Jenny Downham Before I Die

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.

‘I think I might want another one after this.’

Dad tells me I can have fifty ice creams if that’s what I want. He must’ve forgotten I’m not allowed sugar or dairy.

‘I’ve got something else for you.’ He fumbles in his jacket pocket and pulls out a fridge magnet. It’s heart-shaped, painted red and badly covered in varnish. ‘Cal made it. He sends you his love.’

‘What about Mum?’

‘She came to see you a couple of times. You were very vulnerable, Tessa. Visitors had to be kept to a minimum.’

‘So Adam hasn’t been?’

‘Not yet.’

I lick the ice-cream stick, trying to get all the flavour from it. The wood rasps my tongue.

Dad says, ‘Shall I get you another one?’

‘No. I want you to go now.’

He looks confused. ‘Go where?’

‘I want you to go and meet Cal from school, take him to the park and play football. Buy him chips. Come back later and tell me all about it.’

Dad looks a bit surprised, but he laughs. ‘You’ve woken up feisty, I see!’

‘I want you to phone Adam. Tell him to visit me this afternoon.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Tell Mum I want presents – expensive juice, loads of magazines and new make-up. If she’s going to be crap, she can at least buy me stuff.’

Dad looks gleeful as he grabs a bit of paper and writes down the brand of foundation and lipstick I want. He encourages me to think of other things I might like, so I order blueberry muffins, chocolate milk and a six-pack of Creme Eggs. It’s nearly Easter after all.

He kisses me three times on the forehead and tells me he’ll be back later.

After he’s gone, a bird lands on the window ledge. It’s not a spectacular bird, not a vulture or a phoenix, but an ordinary starling. A nurse comes in, fiddles about with the sheets, fills up my water jug. I point the bird out to her, joke that it’s Death’s lookout. She sucks her teeth at me and tells me not to tempt fate.

But the bird looks right at me and cocks its head.

‘Not yet,’ I tell it.

The doctor visits. ‘So,’ he says, ‘we found the right antibiotic in the end.’