Time to Say Goodbye: a heart-rending novel about a father’s love for his daughter. S.D. Robertson
Читать онлайн книгу.
protests.
I was finding it increasingly frustrating that no one could hear or see anything I said or did. The only external confirmation of my existence came in the form of my parents’ dog, Sam, who’d arrived with Dad. A usually placid King Charles spaniel, he barked incessantly and ran around in circles whenever we were in the same room. It excited me at first, as I wondered whether I might be able to use him to make contact with my family. But it soon became clear that there was little chance of any Lassie-type behaviour. He wasn’t the brightest of pets. Plus he’d never liked me much when I was alive and apparently death hadn’t changed that. Trying to talk to him only served to increase the volume of his barking, so I soon abandoned that possibility.
There was another moment of excitement when, to my surprise, I realized I could see my reflection in the mirror. My mother was brushing her teeth in the bathroom. I must have passed mirrors before that, but this was the first time it had registered.
‘Hey,’ I shouted, jumping up and down; waving like a lunatic. ‘Look, Mum. Here I am.’
But she couldn’t see my reflection any more than she could hear what I was saying.
I waited for Dad to follow her and tried again. I stood beside him as he too brushed his teeth and washed his face. There I was, clear as day, right next to him, asking him to look at me. But apparently I was the only one who could see it.
At least I looked to be in one piece. I was relieved not to see any sign of the injuries I’d suffered in the crash.
‘None of this feels real,’ Mum said to Dad after the two of them got into bed. ‘I keep thinking – hoping – I’ll wake up and it’ll all have been a bad dream.’
Dad took her hand and let out a sigh.
‘I just feel numb,’ she continued. ‘After the initial shock of it all – after telling Ella what happened – it’s like … I don’t know. As if it’s happening to someone else. Not me. Why aren’t I crying now? I feel I’m not reacting as I should be.’
‘There is no right way to react,’ Dad replied. ‘Parents aren’t meant to outlive their children.’
‘But how do you feel, Tom?’
He sighed again. ‘I’m putting one foot in front of the other. We have to be strong for Ella.’
I couldn’t listen to any more of their conversation. It felt too much like eavesdropping, so I walked to Ella’s room instead. Sitting down on the floor next to her bed, I was consumed by a rush of fears and anxieties.
How on earth would this fragile little girl manage without me? Would I ever get through to her and, if not, how could I survive here alone?
Oh my God, I’m dead, I thought, the terrible truth starting to sink in. I’m actually dead. My life’s over. I’ll never hug Ella again. I’ll never wash her hair, brush her teeth or read her a story again. All those little things I used to take for granted. Gone. Forever.
Then I thought back to the accident. Why the hell did I go out on my bike in the first place?
Ella coughed in her sleep. I looked over at her flushed face and her blond curls, matted and unruly across the pillow, and it was enough to jolt me out of my spiral of self-pity. ‘Stop it,’ I said. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. She’s the only thing that matters now.’
I hadn’t got a clue whether or not ghosts – or spirits, as Lizzie put it – were able to sleep. I didn’t feel particularly tired. But I lay down on the floor next to the bed and tried to clear my mind, if only to be able to do my best to get through to Ella in the morning. It took a while, but eventually I drifted off.
I woke up the next morning alone in Ella’s bedroom. Apparently she’d already got up. To my dismay, I noticed the door was shut. My experience so far as a spirit had been that I couldn’t interact with anything around me. This meant I was trapped. However, I remembered a scene in the film Ghost in which Patrick Swayze’s character had to learn to pass through a closed door. It was a flimsy information source, but what else did I have to go on?
I walked up to it, held my hands out in front of me and tried to push them into the wood. Nothing. I didn’t get thrown backwards as I had after touching Ella or the paramedics. I just couldn’t move past it. Next I tried to turn the handle, although that was no use either. My hand stopped upon reaching it, but I couldn’t feel or exert any pressure on it.
I went back to trying to pass through the door. I imagined myself doing so, pushing through like it was made of liquid. I even tried running at it, shouting and screaming, hoping my anger might unlock some hidden ability. But nothing worked. I really was trapped until Ella came in to get a jumper from her wardrobe a short while later and I was able to exit the traditional way.
The death knock came just after lunch. I’d been expecting it. I’d been out on plenty of them myself early in my career; little had I imagined that a few years later I’d be the subject of one. Considering my family circumstances and the way in which I’d died, it was inevitable that a local newspaper reporter would call at the house soon.
‘Can you get that, Tom?’ Mum shouted from upstairs, where she was plaiting Ella’s hair.
‘Right,’ Dad shouted, stubbing out the cigarette he’d been smoking at the back door and trudging through the hall. He was a big man, although he was one of the lucky few who carried it well. Thanks partly to his strong jawline and broad shoulders, he’d managed to stay handsome in spite of the extra weight. He enjoyed his food and drink and rarely rushed anywhere; today he was even slower than usual. He opened the door to an attractive girl in her mid-twenties.
‘Hello there,’ she said, wearing her best sympathetic smile. ‘I’m awfully sorry to bother you. I’m Kate Andrews, from the Evening Journal. We heard about the horrific accident yesterday involving William Curtis. I just wondered if a family member was available for a quick chat. We’re very interested in running a tribute article.’
I smiled to myself. ‘Tribute’ was the term I used to use on death knocks. I’d always found it an effective way of getting the family onside.
Dad, whose years as a solicitor had fostered a distrust of the press that I’d never been able to shift, demanded proof of ID. After he’d given her pass the once-over, he left her on the doorstep while he went to confer with Mum.
‘Come on, old man,’ I said, the journalist in me realizing it would be hypocritical not to allow her an interview. ‘Give the girl a break.’
‘What do you think?’ he asked Mum. ‘I’m not convinced it’s a good idea.’
‘Why not?’
‘Do you really want our private business splashed all over the news?’
‘I’m sure it’s what Will would have wanted. He was a journalist, after all. It’s only right there’s a tribute to him in the local paper.’
‘Really? And what if they get it all wrong?’
‘Surely that’s more likely if we don’t talk to them, isn’t it? There’ll be a story one way or another, Tom. They won’t just ignore it. Better we have some input.’
‘Well I’m not getting involved. You speak to her, if you must. But don’t let her put words into your mouth and steer clear of talking about the accident – particularly who might have been to blame. I’ll take Ella out for a walk. I don’t want her involved either.’
I decided to stay to hear the interview.
‘Thanks for agreeing to speak to me,’ Kate said, sipping on the cup of tea Mum had made for her before they sat down in the lounge. Mum was dressed casually, in a navy cardigan and jeans; I noticed she’d applied some lipstick and combed her short dark hair before coming downstairs. I could see she was trying her best to put a brave face on it.
‘That’s okay. It only seems right, what with Will being a journalist too.’
‘Really?