I want to say. I want to say that my excuse is that I’m bedbound by an Illness that is trying to take everything from me. School. Friends. A future outside these four walls. And I want to say that I’m fighting it with all the blunt things I have and that I really, really did want to go. I really did. But that she might as well have held that party on the moon for all I’m able to get there.

But I can’t say that. Not only because then the Illness will take her, too – and she’s the one I’m so desperately trying to keep. But also because the Illness has taken my voice again.

I gurgle at her and her face twists.

‘You know, I really thought you’d make the effort for this one.’

And that look in her battering-ram eyes …

I crumble.

The door opens and it’s Mum, but it’s too late.

‘Cecelia, I said no visiting.’

Springs uncoiling in the bed.

A sniff. ‘I was leaving anyway.’

Stay, stay, please stay.

Footsteps out of the room

down the stairs

into shoes

and out of the door.

‘It’s okay, sweetheart, she’s gone,’ Mum says, turning off the light, putting earplugs in my ears and checking the alert on my heart monitor that is beeping, beeping.

But it’s not okay.

Cecelia’s not okay and neither is Rowan.

And I … I am –

32

Alice

Light

shining.

Knives.

Look.

Through the fog.

Mum.

Dad.

A woman

speaking.

What are words?

I should say hello.

Hello.

I am Alice.

I appear to be

lost.

Can you help?

But then

I see

a stethoscope.

A doctor.

No.

No, she can’t help.

They never can.

But no matter.

I know my way around here.

I come here often.

The trick

I always find

is to choose something to

cling to.

Think.

Where’s your skin?

What’s burning?

Pins-and-needles legs.

Sore throat.

Hot hot hot.

But hands.

Something in my hands.

It’s Mum.

Mum’s hands.

I can tell

by the wedding ring.

I hold them.

There.

I’m not lost.

Let the doctor measure

and check

and ask her questions.

Let her prescribe

plenty of fluids and rest.

And leave.

Then Mum

and Dad

can find me.

Bring me back

to the land of the Living.

33

Alice

Mum has red eyes and I know that means someone has called her a bad parent again.

I put out my hand and find hers and it’s cold. I give it a squeeze.

‘How long?’ My voice sounds like it might disappear again.

She strokes my fringe out of my eyes. ‘It’s Tuesday morning. I’ve called in sick, but your dad had to go in. He’s going to take tomorrow off, though.’

I want to shake my head and tell her that I’m fine, but I think that’s too big a lie today.