Before I Die aka Now is Good

I say, ‘Want to know what I want?’

‘Go on then.’

He smiles. He thinks he knows what I’m going to say. I don’t want to stop him smiling. ‘You.’

The truth. And not the truth.

I turn the gas off before we go upstairs. The toast has turned to charcoal. The smell of burning makes me sad.

In his arms I forget. But afterwards, as we lie quietly together, I remember.

‘I have bad dreams,’ I say.

He strokes my hip, the top of my thigh. His hand is warm and firm. ‘Tell me.’

‘I go somewhere in them.’

I walk bare-footed over fields to a place at the edge of this world. I climb stiles and trek through tall grass. Every night I go further. Last night I got to a wood – gloomy and not very big. On the other side was a river. Mist hovered above the surface. There were no fish, and as I waded out, mud oozed between my toes.

Adam brushes my cheek with one finger. Then he pulls me close and kisses me. On my cheek. On my chin. On my other cheek. Then on my mouth. Very gently.

‘I’d come with you if I could.’

‘It’s very scary.’

He nods. ‘I’m very brave.’

I know he is. How many people would be here with me in the first place?

‘Adam, there’s something I need to ask you.’

He waits. His head next to mine on the pillow, his eyes calm. It’s difficult. I can’t find the words. The books on the shelf above seem to sigh and shuffle.

He sits up and hands me a pen. ‘Write it on the wall.’

I look at all the things I’ve written there over the months. Scrawls of desire. There’s so much more I could add. A joint bank account, singing in the bath with him, listening to him snore for years and years.

‘Go on,’ he says. ‘I have to go soon.’

And it’s these words, with an edge of the outside world in them, of things to do and places to be, that allows me to write.

I want you to move in with me. I want the nights. I write it quickly in really bad handwriting, so maybe he won’t be able to read it. Then I hide under the duvet.

There’s a second’s pause.

‘I can’t, Tess.’

I struggle out from the duvet. I can’t see his face, just a glimpse of light reflected in his eyes. Stars shining there perhaps. Or the moon.

‘Because you don’t want to?’

‘I can’t leave my mum by herself.’

I hate his mother, the lines on her forehead and round her eyes. I hate her wounded look. She lost her husband, but she didn’t lose anything else.

‘Can’t you come back when she’s asleep?’

‘No.’

‘Have you even asked her?’

He gets out of bed without touching me and puts on his clothes. I wish it was possible to smear cancer cells onto his arse. I could reach from here, and he’d be mine for ever. I’d lift the carpet and haul him under the floor to the foundations of the house. We’d make love in front of the worms. My fingers would reach under his skin.

‘I’ll haunt you,’ I tell him. ‘But from the inside. Every time you cough you’ll think of me.’

‘Stop messing with my head,’ he says.

And then he leaves.

I grab my clothes and follow him. He gets his jacket from the banister. I hear him walk through the kitchen and open the back door.

He’s still standing on the step when I catch up. Beyond him, out in the garden, great flakes of snow are swirling down. It must have started when we went upstairs. The path’s covered, the grass too. The sky’s full of it. The world seems silent and smaller.

‘You wanted snow.’ He puts out a hand to catch a flake and shows it to me. It’s a proper one, like I used to cut out of doilies and stick on the windows at primary school. We watch it melt into his palm.

I get my coat. Adam finds my boots, scarf and hat, and helps me down the step. My breath is frost. It’s snowing so much our footprints are wiped out as soon as we make them.

The snow on the lawn is deeper; it creaks as we stand on it. We cross the newness of it together. We tramp our names, trying to wear it out, to reach the grass beneath. But fresh snow covers every mark we make.

‘Watch,’ Adam says.

He lies flat on his back and flaps his arms and legs. He yells at how cold it is on his neck, his head. He jumps up again, stamps the snow off his trousers.

‘For you,’ he says. ‘A snow angel.’

It’s the first time he’s looked at me since I wrote on the wall. His eyes are sad.

‘Ever had snow ice cream?’ I ask.

I send him indoors for a bowl, icing sugar, vanilla, a spoon. He follows my instructions, scoops handfuls of snow into the bowl, whisks all the ingredients together. It turns to mush, goes brown, tastes weird. It isn’t how I remember it when I was a kid.

‘Maybe it’s yoghurt and orange juice.’

He rushes off. Comes back. We try again. It’s worse, but this time he laughs.

‘Beautiful mouth,’ I tell him.

‘You’re shivering,’ he says. ‘You should go in.’

‘Not without you.’

He looks at his watch.

I say, ‘What do you call a snowman in the desert?’

‘I need to go, Tess.’

‘A puddle.’

‘Seriously.’

‘You can’t leave now, there’s a snowstorm. I’ll never find my way back home.’

I undo my zip. I let my coat fall open so my shoulder’s exposed. Earlier, Adam spent minutes kissing this particular bit of shoulder. He blinks at me. Snow falls onto his eyelashes.

He says, ‘What do you want from me, Tess?’

‘Night time.’

‘What do you really want?’

I knew he’d understand.

‘I want you to be with me in the dark. To hold me. To keep loving me. To help me when I get scared. To come right to the edge and see what’s there.’

He looks really deeply at me. ‘What if I get it wrong?’

‘It’s impossible to get wrong.’

‘I might let you down.’

‘You won’t.’

‘I might get freaked out.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I just want you to be there.’

He gazes at me across the winter garden. His eyes are very green. In them I see his future stretching before him. I don’t know what he sees in mine. But he’s brave. I always knew it about him. He takes my hand and leads me back inside.

Upstairs I feel heavier, like the bed glued itself to me and is sucking me down. Adam takes ages getting undressed, then stands there shivering in his boxer shorts.

‘Shall I get in then?’

‘Only if you want to.’