Bring my granddaughter. I’d like to meet her before I die.

I had already decided. I would contact my grandma, even if Mum wouldn’t. The back of the envelope had a return address only, no phone number or email address. That was okay, I would write. The old-fashioned way. It would be fun. We would be pen-pals.

One line was troubling though. Please don’t tell that I wrote. Don’t tell who?

All of a sudden I felt like my stomach was dropping inside me. The sensation broadened and I had to leap off the chair to get my face over the bin in time as my body gave an unexpected retch, producing nothing but a line of perspiration on my forehead and then gone as soon as it came.

What the hell? I thought, slumping on the floor, wiping sweat from my brow. What the hell was that?

And then came a sudden new idea – more than that, a realisation. I’d been having strange twinges, wandering nausea, unusual fatigue . . .

Oh hell, I thought. Oh fuck, oh shit, oh no no no.

22

In the waiting room at the doctor’s I installed Bette into a chair near the door and took my phone into the toilet. There was nothing from Nassim. No contact. What did that mean? What was he thinking? Was he just being a good study-boyfriend and giving me space? Or was he hurt I hadn’t messaged or called him? It had been two days.

I read another happy email from Dad, talking about his brothers. I missed them and their bearish love. It was what Mum and I both loved so much about all the Krause men, being swept up in their big lovable manliness. It made me heart-sore to read about them.

And then this line at the bottom:

Called the home number a couple of times. Check in, please. Have you spoken to your mother yet? Did you know she hasn’t had a drink since the other night?

I rushed to respond.

All good here, I wrote. Studying hard. Sorry I didn’t pick up the landline. You know I study with my headphones in – try the mobile, you dinosaur. Photos look great! How’s Opa?:(

It would frustrate him, my not answering his questions about Mum. Bad luck. I sent the message quickly and returned to the waiting room, where the receptionist told us that Dr Geraldine had been called up to the hospital and would be a little while, and that Bette and I should go and get ourselves a cup of coffee. Bette smiled and said she’d happily wait where she was, but that I should go if I wanted. So I took my opportunity.

I bought maxipads from the chemist next to the doctor’s surgery, and then went to the post office. The man behind the counter took my code, located my package, got me to sign for it, and handed over a plain box covered with unmarked brown paper. And then I was holding it in my hand: an end to it all.