Coming Home. Melanie Rose
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what her sister had as well. Jadie could get pneumonia as easily as you or I could get a slight sniffle, just like Amber did, and then, well…’
Suddenly everything became clear. Everyone Jadie loved, including the child herself, was living in fear that she was going to die, just as her sister had before her. I remembered Jadie’s anxious face when I’d coughed on waking from my hypothermic state and the earnest question that must already have been forming in her mind when she had broken her self-imposed almost two-year silence: Are you going to die?
I thought perhaps my honest answer had been the first time anyone had spoken about such things aloud. If Amber’s name hadn’t been mentioned since her death, then the natural grieving process must have been severely hampered. I was no psychiatrist but it seemed to me that if the adults surrounding Jadie hadn’t been willing to talk about their loss, she might not have felt able to talk about it herself, and had squirrelled away all her questions, doubts and fears into her secret silent world. It occurred to me that she was a child trapped not so much by the physical constraints of her body, but the anxieties and poor expectations of everyone who made up her world. I wondered who was more broken, Vincent or his child. My heart went out to them.
As I stroked Jadie’s face, I let my mind wander. Maybe the worm-hole that had tossed me out into this small universe had not been quite so haphazard after all. I didn’t know why, but still I couldn’t shift the thought that I had arrived exactly where I was supposed to be.
After a while Jadie stopped coughing and spitting, and Tara paused in her back-slapping. She pulled Jadie upright and gave her a hug.
‘All right now?’ she asked gently.
Jadie nodded, wiping her mouth on a tissue and Tara planted a kiss on the child’s sweaty forehead.
‘I’ll go and fetch your thick pink cardigan and your slippers.’ Tara rose to her feet with a chilly look in my direction. ‘You stay right here in front of the fire and keep warm, Jadie.’
As soon as she had gone upstairs, Jadie turned to me and offered a hesitant smile, but there was a reticence in her expression now that hadn’t been there before. I wondered if it was because now I knew the truth about her condition she was adding me to her list of adults who lived in a state of fear.
‘You should have told me you weren’t allowed to go out in the snow,’ I chided gently, perching on the couch next to her.
‘Then we wouldn’t have made the snowman or the snow angels,’ she said. ‘I never get to do anything fun.’
‘It was fun, wasn’t it?’ I acknowledged with a smile. ‘Did you used to play a lot with Amber?’
Jadie’s eyes became round at my easy mention of her sister’s name. She studied my face for a while and then nodded. ‘We still talk a lot, but she can’t play now.’
‘How did she know I was coming?’ I asked softly.
‘She knows everything. I used to cry every night because I wanted Mummy to come home, but Amber says she won’t come back. She promised we’d have a new mummy soon, and then you came. Are you going to be my mummy?’
My mind lingered momentarily on the extraordinary feelings I’d experienced when her father had carried me back here. I shivered involuntarily with pleasure at the memory. I had to admit Jadie’s suggestion wasn’t the worst idea I’d ever heard, but I knew I was being fanciful in entertaining the concept even for a millisecond.
I could hear a telephone ringing somewhere in the house, jolting me back to reality, such as it was. I ignored it and shook my head. ‘I don’t think so, sweetie,’ I replied. ‘Would you settle for me just being your friend?’
‘If you’re going to be my friend, maybe we could play some more.’ She looked at me hopefully. ‘Can we make more angels?’
I thought about it for a few minutes then asked her if she had some paper and scissors to hand. I had the most curious feeling that someone—an old lady perhaps—had taught me how to make a string of angels from paper. Jadie nodded happily and scrambled off the couch, going into the kitchen and returning with some scissors. ‘Daddy’s got paper in his office,’ she said after handing me the scissors. ‘I’ll see if we can have some.’
I sat musing about this family for a while and then belatedly remembered Tara’s instruction to Jadie to stay near the warmth of the fire. I was about to hurry after her when she returned with her father in tow. He was holding a pile of computer paper and seemed a lot more relaxed now.
‘Jadie’s been trying to steal my paper.’ He eyed me over the stack in his hands. ‘Is she bringing it for you?’
‘Well, yes.’ I took a couple of sheets of the paper from him. ‘I’m trying to see if I can remember how to make paper angels.’
To my surprise, Vincent perched on his armchair and studied me with a look of delighted anticipation. ‘Do you think you remember how to do it?’
‘Let’s see,’ I replied, determined to rise to the challenge.
I folded the paper over, back and forth as if I was making a fan and then began to snip little bits of it away. I noticed as I was cutting that Jadie had crept closer to her father and was resting her hand on his knee. They were both watching me expectantly.
Snipping the last tiny piece away, I opened out the folded paper and held up the row of little hand-holding angels with a flourish. ‘Ta-dah!’
‘Angels!’ squealed Jadie, clapping her hands in glee.
‘Good grief.’ Vincent’s mouth had dropped open. He was looking not at my masterpiece but at his daughter, in total astonishment. I suddenly realised it must have been the first time he’d heard her speak in almost two years. He looked as if he was about to exclaim further, but I shook my head slightly, afraid that if he made too much fuss, Jadie would fall silent again. He gave me a questioning glance then took a deep breath, taking the hint.
‘We used to make snowflakes with paper and scissors at school when I was little.’ His voice cracked slightly and I saw him swallow. ‘The teacher hung them on the classroom ceiling and stuck them on the windows at Christmas.’
‘Here.’ I handed him the scissors. ‘I’ll bet you can remember how to do it.’
He picked a piece of paper from the pile he’d brought and folded it carefully, then set about cutting bits off it. I watched as he snipped away, his eyes moving every so often to his intently watching daughter. She looked so like him, with her golden hair and slightly pointed chin. I wondered if she was aware that she’d spoken in front of him. I also wondered when had been the last time he had played with her. Tara had intimated that Vincent was something of a workaholic and that she was Jadie’s main carer. Watching father and daughter with their heads bent together made a heart-warming picture.
‘What’s going on?’
We looked up to see Tara approaching with Jadie’s cardigan and slippers in her hand.
‘We’re making angels and snowflakes,’ Vincent answered—more calmly now, as if he were trying to pretend this was an everyday occurrence. ‘Watch this…’
He unfolded the paper to show a beautifully made snowflake with symmetrical points and delicate filigree arms.
‘Ooh!’ said Jadie. ‘Let me try.’
‘I’ll show you how.’ Vincent’s voice was once again heavy with emotion at hearing his daughter’s excited voice. Tara clapped her hand to her mouth and watched as he showed Jadie how to fold the paper, then handed her the scissors.
Jadie snipped happily away, seemingly unaware of the consternation she had caused. Now the floodgates were open, and although her voice was still weak and whispery, Jadie was evidently finding it easier to speak with her father and Tara present.
She unfolded her snowflake and Vincent reached out and clasped her to him. ‘It’s beautiful,