“We don’t need to think about it, because it’s sorted,” my mother says briskly. “I’d rather have it all arranged, so you’re not burdened.”
“I don’t mind—”
“You have enough to do.” And even though I know she’s only being kind and considerate, it hurts a little. It feels as if she is blocking me out from an important and intimate part of her life. “Also, Rachel.” Her voice gentles, and I tense. What now? “I want you… if you can… I want you to try living life again.”
What? “What is that supposed to mean, Mom?” The words come out in a rasp of angry hurt.
“For the last two years you’ve lived and breathed the hospital. There’s no been no time or space for anything else, and I understand that, Rachel. I’ve supported you in it, because it felt necessary and right. But Emily isn’t… she isn’t getting better, and you need to…” She pauses, biting her lip, her forehead creased with concern. “Not move on exactly, but—”
“I’m not moving on.” I can’t believe she is saying this. Thinking it, even. She never has before.
“I know you’re not. I don’t mean that. I’m just asking you to get a little bit of your life back. Maybe spend only half the day at the hospital. Reconnect with friends. Exercise. Eat healthily, instead of whatever you can grab on the go. Work part-time… see a counselor, perhaps, to help you process everything that has happened.”
It’s nothing I haven’t thought of myself, in a vague way, when I’m feeling weak, but I resent it coming from my mother, who has been my biggest supporter, who has absolutely understood why I’ve spent every day at the hospital, with Emily. “I don’t want to do that,” I say flatly. Any of that.
My mother leans forward, urgent now. “Rachel, I don’t want to leave you without any support, any friends, any life. Please, for me, do this. Do something. It doesn’t have to be big. Just… something.”
For a second I see the bleak picture she is painting—the barren landscape of my life, without my mother in it to offer a bit of comfort and companionship. With nothing but days at the hospital, nights alone, on and on and on. Is that all that’s left—for me, for Emily? And for how long?
“You know I’m looking into some experimental treatment,” I say, and my mother nods slowly.
“Yes, but you said James won’t agree.”
“I haven’t given up,” I say stubbornly. “I’m going to talk to James again.” I think of Eva.
My mother frowns. “But taking Emily to Italy for this treatment… it would have
its own difficulties.”
“Yes, but I can handle them.” Although I haven’t even thought about them properly yet—the travel, staying in Italy, arranging everything. I haven’t got that far, because there hasn’t seemed to be much point, with James in the way. But now, more than ever, I need to find a way forward for Emily. For me.
I am still thinking about how to talk to James again when I drove home through the dark, and park in front of my house. As always, I check Andrew and Jake’s side, to see if they’re home, even though I’ve only seen them in hurried passing since I had dinner there over a week ago.
The lights in the living room are on, the curtains drawn, making it look cozy. I get out of my car and walk into my own empty house.
I am just heating up some pot noodles when, to my surprise, I hear a determined rapping on the door; three short, sharp knocks, made by a person with intent.
The microwave pings and I take out the plastic cup with its lurid yellow liquid and stringy noodles, leaving it on the counter before I hurry to the door. Maybe it’s Andrew, and he saw me coming home. I don’t know whether I want it to be him or not. I have a horrible feeling I might start to cry if anyone asks how I am.
But when I see the figure behind the frosted glass, I can tell it’s not him, it’s a woman, and I try not to feel disappointed.
Then I open the door, and my mouth drops open, because it’s Eva.
14
Eva
I shouldn’t be here. Even now my heart is racing and my palms are damp, and I feel as shocked as Rachel looks even though I’m the one who drove here, who knocked.
“Eva…” she says faintly. I swallow.
“May I come in?”
For a second she looks reluctant, and then silently she steps aside.
It was easy to find her address; James has a little leather book of all his work and social addresses, kept by the kitchen phone. It was no more than a fifteen-minute drive from home to here, yet it feels like so much more. By coming here I am stepping across a chasm I created, one that will only grow wider by my actions now.
&nbs