Jenny Downham - Before I Die aka Now is Good

She holds my arm up to the sky and cleans round the portacath with swabs of gauze.

‘You packed yet?’

‘A couple of dresses. Bikini and sandals.’

‘That all?’

‘What else will I need?’

‘Sun cream, sun hat and a sensible cardigan for a start! I don’t want to be treating you for sunburn when you get back.’

I like her fussing over me. She’s been my regular nurse for weeks now. I think I might be her favourite patient.

‘How’s Andy?’

She smiles wearily. ‘He’s had a cold all week. Although of course, he says it’s flu. You know what men are like.’

I don’t really, but I nod anyway. I wonder if her husband loves her, if he makes her feel gorgeous, if he lies entranced in her fat arms.

‘Why don’t you have any children, Philippa?’

She looks right at me as she draws blood into the syringe. ‘I couldn’t manage that kind of fear.’

She draws a second syringe of blood and transfers it to a bottle, flushes my port with saline and heparin, then packs her things away into her medical bag and stands up. For a moment I think she’s going to reach down and hug me, but she doesn’t.

‘Have a lovely time,’ she says. ‘And don’t forget to send me a postcard.’

I watch her waddle up the path. She turns on the step to wave.

Zoey comes back out. ‘What’s she looking for in your blood exactly?’

‘Disease.’

She nods sagely as she sits back down. ‘Your dad’s making lunch by the way. He’s going to bring it out in a minute.’

A leaf dances. A shadow travels the length of the lawn.

There are signs everywhere. Some you make. Some come to you.

Zoey grabs my hand and presses it to her belly.

‘She’s moving! Put your hand here – no, here. That’s it. Feel it?’

It’s a slow roll, as if her baby’s spinning the laziest of somersaults. I don’t want to take my hand away. I want the baby to do it again.

‘You’re the first person ever to feel that. You did feel it, didn’t you?’

‘I felt it.’

‘Imagine her,’ Zoey says. ‘Really imagine her.’

I often do. I’ve drawn her on the wall above my bed. It’s not a great drawing, but all the measurements are accurate – femur, abdomen, head circumference.

Number ten on my list. Lauren Tessa Walker.

‘The structures of the spine are in place,’ I tell Zoey. ‘Thirty-three rings, one hundred and fifty joints and one thousand ligaments. The eyelids are open, did you know that? And the retinas are formed.’

Zoey blinks at me, as if she can’t quite believe anyone would know this information. I decide not to tell her that her own heart is working twice as fast as usual, circulating six litres of blood every minute. I think it would freak her out.

Dad walks up the path. ‘Here you go, girls.’ He puts the tray down on the grass between us. Avocado and watercress salad. Pineapple and kiwi slices. A bowl of redcurrants.

Zoey says, ‘No chance of a burger then?’

He frowns at her, realizes she’s joking and grins. ‘I’m going to get the lawnmower out.’ He goes off to the shed.

Adam and his mum appear at the gap in the fence. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ Sally calls.

‘It’s spring,’ Zoey says, her mouth sprouting watercress.

‘Not until the clocks change.’

‘Must be pollution then.’

Sally looks alarmed. ‘A man on the radio said if we stop using cars we could buy the human race another thousand years on the planet.’

Adam laughs, jangles the car keys at her. ‘Shall we walk to the garden centre then, Mum?’

‘No, I want to buy bedding plants. We’d never be able to carry them.’

He shakes his head. ‘We’ll be back in an hour.’

We watch them walk down the path. At the gate he gives me a wink.

Zoey says, ‘Now that would definitely annoy me.’

I ignore her. I eat a slice of kiwi. It tastes of somewhere else. The sky skitters with clouds, like spring lambs in a strange blue field. The sun comes and goes. Everything feels volatile.

Dad hauls the lawnmower from the shed. It’s covered in old towels, as if it’s been hibernating. He used to look after the garden religiously, used to plant and prune, tie things back with bits of string and keep some general order. It’s a wilderness now though – the grass bedraggled, the roses nudging their way into the shed.

We laugh at him when the lawnmower won’t start, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just shrugs at us as if he didn’t want to mow the lawn anyway. He goes back into the shed, comes out with some shears and starts cutting back brambles from the fence.

Zoey says, ‘There’s this pregnant teens group, did I tell you? They give you cake and tea and show you how to change nappies and stuff. I thought it’d be rubbish, but we had a great laugh.’

A plane crosses the sky, leaving a smoky trail. Another plane crosses the first one, making a kiss. Neither plane falls. Zoey says, ‘Are you listening? Because you don’t look as if you are.’

I rub my eyes, try to focus. She says she’s made friends with a girl… something about their due dates being the same… something else about a midwife. She sounds as if she’s speaking to me down a tunnel.

I notice how a button strains in the middle of her shirt.

A butterfly lands on the path and spreads its wings. Sunbathing. It’s very early in the year for butterflies.

‘You sure you’re listening?’

Cal comes through the gate. He dumps his bike on the lawn and runs round the garden twice.

‘Holidays start here!’ he yells. He climbs the apple tree to celebrate, jamming his knees between two branches and squatting there like an elf.

He gets a text, the blue light on his phone flashing amongst the new leaves. It reminds me of a dream I had a few nights ago. In the dream, a blue light shone from my throat every time I opened my mouth.

He sends a text back, quickly receives one in return. He laughs. Another text arrives, then another, like a flock of birds landing in the tree.

‘Year Seven won!’ he announces cheerfully. ‘There was a water fight in the park against Year Ten and we won!’

Cal finding his way at secondary school. Cal with friends and a new mobile. Cal growing his hair because he wants to look like a skateboarder.

‘What are you staring at?’ He sticks his tongue out at me, jumps out of the tree and runs into the house.

The garden’s sunk into shadow. The air feels damp. A sweet wrapper blows down the path.

Zoey shivers. ‘I think I might go.’ She holds me tight, as if one of us might fall. ‘You’re very hot. Are you supposed to be?’

Dad sees her out.

Adam comes through the gap in the fence. ‘All done.’ He pulls the deck chair closer to me and sits down. ‘She bought half the garden centre. It cost a fortune, but she was really into it. She wants to start a herb garden.’

Keep-death-away spells. Hold your boyfriend’s hand very tight.

‘You all right?’

I rest my head on his shoulder. I feel as if I’m waiting for something.

There are sounds – the vague chink of dishes from the kitchen, the rustle of leaves, the roar of a faraway engine.

The sun has turned to liquid, melting coldly into the horizon.

‘You feel very hot.’ He presses his hand against my forehead, brushes my cheek, feels the back of my neck. ‘Don’t move.’

He leaves me, runs up the path towards the house.

The planet spins, the wind sifts the trees.

I’m not afraid.

Keep breathing, just keep doing it. It’s easy – in and out.

Strange how the ground comes up to meet me, but it feels better to be low. I think about my name while I lie here. Tessa Scott. A good name of three syllables. Every seven years our bodies change, every cell. Every seven years we disappear.