Jenny Downham: Before I Die aka Now is Good

‘Go on, Adam. None of us will be any good to her if we’re exhausted.’

‘No, I’m not leaving.’

when I was four I almost fell down the shaft of a tin mine and when I was five the car rolled over on the motorway and when I was seven we went on holiday and the gas ring blew out in the caravan and nobody noticed

I’ve been dying all my life

‘She’s more peaceful now.’

‘Hmm.’

I hear only the fraction of things. Words fall down crevices, get lost for hours, then fly back up and land on my chest.

‘I’m grateful to you.’

‘For what?’

‘For not backing off. Most lads would’ve run a mile by now.’

‘I love her.’

‘Hey,’ Adam says, ‘you’re awake.’

He leans over and moistens my mouth with a sponge. He dabs my lips dry with a flannel and smears them with Vaseline.

‘Your hands are cold. I’ll hold them for a bit and warm them up, shall I?’

I stink. I smell myself farting. I hear the ugly tick of my body consuming itself. I’m sinking, sinking into the bed.

Fifteen, to get out of bed and go downstairs and it’s all a joke.

Two hundred and nine, to marry Adam.

Thirty, to go to parents’ evening and our child’s a genius. All three of our children in fact – Chester, Merlin and Daisy.

Fifty-one, two, three. To open my eyes. Bastard open them.

I can’t. I’m falling.

Forty-four, to not be falling. I don’t want to fall. I’m afraid.

Forty-five, to not be falling.

Think of something. I won’t die if I’m thinking of Adam’s hot breath between my legs.

But I can’t hold onto anything.

Like a tree losing its leaves.

I forget even the thing I was thinking.

‘Why is she making that noise?’

‘It’s her lungs. Fluid can’t drain away because she’s not moving around.’

‘It sounds horrible.’

‘It sounds worse than it is.’

Is that Cal? I hear the tug of a ring pull, the fizz of a Coke can.

Adam says, ‘What’s your dad up to?’

‘On the phone. He’s telling Mum to come over.’

‘Good.’

What happens, Cal, to dead bodies?

Dust, glitter, rain.

‘You think she can hear us?’

‘Definitely.’

‘ ‘Cos I’ve been telling her stuff.’

‘What kind of stuff?’

‘I’m not telling you!’

the big bang was the origin of the solar system and only then was the earth formed and only then could life appear and after all the rain and fire had gone fish came then insects amphibians dinosaurs mammals birds primates hominids and finally humans

‘Are you sure she should be making that noise?’

‘I think it’s OK.’

‘It’s different from just now.’

‘Shush, I can’t hear.’

‘That’s worse. That sounds like she can’t even breathe.’

‘Shit!’

‘Is she dying?’

‘Get your dad, Cal. Run!’

a little bird moves a mountain of sand one grain at a time it picks up one grain every million years and when the mountain has been moved the bird puts it all back again and that’s how long eternity is and that’s a very long time to be dead for

Maybe I’ll come back as somebody else.

I’ll be the wild-haired girl Adam meets in his first week at university. ‘Hi, are you on the horticultural course as well?’

‘I’m here, Tess. I’m right here, holding your hand. Adam’s here too, he’s sitting on the other side of the bed. And Cal. Mum’s on her way, she’ll just be a minute. We all love you, Tessa. We’re all right here with you.’

‘I hate that noise. It sounds like it’s hurting her.’

‘It’s not, Cal. She’s unconscious. She’s not in pain.’

‘Adam said she could hear us. How can she hear us if she’s unconscious?’

‘It’s like sleeping, except she knows we’re here. Sit with me, Cal, it’s all right. Come and sit on my lap. She’s peaceful, don’t worry.’

‘She doesn’t sound peaceful. She sounds like a broken boiler.’

I turn inwards, their voices the sound of water murmuring.

Moments gather.

Aeroplanes crash into buildings. Bodies sail through the air. Tube trains and buses explode. Radiation seeps from the pavements. The sun turns to the tiniest black spot. The human race dies out and cockroaches rule the world.

Anything could happen next.

Angel Delight on a beach.

A fork whisking against a bowl.

Seagulls. Waves.

‘It’s all right, Tessa, you can go. We love you. You can go now.’

‘Why are you saying that?’

‘She might need permission to die, Cal.’

‘I don’t want her to. She doesn’t have my permission.’

Let’s say yes then. Yes to everything for just one more day.

‘Maybe you should say goodbye, Cal.’

‘No.’

‘It might be important.’

‘It might make her die.’

‘Nothing you say can make her die. She wants to know you love her.’

One more moment. One more. I can manage one more.

A sweet wrapper whips up the path in the wind.

‘Go on, Cal.’

‘I feel stupid.’

‘None of us are listening. Get close and whisper.’

My name encircles a roundabout.

Cuttlefish washed up on a beach.

A dead bird on the lawn.

Millions of maggots stunned by sunlight.

‘Bye, Tess. Haunt me if you like. I don’t mind.’

A duck goes into a chemist’s to buy some lipstick.

A mouse dunked in water and held down with a spoon.

Three tiny air bubbles escaping, one after the other.

Six snowmen made of cotton wool.

Six serviettes folded into origami lilies.

Seven stones, all different colours, bound with a silver chain.

There’s sun in my teacup.

Zoey stares out of the window and I drive out of town. The sky gets darker and darker.

Let them go.

Adam blows smoke at the town below. Says, ‘Anything could be happening down there, but up here you just wouldn’t know it.’

Adam strokes my head, my face, he kisses my tears.

We are blessed.

Let them all go.

The sound of a bird flying low across the garden. Then nothing. Nothing. A cloud passes. Nothing again. Light falls through the window, falls onto me, into me.

Moments.

All gathering towards this one.

Thank you to the first and best of readers – Megan Dunn, Brian Keaney, Anne Douglas and Nicola Williams.

For her generosity (of spirit and space), thank you, Anne McShane.

For his insightful research, thank you, Andrew St John.

Thank you to my fellow writers at Centerprise Literature Development Project, for their continued support and encouragement – Nathalie Abi-Ezzi, Steve Cook, Sarah Lerner, Eva Lewin, Anna Owen, Stef Pixner, Jacob Ross and Spike Warwick.

And thank you, Catherine Clarke, for her faith.