I drop the phone with a clatter. Becca’s eyes widen and I slowly nod. She releases a string of swear words, then stuffs her knuckles into her mouth. I start to cry and sway on the spot. Someone who was alive only a few hours ago is now dead. And there’s a strong possibility it’s because of us. Me.

Becca doesn’t comfort me, like she has all the other times I’ve sobbed in front of her. She pats at the blotches that have broken out on her neck. “Fuck,” she says. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”

I cover my face, squeezing my fingers together so no light can sneak through the cracks. I remember coming home last night, staring at Mum and Nick’s luggage in the hall, all those desperate plans reeling through my head. If only I’d chosen one of them instead.

Perhaps he deserved it. Maybe he would’ve killed Mum eventually if he hadn’t died today.

I want to believe it. Want to comfort myself with the idea that Nick’s death saved my mum’s life.

“Bec?” As I lower my hands I realize she’s panting scarily fast. Rasping something I can’t make out: the word pills and maybe police or promise.

Her body stiffens and then bucks backward. I’m slow to react, until everything snaps into focus and I see her convulsing on the floor. Blue seeping into her lips. Her limbs jerking even faster than I remember from last time.

I crash onto my knees. As I support her head, its weight and warmth are so familiar, the silky texture of her hair. Should I call an ambulance? I remember Becca saying that it isn’t really necessary anymore, not unless she doesn’t regain consciousness. But today it feels like anything can happen.

I close my eyes again.

When I open them, I want none of this to be true. I want to be standing at my dressing table helping Mum with her ponytail, hardly aware that men like Nick even exist.

I think of the plane that day, soaring over me, the raked-up night sky followed by the beautiful calm. I’m back there and I’m gazing upward and I’m never going to move.

Becca’s seizure is slowing. Her face is soft and sleepy, with drool running down her chin. Eventually she lies still. I see her chest rising normally, find a pulse on her wrist, and drop my head in relief. As she comes round, I almost envy her because she’s temporarily forgotten everything that’s happened. She’s been granted a few seconds of absence.

I settle her on the sofa. The seizure has zapped her energy and given her an excuse to stop thinking, stop deciding what to do. Recovering from her own small ordeal, she can just sit. And so I do the same.

40.

CHRIS