Alice. Alice. Alice.

I stumble closer to her.

‘Alice –’

Why does she look like she’s

fading away?

His skin feels impossibly cold.

‘No more hiding. No more lies.’

I tilt my head. To the sky. Feel the last dregs of sun.

Then I look at him. The crease above his eyes. If I had spoons, I would thumb-iron that away.

‘It’s time to let people see, Rowan.’

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

She’s sinking away

into depths I

can’t reach.

I reach out,

try to grab her back.

‘Alice?

Alice!’

Hello.

That’s my name.

Or perhaps it was.

No matter.

I came.

I climbed.

And I told him.

I just hope.

I just hope.

This time.

He listened.

‘H-help!’

72

And now

I am

lost.

73

Alice

Beep.

Hands.

Beep.

Whispers.

Beep.

Words.

Beep.

‘Alice?’

Beep.

Me.

Beep.

ME.

Beep.

I am here.

Beep.

In between these heartbeats.

Beep.

I want to tell them.

Beep.

I want to show them.

Beep.

I am HERE.

Beep.

But the beeps.

Beep.

For now.

Beep.

Are doing that for me.

74

Alice

Days and days and days of endless, burning fog.

And then. In patches. It clears.

Wires.

Crossing and cartwheeling. Down from a bag of clear liquid and needling into my arm.

Eyes.

Not ones I know, but crinkled kindly and staring at me from over a green paper mask. And then a mask of my own is hooked on to my face. One that smells of plastic and hisses with sea breeze.

It will make me better. It will stop some of the pain.

Hands.

Mum’s hands. Holding mine. And Dad’s footsteps pacing the floor.

‘She’s never been this bad before, Sophia.’

Mum’s eyes see mine through the fog.

‘She’s on her way back.’

I am.

75

Alice

At first I want to ask how long.

How long have I been in hospital? With the spoon-destroying strip lights and the incessant beeping and the questions, questions.

And then I want to ask about Rowan.

Did he hear me?

Did he reach out and ask for help?

And then I want to ask what happened.

What happened when he saw who I was?

Did he at least look back when he walked away?

But I don’t have the spoons for words. I barely have enough to form any thoughts at all.

But I have enough to cartwheel patterns on my eyelids as I try to stay perfectly still and let my body fight whatever part of the Illness has made it fall so spectacularly backwards.

I let the light splatter into giant paintings of krakens. Of mermaids. Of a family of humpback whales, back together again.

In my mind, I strap myself to the arms of paintbrushes and I create whole worlds of light. And I will the ink to seep down through my bones, into my veins and deep into my cells. To paint in something new. Something working. Something beautiful.