when you want to be, wild when you don’t.

The doorbell rings. I curl myself tighter.

Dad comes out to the hallway. ‘Tessa!’ he says. ‘For Christ’s sake!’

Today’s nurse is new. She’s wearing a tartan skirt and is stout as a ship. Dad looks disappointed.

‘This is Tessa,’ he says, and points at me where I lie on the carpet.

The nurse looks shocked. ‘Did she fall?’

‘No, she’s refused to leave the house for nearly two weeks, and it’s sending her crazy.’

She comes over and looks down at me. Her breasts are huge and wobble as she holds out her hand to pull me up. Her hand’s as big as a tennis racket. ‘I’m Philippa,’ she says, as if that explains anything.

She leads me into the lounge and helps me to a seat, lowers herself squarely down opposite me.

‘So,’ she says, ‘not feeling too good today?’

‘Would you be?’

Dad shoots me a warning glance. I don’t care.

‘Any shortness of breath or nausea?’

‘I’m on anti-emetics. Have you actually read my case file?’

‘Excuse her,’ Dad says. ‘She’s had a bit of leg pain recently, nothing else. The nurse who saw her last week said she was doing well. Sian, I think her name was – she’s aware of the medication regime.’

I snort through my nose. He tries to make it sound casual, but it doesn’t wash with me. Last time Sian was here he offered her supper and made a right idiot of himself.

‘The team tries to provide continuity,’ Philippa says, ‘but it’s not always possible.’ She turns back to me, dismissing Dad and his sorry love life.

‘Tessa, you’ve got quite a bit of bruising on your arms.’

‘I climbed a tree.’

‘It suggests your platelets are low. Have you got any major activities planned for this week?’

‘I don’t need a transfusion!’

‘We’ll do a blood test anyway, to be on the safe side.’

Dad offers her coffee, but she declines. Sian would’ve said yes.

‘My dad can’t cope,’ I tell Philippa as he goes out to the kitchen in a sulk. ‘He does everything wrong.’

She helps me off with my shirt. ‘And how does that make you feel?’

‘It makes me laugh.’

She gets gauze and antiseptic spray from her medical case, puts on sterile gloves and holds my arm up so she can clean around the portacath. We both wait for it to dry.

‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ I ask her.

‘I’ve got a husband.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Andy.’

She looks uncomfortable saying his name out loud. I see different people all the time and they never introduce themselves properly. They like knowing all about me though.

‘Do you believe in God?’ I ask her.

She sits back in her chair and frowns. ‘What a question!’

‘Do you?’

‘Well, I suppose I’d like to.’

‘What about heaven? Do you believe in that?’

She rips a sterile needle from its package. ‘I think heaven sounds nice.’

‘That doesn’t mean it exists.’

She looks at me sternly. ‘Well, let’s hope it does.’

‘I think it’s a great big lie. When you’re dead, you’re dead.’

I’m beginning to get to her now: she’s looking flustered. ‘And what happens to all that spirit and energy?’

‘It turns to nothing.’

‘You know,’ she says, ‘there are support groups, places you can meet other young people in the same position as you.’

‘No one’s in the same position as me.’

‘Is that how it feels?’

‘That’s how it is.’

I lift my arm so she can draw blood through the portacath. I’m half robot, with plastic and metal embedded under my skin. She draws blood into a syringe and discards it. It’s such a waste, that first syringe tainted with saline. Over the years, nurses must have thrown a body-full of my blood away. She draws a second syringe, transfers it to a bottle and scribbles my name in blue ink on the label.

‘That’s you done,’ she says. ‘I’ll ring in an hour or so and let you know the results. Anything else before I go?’

‘No.’

‘Have you got enough meds? Do you want me to drop into the GP’s and pick up any repeat prescriptions?’

‘I don’t need anything.’

She heaves herself out of the chair and looks down at me solemnly.

‘The community team offer a lot of support that you might not be aware of, Tessa. We can help you get back to school, for instance, even if it’s only part-time, even if it’s only for a few weeks. It might be worth thinking about trying to normalize your situation.’

I laugh right up at her. ‘Would you go to school if you were me?’

‘I might get lonely here by myself all day.’

‘I’m not by myself.’

‘No,’ she says. ‘But it’s tough on your dad.’

She’s a cow. You’re not supposed to say things like that. I stare at her. She gets the message then.

‘Goodbye, Tessa. I’m going to pop into the kitchen and have a word, then I’ll be off.’

Despite the fact that she’s fat already, Dad offers her fruitcake and coffee, and she accepts! The only thing we should be offering guests are plastic bags to wrap around their shoes. We should have a giant X marked on the gate.

I steal a fag from Dad’s jacket and go upstairs and lean out of Cal’s window. I want to see the street. There’s a view through the trees to the road. A car passes. Another car. A person.

I blow smoke out into the air. Every time I inhale I can hear my lungs crackle. Maybe I’ve got TB. I hope so. All the best poets had TB; it’s a mark of sensibility. Cancer’s just humiliating.

Philippa comes out of the front door and stands by the step. I flick ash on her hair, but she doesn’t notice, just says goodbye in that booming voice of hers and waddles off up the path.

I sit on Cal’s bed. Dad’ll come up in a minute. While I wait, I get a pen and write, Parachutes, cocktails, stones, lollipops, buckets, zebras, sheds, cigarettes, cold tap water, on the wallpaper above Cal’s bed. Then I smell my armpits, the skin on my arm, my fingers. I stroke my hair backwards, forwards, like a rug.

Dad’s taking ages. I go for a walk round the room. At the mirror I pull out a single hair. It’s growing back much darker, and strangely curly, like pubic hair. I examine it, let it fall. I like being able to spare one to the carpet.

There’s a map of the world on Cal’s wall. Oceans and deserts. He’s got the solar system staked out on his ceiling. I lie on his bed to look at it properly. It makes me feel tiny.

It’s literally five minutes later when I open my eyes and go downstairs to see what’s keeping Dad. He’s already scarpered, left some stupid note by his laptop.

I phone him. ‘Where are you?’

‘You were asleep, Tess.’

‘But where are you?’

‘I just came out for a quick coffee. I’m in the park.’

‘The park? Why would you go there? We’ve got coffee at home.’

‘Tess! Come on, I just need a bit of space. Turn the TV on if you’re lonely. I’ll be back soon.’

A woman cooks breaded chicken. Three men press a buzzer as they compete for fifty thousand pounds. Two actors argue about a dead cat. One of them makes a joke about stuffing it. I sit hunched. Mute. Stunned by how crap TV is, how little we all have to say.

I text Zoey. WHERE R U? She texts back that she’s at college, but that’s a lie because she doesn’t have classes on Fridays.

I wish I had a mobile number for Adam. I’d text, DID U DIE?

He should be outside digging in manure, peat and rotting vegetation. I looked up November in Dad’s Reader’s Digest Book of Gardening and it suggests that this is the perfect time for conditioning the soil. He should also be thinking about planting a hazel bush, since they provide an attractive addition to any garden. I thought a filbert might be nice. They have large heart-shaped nuts.

He hasn’t been out there for days though.

And he promised me a motorbike ride.