Jenny Downham Before I Die

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.