before i die Jenny Downham

eight

The boy looks surprised when I stick my head over the fence and call him. Hes older than I thought, perhaps eighteen, with dark hair and the shadow of a beard.
Yeah?
Can I burn some things on your fire?
He shambles up the path towards me, wiping a hand across his forehead as if hes hot. His fingernails are dirty and he has bits of leaf in his hair. He doesnt smile.
I lift up the two shoeboxes so he can see them. Zoeys dress is draped across my shoulder like a flag.
Whats in them?
Paper mostly. Can I bring them round?
He shrugs as if he doesnt care either way, so I walk through our side gate and step over the low wall that separates the two houses, across his front garden and down the side of his house. Hes already there, holding the gate open for me. I hesitate.
m Tessa.
Adam.
We walk in silence down his garden path. I bet he thinks Ive just been chucked by my boyfriend, that these are love letters. I bet he thinks, No wonder she got dumped, with that skeleton face and bald head.
The fire is disappointing when we get there, just a smouldering pile of leaves and twigs, with a few hopeful flames licking at the edges.
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The leaves were damp, he says. Paperll get it going again.
I open one of the boxes and tip it upside down.
From the day I noticed the first bruise on my spine, to the day only two months ago when the hospital officially gave up on me, I kept a diary. Four years of pathetic optimism burns well – look at it flare! All the get-well cards I ever received curl at the edges, crisp right up and flake to nothing. Over four long years you forget peoples names.
There was a nurse who used to draw cartoons of the doctors and put them by the bed to make me laugh. I cant remember her name either. Was it Louise? She was quite prolific. The fire spits, embers spark away into the trees.
m unburdening myself, I tell Adam.
But I dont think hes listening. Hes dragging a clump of bramble across the grass towards the fire.
Its the next box I hate the most. Me and Dad used to trawl through it together, scattering photos over the hospital bed.
You will get well again, hed tell me as he ran a finger over my eleven-year-old image, self-conscious in my school uniform, first day of secondary school. Heres one of you in Spain, hed say. Do you remember?
I looked thin and brown and hopeful. I was in remission for the first time. A boy whistled at me on the beach. My dad took a picture, said Id never want to forget my first whistle.
But I do.
I have a sudden desire to rush back home and get more stuff. My clothes, my books.
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I say, Next time you have a fire, can I come round again?
Adam stands on one end of the bramble with his boot and folds the other end into the fire. He says, Why do you want to get rid of everything?
I squash Zoeys dress into a tight ball; it feels small in my fist. I throw it at the fire and it seems to catch light before it even reaches the flames. Airborne and still, melting into plastic.
Dangerous dress, Adam says, and he looks right at me, as if he knows something.
All matter is comprised of particles. The more solid something is, the closer the particles are held together. People are solid, but inside is liquid. I think perhaps standing too close to a fire can alter the particles of your body, because I feel strangely dizzy and light. Im not quite sure whats wrong with me – maybe its not eating properly – but I seem to not be grounded inside my body. The garden turns suddenly bright.
Like the sparks from the fire, which drift down onto my hair and clothes, the law of gravity says that all falling bodies must fall to the ground.
It surprises me to find myself lying on the grass, to be looking up at Adams pale face haloed by clouds. I cant work it out for a minute.
Dont move, he says. I think you fainted.
I try and speak but my tongue feels slow and its so much easier to lie here.
Are you diabetic? Do you need sugar? Ive got a can of Coke here if you want some.
He sits down next to me, waits for me to lean up, then hands me the drink. My head buzzes as the sugar hits my brain. How light I feel, more ghostly than before, but so much better. We both look at the fire. The stuff
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from my boxes has all burned away; even the boxes themselves are just charred remains. The dress has turned to air. The ashes are still hot though, bright enough to attract a moth, a stupid moth dancing towards them. It crackles as its wings fizz and turn to dust. We both watch the space where it was.
I say, You do a lot of gardening, dont you?
I like it.
I watch you. Through my window, when youre digging and stuff.
He looks startled. Do you? Why?
I like watching you.
He frowns, as if hes trying to work that out, seems about to speak for a moment, but looks away instead, his eyes travelling the garden.
m planning a vegetable patch in that corner, he says. Peas, cabbage, lettuce, runner beans. Everything really. Its for my mum more than me.
Why?
He shrugs, looks up at the house as if mentioning her might bring her to the window. She likes gardens.
What about your dad?
No. Its just me and my mum.
I notice a thin trickle of blood on the back of his hand. He sees me looking and wipes it away on his jeans.
I should probably get on, he says. Will you be all right? You can keep the Coke if you want.
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He walks next to me as I make my way slowly up the path. Im very happy that my photos and diary are burned, that Zoeys dress has gone. It feels as if different things will happen.
I turn to Adam at the gate.
I say, Thank you for helping. He says, Any time.
He has his hands in his pockets. He smiles, then looks away, down at his boots. But I know he sees me.
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