Gran seemed to have shrunk.

She lay on the hospital bed, for all the world like a rag doll that some kid had discarded. I mean, I know it was my imagination. No one loses noticeable weight or loses . . . presence? in twenty-four hours, but she appeared diminished somehow, not quite there.

‘Jesus Christ,’ she said. ‘Do I have to put up with you mob for another hour? Haven’t you got places to be?’

It was good to know that her personality hadn’t shrivelled.

Uncle Mike did most of the talking. He explained the alternatives that he thought were possible and, as I predicted, Gran dismissed the first two immediately.

‘I will not lie in some hospital bed being manhandled by strangers who’ll treat me like I’m a senile old fossil,’ she said, maybe a touch too forcibly. ‘Those syrupy voices talking to me like my IQ is in single figures or like I’m two years old. Stuff that. I’d sooner discharge myself and buy a woodchipper from Bunnings.’

I groaned inwardly at the image.

‘I’m too old to be told what to do,’ she added.

‘No one has ever been able to tell you what to do,’ Uncle Mike pointed out.

‘True. And that’s not changing now. I remember when I was at a garden party at Buckingham Palace in the mid-seventies, and Liz said to me—’

‘I’ll look after you, Gran,’ I said. At least that stopped her latest fiction. She propped herself up in bed, irritably waving off Uncle Mike’s attempts to help her.

‘Why on earth would you do that, Grace?’ she said. ‘You’re young, you’ve got a life, you’ll doubtless find the girl of your dreams very soon. What a tragedy to put that on hold to help out a dying old sod who won’t thank you, will probably insult you, and might possibly administer physical abuse.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Gran,’ I replied. ‘Because you make it sound like such an exciting adventure?’ I put a finger to my lips. ‘Or maybe it’s so that I can torture you by hiding the tea bags, pawning whatever valuables I can find lying around and then forging your will in my favour.’ I smiled. ‘That works for me.’

It worked for Gran as well. She laughed. Then she coughed and laughed some more. When she was done she waved a finger towards my face.

‘Okay, but on one condition.’

A condition?

‘If you a) stop being honest with me or b) bore me by caring too much, then you’re history. Are we agreed, young lady?’

‘That’s two conditions.’

‘Are we agreed?’

‘You drive a hard bargain,’ I replied, ‘but I accept. Draw up the contract and I’ll sign it.’

Gran waved her hand.

‘It’ll be a disaster,’ she said. ‘Mark my words. Anyway, bugger off, all of you. I want to get some sleep in. Or, as I like to call it, practice for the big one.’

Turns out she didn’t get much practice in because, although we buggered off as ordered, we were summoned back about three hours later by Gran’s specialist. She took us to a meeting room where we were introduced to a bunch of people whose names and occupations I instantly forgot. A few minutes later Gran walked in, with a nurse pushing an empty wheelchair behind her. I could guess what had happened. The nurse had tried to take her in the wheelchair and Gran had suggested what she could do with it. Probably in anatomically accurate terms. My grandmother sat in a chair, looked around the crowded room and sighed.

‘I hope this isn’t This Is Your Life,’ she said. ‘This Was Your Life.’ She glanced at Uncle Mike and me. ‘I recognise two of you,’ she continued. ‘Are the rest of you past lovers and children born out of wedlock?’

After a suitable silence, Gran’s specialist explained that she was passing the baton on to the other people in the room, the palliative care team. Baton passed, she left, and a man stood. Everything about his appearance screamed doctor, though he’d left out the stethoscope around the neck, which I felt was a wise choice.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs McKellon,’ he said. He tried a broad smile, which didn’t quite work. ‘Or may I call you Beryl?’

‘You may call me Isabel,’ said Gran.

The doctor glanced down at the file on his desk and furrowed his brow.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But there’s no record of that name here. Beryl Agnes McKellon.’

‘Which is why I identify as Isabel,’ said Gran. ‘Wouldn’t you if you were christened Beryl Agnes?’

I might have warned the doc that it wasn’t really worth going down that particular rabbit hole, but it wasn’t necessary. His smile just got a little more disjointed and he carried on.

He asked Gran whether she was in any pain, how her mobility was and whether she felt comfortable and safe about going home. Gran kept her answers short and relevant, which was something of a relief. Then the doc turned to Uncle Mike and asked whether he was okay about being Gran’s primary carer.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Uncle Mike. ‘Absolutely. I consider it an honour.’

I resisted the urge to vomit. At least I’d been given some warning. My uncle had told me that he had put his name down as primary carer because he’d been told the hospital might have concerns about a schoolgirl taking on full responsibility. He’d also been keen to reassure me that I would be doing the hard yards while he . . . well, waited around for his mum to die while flicking through brochures detailing exotic holidays. He didn’t actually say that last bit.

‘I will be supported by my niece here, Grace McKellon,’ he added.

‘Excellent,’ said the doc. He then went on to talk about the role of the occupational therapist, who would work out what Gran needed in the way of items like rails in the bathroom to make her home easier to move around in as time went on. How Uncle Mike would be given access to support systems to help in his role. Finally, he turned to a woman standing in the corner.

‘I’d like to introduce you to Sonja Johnson,’ he said. ‘Sonja is a nurse and she will be visiting you daily to see how you’re going and help out with day-to-day care.’

The woman stepped forward and smiled. Gran didn’t return it. She pointed a bony finger at the nurse who, to be fair, didn’t flinch.

‘If you’re thinking about dabbing my body with sponges and wiping my bum, young lady, then you’re sorely mistaken. You should understand that you aren’t getting anywhere near my bits.’

Sonja’s smile just got broader.

‘We have a deal, Isabel,’ she said.

Gran snorted. ‘Mrs McKellon to you, dear,’ she said. ‘You have to earn the right to call me Isabel.’

Uncle Mike and I went straight to Gran’s house after the meeting, partly to get rid of anything festering in the fridge, but also to do a check on what we needed. Gran was coming home in the morning and we had to prepare.

I brought up the subject of re-doing the bedroom for me. Uncle Mike winced a little at the probable expense, but conceded that maybe I had a point, especially after we’d checked out the spare room. It was absolutely free of dust – Gran was of the school that thought it was important to clean rooms to within an inch of their lives on a weekly basis in case anyone decided they wanted to stay, though the odds on that were astronomical – but also absolutely free of taste or style. The curtains were heavy and gloomy, the carpet a ghastly nightmare and the furniture made at a time when wood was not only in vogue but apparently available in excessive quantity. I tried to shift a chest of drawers and concluded I’d need a forklift.

One thing about Uncle Mike’s job is that he’s got plenty of contacts in plenty of trades. He said he’d get a painter mate to do the walls and ceilings in some kind of off-white, and he knew where to get cut-price carpet and furniture. He promised to arrange it for the coming weekend. I could probably cope with sleeping in a room that looked like the set of some slasher movie for a couple of days. Probably.

After he left I did a little tidying, but there wasn’t much, on the grounds that Gran is anal about housework. So I took myself off to the shops, in particular a hardware store, where I bought a bedside lamp. It was a basic one and only cost thirty-two bucks. The thing is, I didn’t need a bedside lamp – and even if I did, they had cheaper ones there – but thirty-two bucks was the right amount for my purposes.

One bedside lamp that would, I suspected, show Uncle Mike in his proper light.

I make no apologies for the bad play on words.

Mum and I went to a Macca’s for dinner that evening, which tells you all you need to know about our domestic situation. It probably says quite a bit about our relationship as well, though at least we were eating out together. You know, giving the impression we were family. Doesn’t matter that said family was a bit like the food, cheap and tasteless. We were making efforts.

I ordered a Filet-O-Fish, mainly because I’d read somewhere that it was the least popular item on the menu, and recommendations don’t come much stronger. Mum had a burger with bacon and cheese that looked like plastic. We sat in a corner and chomped away for a while without speaking. Children ran screaming around us while parents ignored them.

‘I want you to know that I think you’re doing a very brave thing,’ said Mum, wiping some ketchup from the corner of her mouth, but missing a blob of mayo on her chin.

‘Ordering the Filet-O-Fish?’

‘Looking after your grandmother.’ She pushed aside her tray but snagged one last remaining fry, popped it into her mouth. ‘She is . . . difficult.’

‘She’s a nightmare,’ I amended. ‘But funny as.’

‘I can’t imagine she’ll have much to laugh about over the next few months,’ said Mum. ‘It’s a big job you’re taking on, Grace.’

I couldn’t think of a smart-arse reply, so I just shrugged.

‘I’ll drop in to help out, if you like,’ she continued.

I pushed aside what remained of the fish. Maybe there was a good reason why it was so unpopular.

‘Mother,’ I said, ‘you and Gran are a fight waiting to happen. Put you in the same general location and there’s liable to be an explosion. You hate her, she hates you. Dropping in to help out is unlikely to end well.’

‘I don’t exactly hate her,’ Mum replied. ‘But, yeah, we’ve never got along, that’s the truth.’

‘Because of Dad,’ I said. It wasn’t a question.

‘When your father and brother died,’ said Mum, ‘it got worse between us. Before that, she kinda tolerated me, like she hoped that given time your dad would realise what a mistake I was and find someone . . . more suitable. But after . . . well, I know she wished I’d died instead.’ Mum made a move towards her bag, which contained her cigarettes, but then thought better of it. ‘Maybe that’s understandable, but it sure as hell means we’re not . . . close. And never will be.’

‘So I’d dump the dropping-round idea.’

‘Okay.’ Mum sighed. ‘I can’t imagine she’ll warm towards me just because she’s dying.’

‘Not in Gran’s nature,’ I said.

When we got home, I went to my room and Mum went to hers. I hadn’t had time to water down the vodka but it probably didn’t matter. Maybe Mum needed whatever help she could get.

I was practising a difficult card trick when Simon rang. I ignored him. Then he sent a message, and that’s never easy to ignore.

8,000+ followers, 45,000+ views. You’re going viral!!!!!

I went back to the card trick. It was possible I’d be able to forgive Simon for his clothes sense, it was even possible I’d forgive him for the Si thing, but excessive use of the exclamation mark was going to be very challenging.

Jake turned up a couple of minutes later.

‘Illusion blown, Jakey,’ I said, shuffling my cards. ‘The audience can see right through you. You’re dead, mate.’

He just sat there for a while, staring at me with those big brown eyes.

‘I know that, Grace,’ he said finally.

‘So what are you doing here?’

He shrugged.

I put the cards down, folded my arms.

‘Look, brother of mine,’ I said. ‘It’s a great trick – you know, returning from the dead and all that. I’m a huge fan. Huge. But what’s the point if you’re just going to do things like shrug when I ask you important shit?’

He shrugged again.

‘Is there a god?’ I continued. ‘Is there a heaven? What happens when you die? What’s it like? When did you realise you’re dead and why have you come back and not Dad, hey? Is there any logic to this haunting of me?’ I pointed a finger at him. ‘Shrug again, matey, and I’ll kill you.’

He didn’t even smile at that.

‘Here’s what I think,’ I continued. ‘Shrug once if I’m close to the truth, twice if I’m off-beam. All right. I reckon – and boy, this isn’t exactly revolutionary stuff – I reckon that you are a figment of my imagination because in some ways I haven’t processed the reasons why you and Dad died. So you’re here – this trick of the sight, this misdirection that isn’t really a misdirection – because this is the only way that I can keep working through the problem. Once I come to terms, once I get some answers, you’ll never come back.’ I laughed. ‘My therapist would be thrilled with this bullshit. She’d think I was making progress. What’s your view, Jake?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said.

‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘I don’t either. Now, bugger off. I’ve got work to do.’

And he did. That was kind of amazing, as well. He never normally does what I ask him to.