before i die Jenny Downham

seven

Get up! Get up! Cal shouts. I pull the duvet over my head, but he yanks it straight off again. Dad says if you dont get up right now, hes coming upstairs with a wet flannel!
I roll over, away from him, but he skips round the bed and stands over me, grinning. Dad says you should get up every morning and do something with yourself.
I kick him hard and pull the duvet back over my head. I dont give a shit, Cal! Now piss off out of my room.
m surprised at how little I care when he goes.
Noise invades – the thunder of his feet on the stair, the clatter of dishes from the kitchen as he opens the door and doesnt shut it behind him. Even the smallest sounds reach me – the slosh of milk onto cereal, a spoon spinning in air. Dad tutting as he wipes Cals school shirt with a cloth. The cat lapping the floor.
The hall closet opens and Dad gets Cals coat for him. I hear the zip, the button at the top to keep his neck warm. I hear the kiss, then the sigh – a great wave of despair washing over the house.
Go and say goodbye, Dad says.
Cal bounds up the stairs, pauses a moment outside my door, then comes in, right over to the bed.
I hope you die while Im at school! he hisses. And I hope it bloody hurts! And I hope they bury you somewhere horrible like the fish shop or the dentists!
Goodbye, little brother, I think. Goodbye, goodbye.
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Dadll be left in the messy kitchen in his dressing gown and slippers, needing a shave and rubbing his eyes as if surprised to find himself alone. In the last few weeks hes established a little morning routine. After Cal leaves, he makes himself a coffee, then he tidies the kitchen table, rinses the dishes and puts the washing machine on. This takes approximately twenty minutes. After that he comes and asks me if I slept well, if Im hungry and what time Im going to get up. In that order.
When I tell him, No, no and never, he gets dressed, then goes back downstairs to his computer, where he taps away for hours, surfing the web for information to keep me alive. Ive been told there are five stages of grief, and if thats true, then hes stuck in stage one: denial.
Strangely, his knock at my door is early today. He hasnt had his coffee or tidied up. Whats going on? I lie very still as he comes in, shuts the door quietly behind him and kicks his slippers off.
Shove up, he says. He lifts a corner of the duvet. Dad! Whatre you doing?
Getting into bed with you.
I dont want you to!
He puts his arm around me and pins me there. His bones are hard. His socks rub against my bare feet.
Dad! Get out of my bed!
No.
I push his arm off and sit up to look at him. He smells of stale smoke and beer and looks older than I remember. I can hear his heart too, which I dont think is supposed to happen.
What the hell are you doing? You never talk to me, Tess.
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And you think thisll help?
He shrugs. Maybe.
Would you like it if I came into your bed when you were asleep?
You used to when you were small. You said it was unfair that you had to sleep by yourself. Every night me and Mum let you in because you were lonely.
m sure this isnt true because I dont remember it. He may have gone mad.
Well, if youre not getting out of my bed, then I will.
Good, he says. I want you to.
And youre just going to stay there, are you?
He grins and snuggles down under the duvet. Its lovely and warm.
My legs feel weak. I didnt eat much yesterday and it seems to have made me transparent. I clutch the bedpost, hobble over to the window and look out. Its still early: the moons fading into a pale grey sky.
Dad says, You havent seen Zoey for a while.
No.
What happened that night you went clubbing? Did you two fall out?
Down in the garden, Cals orange football looks like a deflated planet on the grass, and next door, that boy is out there again. I press my palms against the window. Every morning hes outside doing something – raking or digging or fiddling about. Right now hes hacking brambles from the fence and chucking them in a pile to make a bonfire.
Did you hear me, Tess?
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Yes, but Im ignoring you.
Perhaps you should think about going back to school. Youd see some of your other friends then.
I turn to look at him. I dont have any other friends – and before you suggest it, I dont want to make any. Im not interested in rubberneckers wanting to get to know me so theyll get sympathy at my funeral.
He sighs, pulls the duvet close under his chin and shakes his head at me. You shouldnt talk that way. Cynicism is bad for you.
Did you read that somewhere?
Being positive strengthens the immune system.
So its my fault Im sick then, is it?
You know I dont think that.
Well, youre always acting as if everything I do is wrong. He struggles to sit up. I dont!
Yeah, you do. Its like Im not dying properly. Youre always coming in my room telling me to get out of bed or pull myself together. Now youre telling me to go back to school. Its ridiculous!
I stomp across the room, grab his slippers and shove my feet into them. Theyre way too big, but I dont care. Dad leans on his elbows to look at me. He looks as if I hit him.
Dont go. Where are you going?
Away from you.
I enjoy slamming the door. He can have my bed. Let him. He can lie there and rot.
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