Jenny Downham Before I Die

Thirty-eight

‘I’m going to be the only kid at school with a dead sister.’

‘It’ll be cool. You’ll get out of homework for ages, and all the girls will fancy you.’

Cal thinks about this. ‘Will I still be a brother?’

‘Of course.’

‘But you won’t know about it.’

‘I bloody will.’

‘Are you going to haunt me?’

‘You want me to?’

He smiles nervously. ‘I might be scared.’

‘I won’t then.’

He can’t keep still, is pacing the carpet between my bed and the wardrobe. Something has shifted between us since the hospital. Our jokes aren’t as easy.

‘Throw the telly out the window if you want, Cal. It made me feel better.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Show me a magic trick then.’

He runs off to get his stuff, comes back wearing his special jacket, the black one with the hidden pockets.

‘Watch very carefully.’

He ties two silk handkerchiefs together at one corner and pushes them into his fist. He opens his hand finger by finger. It’s empty.

‘How did you do that?’

He shakes his head, taps his nose with his wand. ‘Magicians never give their secrets away.’

‘Do it again.’

Instead, he shuffles and spreads a pack of cards. ‘Choose one, look at it, don’t tell me what it is.’

I choose the queen of spades, and then replace her in the pack. Cal spreads the cards again, face-up this time. But she’s gone.

‘You’re good, Cal!’

He slumps down on the bed. ‘Not good enough. I wish I could do something bigger, something scary.’

‘You can saw me in half if you like.’

He grins, but almost immediately starts to cry, silently at first, and then great gulping sobs. As far as I know this is only the second time he’s ever cried, so maybe he needs to. We both act as if he can’t help it, like it’s a nosebleed that has nothing to do with how he might be feeling. I pull him close and hold him. He sobs into my shoulder, his tears melt through my pyjamas. I want to lick them. His real, real tears.

‘I love you, Cal.’

It’s easy. Even though it makes him cry ten times harder, I’m really glad I dared.

Number thirteen, to hold my brother as dusk settles on the window ledge.

Adam climbs into bed. He pulls the duvet right up under his chin, as if he’s cold or as if he’s afraid that the ceiling might fall on his head.

He says, ‘Tomorrow your dad’s going to buy a camp bed and put it on the floor down there for me.’

‘Aren’t you going to sleep with me any more?’

‘You might not want it, Tess. You might not want to be held.’

‘What if I do?’

‘Well, then I’ll hold you.’

But he’s terrified. I see it in his eyes.

‘It’s all right, I let you off.’

‘Shush.’

‘No, really. I free you.’

‘I don’t want to be free.’ He leans across and kisses me. ‘Wake me up if you need me.’

He falls asleep quickly. I lie awake and listen to lights being switched off all over the town. Whispered goodnights. The drowsy creak of bedsprings.

I find Adam’s hand and hold it tight.

I’m glad that night porters and nurses and long-distance lorry drivers exist. It comforts me to know that in other countries with different time zones, women are washing clothes in rivers and children are filing to school. Somewhere in the world right now, a boy is listening to the merry chink of a goat’s bell as he walks up a mountain. I’m very glad about that.