When she hangs up, it occurs to her: has she even looked at the bills this week?

~

By late afternoon she’s back at the hospital. Not the day of rest she was ordered to have, but she needs to be with Coop.

She looks into his face and is elated. She can see the blue of his eyes.

His hand moves, as though reaching out.

Oh, Coop.

Impossible to hold him so she wraps him in home, in a skein of words. The herb garden (she doesn’t mention how neglected it is) and the moon last night and willy-wagtails in the birdbath. Early buds on the lemon tree and parrots taking the last of the mandarins. Encouraged by the sense he’s responding, she tells him about the giant zucchinis that keep appearing on the doorstep, courtesy, she assumes, of Murray and Beth next door—So thoughtful of them, but how many zucchinis can one person eat?—and tosses in the argument she’s just had about a wrong entry on their credit card statement.

Martine’s there, preparing a syringe, but Avril carries on talking as if she and Coop are in the kitchen, cooking dinner, chatting about their day, and not in this place where there is no privacy and no home and only one person talking.

$159, can you believe it? Tran’s Fish Spa, Kuala Lumpur! Told them I’ve never been to KL in my life and I don’t understand why anyone would pay to have the soles of their feet eaten by slimy goldfish! God, I’d rather stick pins in my eyes. Damned bank. She peters out, glumly. Don’t think they believed me.

Martine fills her in about the pressure suit as she injects Cooper’s IV. He’s floating a bit. We upped the meds while he was being measured.

Avril speaks quietly, uncomfortable to be discussing Coop as if he isn’t there. That sort of gurgling noise in his throat—is he trying to speak?

You mean when you were talking just now? Martine’s mouth twitches. About the bank?

Mmm.

Martine pats her hand, a sort of dry there, there gesture. I think, my dear, he was trying to laugh.

~

Avril sinks into the chair at the back of the lounge with a cup of coffee and switches on her mobile. A text message from Laura:

Hi sweetie. C had hard time afternoon but v alert before then. Have left M’s last book in lounge. Troubling. Will talk morning. Lx

Yes, there’s Laura’s Landcare bag tucked between the chair and the wall.

The exercise book is inside, and the grimy cover’s been newly encased in clear plastic, the folds neatly taped on the inside, just like her schoolbooks used to be. Laura. So she won’t have to handle it. How well her mother-in-law knows her.

There’s a note inside: