Emily, Caroline, Granny.
‘I don’t need to see my present, remember?’ says the girl – Caroline? – ‘It’s a surprise.’
‘Yes, a surprise,’ says Joe and smiles again. ‘Only the best for my best friend.’
The girl blushes.
‘Oh Joe, thank you,’ she says, and takes his hand tentatively. I think he’s going to flinch, but he doesn’t.
‘Yes,’ says Joe happily. ‘I like having a best friend.’
My son has a best friend who’s a girl? Where on earth did they meet?
They sit and drink coffee, and talk about Christmas. I watch them together and want to hug her. She seems lovely and I am so pleased Joe has met a friend who treats him normally. And then Joe says, ‘I need to buy a present for my mum.’
‘Joe,’ Caroline says, ‘remember …’
‘I know, Mum’s dead,’ says Joe conversationally. ‘But I can put it on her grave. It’s Christmas. My mum has to have a present at Christmas.’
And then, unable to contain myself, I let out a howl of pain. I can’t stand to be here. In my distress I knock Joe’s drink over.
‘Oh no!’ says Joe, agitated by the mess, but Caroline quickly calms him down, and wipes everything up.
‘What was that?’ Caroline says.
‘My mum,’ says Joe serenely. ‘She needs a present for Christmas.’
I hurl myself through the glass, and out on to the street. I am trapped in a nightmare where my son senses but can’t see me. How am I ever going to sort this out?
Livvy
I plough headlong through the present-laden shoppers, vaguely aware that I am causing reactions as people stop and look puzzled as I push past them. And I am very much in distress. One old lady drops her bag of apples, and a small child says, ‘Who is that lady, Mummy?’ but I race on heedless, oblivious to anything but the pain I feel at losing my son, until I reach a bench down by the river, and collapse on to it, sobbing.
‘What do you think you are playing at?’ Malachi emerges from behind a bin. ‘You’re being far too noticeable.’
‘I thought it was only people who were susceptible who could see me?’ I say.
‘Usually that’s true,’ says Malachi, flicking his nose up in disgust. ‘But you were making quite a scene, which is hard for most people to ignore. And that child definitely saw you – it’s because she’s young and still has an open mind. You should be more careful.’
I stare moodily at the flowing river. If I wasn’t dead already, I might be tempted to throw myself in.
‘So?’ I say. ‘I’m upset. Wouldn’t you be?’
Malachi doesn’t get it. Here I am, dead, watching my husband and son blithely getting on with their lives without me. I don’t mind about Joe, I’m glad he’s happy, but I miss him dreadfully, and it hurts that I can’t seem to get near him. And it hurts even more to think that Adam doesn’t need me. Isn’t that enough to justify a tantrum?
‘Well stop feeling so sorry for yourself, and start thinking,’ says Malachi. ‘You need to put things right, not make them worse. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. And having a hissy fit and disturbing everyone in the vicinity is not helping.’
‘How am I possibly making anything worse?’ I say. ‘I’m dead. How much worse does it get?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ says Malachi. ‘Your old life wasn’t all that wonderful.’
‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘My life was great. We were a family. We were happy. I’ve only been dead a year and my husband’s got a girlfriend and my son’s talking about a new mum, and buying a present to put on my grave. Wouldn’t you be upset?’
‘Hmm,’ says Malachi, ‘I think it’s time you stopped feeling quite so sorry for yourself and started looking at your life properly. Was it really that brilliant?’
Stop feeling sorry for myself? The cheek.
‘Whose side are you on?’ I snarl at him. ‘I thought you were supposed to be helping me.’
‘I am,’ says Malachi, ‘you just need to pay attention. Now think about it, really think.’
So reluctantly I start remembering things, and I have to acknowledge that sometimes it was less than perfect. In the weeks leading up to my death, Adam and I had been rowing a lot – I think he was upset with me about something, but I’m not sure why. And Joe – I have a sudden flashback to Joe being quiet and retreating in on himself, as if I’d made him sad. I have a nagging feeling I might have done something wrong, but I can’t remember what. Perhaps Malachi is right and my old life wasn’t that perfect. Still, it was better than being dead.
‘You can sort things out,’ says Malachi encouragingly. ‘You just need to remember how. You have to find a way of reaching out to them, so you can say sorry. Only then will you be able to move on.’
‘But none of them can see me,’ I say. ‘Even Joe can only hear me sometimes.’
‘Which is a good start.’
‘I suppose so,’ I say.
Since I’ve been back, I’ve been counting on being able to get through to Joe. He at least can hear me; that had to be grounds for hope.
‘There are other ways of getting heard,’ says Malachi. ‘You aren’t required to throw things and freak people out by switching lights on and off you know. Go back to the house. Watch them, and learn.’
‘OK,’ I say reluctantly. Honestly, it’s come to something when the only person I can talk to is a mangy old black cat.
‘Oi, I heard that,’ says Malachi.
Great, a mangy old mindreading black cat is my sole companion. Maybe he’s right though. Maybe I need to make Adam listen to my side of the story, so we can be a family again.
Adam
It’s Monday morning, and I’m yawning as I stare at spreadsheets that don’t seem to be making much sense. I didn’t sleep well last night. I kept dreaming about Livvy, about our early days together which began with such hope and joy. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine how it went so wrong. When I met Livvy she was fun, beautiful, intoxicating to be around. We spent a wonderful summer together at the end of our first year at university, and by the end of it we were deeply in love. We took an utterly magical trip round Europe together and I knew very early on I was going to get married to her, so when she got pregnant in our final year it seemed like the obvious thing to do. When she lost that first baby, we were both heartbroken, but we bounced back and it was fine. More than fine, it was wonderful. I loved her even more, knowing how vulnerable she was. Our shared heartache made us much stronger.
I kept grasping something of that in my dreams but then they kept changing. One minute I would be holding her hand, laughing, and the next she would be dying, alone on the tarmac, without me there. In reality she had been declared dead soon after I got to the hospital, but in my dreams I am always trying to reach her. Last night’s one is particularly vivid, and this time I nearly get there. I am racing to the car park, and I see her, beautiful and sad, bathed in light as she walks into the car. Her last words break my heart and are still ringing in my ears as I wake up. ‘Why, Adam, why?’
After