When the doctors turned up the next day, Gran made a joke about how finally Dr Death was living up to his name, but I wasn’t in the mood for humour. So I went into the garden and watched the clouds as they skimmed the sky. It was cold outside but I didn’t care. There wasn’t much to see in Gran’s backyard, other than a few shrubs struggling to stay alive, but I didn’t care about that either. I made a pen appear and disappear because I could do that without thinking, which was something else I wasn’t in the mood for.

Sonja joined me after about fifteen minutes. She watched as I did my sleight of hand.

‘Impressive,’ she said.

‘Basic,’ I replied.

‘I’m worried about you, Grace,’ she said after a dozen appearances and disappearances of my pen. ‘I think you need support.’

I didn’t say anything.

‘You haven’t once rung me,’ she added.

‘What’s there to say?’

‘You shouldn’t have to do this on your own.’

I made the pen disappear for the final time. I stood up. I needed another walk.

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s Gran who shouldn’t have to do this on her own. And that’s my job. And that’s the job I will see through to the . . . end.’

I was glad to get back to school on Monday.

Uncle Mike had arranged to go round to Gran’s, especially when Sonja was due to appear. It wouldn’t do to have her turn up and find Gran alone. That wasn’t how Gran saw the situation, of course. I think she was as glad as me to have me out of the house for multiple hours a day. It’s not that we weren’t getting along – though sometimes we weren’t getting along – but there’s a limit to what you can talk about other than what would be happening in ten days’ time. Even when we discussed other things, or when I read to her from our novel, it was obviously there in the background, waiting for its own page to turn.

So I got into my school uniform, grabbed a couple of pieces of toast to eat on the way and walked the three kilometres to school. Each step felt like a liberation. The weather was fine, the sun peeping occasionally through high-drifting clouds. For once I was able to keep my head a Gran-free zone by the simple trick of concentrating fully on the illusions I was going to perform for my grand online performance. I kept tweaking the ideas, discarding some, thinking through the practicalities and feasibilities of others and trying to put everything together in my imagination for maximum effect. I arrived at school with nothing else cluttering the front of my mind. That was . . . good. For a while.

The feeling lasted an hour and a half. Science was first and we were working on our independent studies, which suited me. Independent study was my favourite, for the simple reason that I didn’t have to bother with other students who appeared to have preoccupations a world away from mine. Social media. Gossip. More social media. When they ran out of that, they turned to social media. That was one of the reasons I always kept my phone turned off at school, even though the principal had negotiated an exemption from the education department’s ban because ‘students need them for research’.

My Science teacher liked me, but only because I never had my phone out. She spent most of her time trying to get the rest of the class to follow my lead, but with limited success.

I need it for emergencies.

My dad told me to always keep it on so he can contact me. Ask him if you don’t believe me.

I’m not checking Instagram. I’m doing research, like the principal said we could.

So I guess it was ironic when the year coordinator called me out of the classroom. Later I’d find five missed calls on my phone. Apparently, I had to go to the police station because Mum had been locked up for being drunk and disorderly, resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer.

At nine-thirty on a Monday morning.

The year coordinator gave me a lift to the station where I got most of the story from a tired officer with bad hair and a pitted complexion.

Mum had been found slumped in an alley behind one of those big red dumpsters that shops and businesses favour. The alley was close to a nightclub that stayed open until two in the morning, so it wasn’t too difficult to work out that Mum had been partying hard on Sunday night until she passed out. So far, so shit. But it was when the police and paramedics turned up that the shit turned a deeper shade of brown. Mum vomited down the front of an officer, who wasn’t thrilled, though I imagine it probably wasn’t the first time it had happened to him. She added insult to injury, however, by swearing at him, spitting in his face and then lashing out when he tried to restrain her, giving him a black eye. He arrested her and she was now in a cell waiting for me to come and collect her. Apparently, when she’d sobered up sufficiently to understand what had happened, she’d given the police my number. I might have resented that, but to be fair, I was her only relative, so it’s not like she had many options. Like me, she doesn’t have friends. Well, she had one, the revolting Jim, but I’d made him disappear. Karma is a wonderful thing.

The officer who told me all this said he didn’t know if Mum would have to go to court or whether the police would simply forget about it. Just another drunk. What’s the point? For now, he simply wanted her out of their building – the smell coming from her cell was starting to bother some of them. After the necessary paperwork was filled out, Mum was brought through and released.

She looked revolting. It’s a strange experience for a daughter. Trust me on this. Even though I’d seen her drunk before – many times, as I think I’ve already mentioned – it was still a shock. Her face was hollow, like the drink had sucked from her rather than the other way round; her clothes were dirty and torn, her hair ragged and lifeless. The person I helped into the back of the Uber wasn’t my mother, it was a shell she’d once occupied.

We didn’t say anything to each other until we got home. She took a shower while I tidied the place a bit. Dishes scattered in and around the sink – multiple days’ worth, from what I could judge. I took an assortment of bottles to the recycle bin. It was due to be emptied on Tuesday and I was glad I wouldn’t be there to hear the shameful clatter when the contents hit the inside of the truck. But I didn’t do much housework. The place was a mess and it would take more than a quick visit to get it in order.

Mum finally shuffled into the kitchen, hair wrapped in a towel, wearing her dressing gown. She collapsed on a chair like something deflated. I got her a cup of water, leaned back against the sink. My arms might have been folded.

‘I’m sorry, Grace,’ said Mum. ‘That must have been so embarrassing for you.’

‘Embarrassing for you too,’ I said.

Here’s something. All the way home in the Uber I’d been feeding my anger and resentment. I was a schoolgirl and I thought maybe, just maybe, I could have the kind of life that most schoolgirls seem to enjoy. You know, not feeling obliged to look after a dying grandmother, put up with a lying, thieving uncle and pick up the pieces left by an alcoholic mother. Was that really too much to ask? Apparently it was. All I wanted was to be left in peace so I could carry on with my magic.

But standing there at the kitchen sink, looking at my mother, I felt that anger drain away. Daughters have expectations of mothers, some of them bound to bring disappointment. Maybe it’s the sense that your mother is somehow larger than a normal person, someone special who, although having faults, is somehow elevated beyond the ordinary. Not a hero. But special. Now I looked at my mother and saw an ordinary, sad human being who’d messed up her life or had it messed up for her; the difference probably wasn’t important.

I felt tired. God, I felt tired.

‘I’m going to get this under control, Grace,’ said Mum. ‘I’m going to throw away any alcohol in the house and I’m going to be sober.’ She brushed a strand of wet hair away from her face. ‘And this time I’ll stay sober.’

‘Mother,’ I said. ‘You’re an alcoholic.’

That did something. It was like I’d punched her in the stomach. She lifted her eyes and met mine. I think she was aiming for steely, but what I saw was shiftiness.

‘I’m not an alcoholic,’ she said. ‘I just enjoy a drink and, yes, sometimes I have too much and that’s sad and shameful, but I don’t need the grog, Grace. It’s just since your father and brother died, I feel the need for some . . . support . . . a way of forgetting, I guess . . .’

‘You’re an alcoholic,’ I said again. ‘And until you understand that, you’ll never beat it.’

‘Suddenly you’re an expert, Grace?’ Mum’s voice had become shrill. She stood up and then sat down again. ‘A schoolgirl who stays locked away in her bedroom playing with cards and stupid magic tricks knows all about this, hey?’

‘Call AA, Mother,’ I said. ‘If you don’t want to, I suppose I can.’

‘No!’ This time when she stood her footing was surer. She swayed a little but stayed standing. ‘I told you I can handle it and if you don’t believe me – if you don’t have faith in me, you can get out. Go on. Piss off. Go back to your grandmother and your tricks and leave me the hell alone. I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.’

‘Except Mr Jim Beam,’ I said.

‘Get out!’ It was a roar, but I think it drained her because she collapsed onto the chair again.

I left before she started crying. I was worried that if she started, I might join in, and I couldn’t afford to do that.

I went back to Gran’s. Where else did I have to go? I couldn’t face the rest of the school day. I couldn’t really face Gran’s house either. I thought about the park again but the ducks would only depress me even more, going round in their aimless ways like I was going round in mine. I even toyed with the idea of just getting on a bus to Melbourne or Sydney or Perth or . . . wherever. Leaving it all behind. I could withdraw money from Uncle Mike’s account – a huge sum that would keep me going until I could find work somewhere. Mango picking in the Northern Territory, waitressing in Noosa. I could busk town streets, The Amazing Grace with her close-up magic. I could survive. Until the police tracked me down.

And maybe I would just get the hell out. In time. But, like I’d said to Sonja, I had a job to finish first. So I went to Gran’s.

She was dozing in the living room and Uncle Mike was scrolling on his phone. When he saw me come in he put a finger to his lips and gestured, so we went out into the backyard. The chairs were still in place from yesterday.

‘You’re back from school early, Grace,’ he remarked.

‘Pupil-free afternoon,’ I replied. There was no way I was going to talk about Mum, though I knew word would get around quickly. He might already know. Our town has a bush telegraph that sometimes exceeds the speed of light.

‘I’m taking the next two weeks off work,’ he said. ‘So I can be with Mum. And to take a bit of the pressure off you.’

I didn’t say anything. But I wondered what his angle was. There’s always an angle, though I have to confess that at that moment I couldn’t see what it might be.

‘I’ll stay over as well,’ he continued. I opened my mouth but he held up a hand. ‘I’ll sleep on the couch, so it won’t affect you.’ He gave a small smile. ‘It’s been years since I slept on a couch. It might do me some good.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Why will the couch do me some good?’

‘No. Why stay over at all? Do you think I’m not up to this?’ Do you worry that I will influence Gran to change her will? Are you sleeping on the couch to protect your own interests? Is that the trick, Uncle Mike? Is that the angle that has escaped me?

‘I know you’re up to this, Grace,’ he said. ‘You’ve been nothing short of brilliant. But this is something that shouldn’t fall on one person alone.’ He sighed. ‘And I’m not just thinking of the emotional burden, though God knows, that is huge. There’s the practicalities as well. Getting shopping in, doing the housework, keeping the place clean and tidy. You know how Mum can’t stand it when her house is less than perfect. We can share the load, Grace. That’s all I’m saying.’

Now here’s the thing. The suggestion made sense. I couldn’t do all that was needed because Gran required attention all the time. The pain medication was working, I guessed, with no input from me, but when Gran was awake I couldn’t just leave her alone while I did schoolwork or dusted or washed the few dishes that we accumulated. She deserved company while it was still an option. So why did I feel . . . cheated? Because this drama only had two protagonists, me and Gran, and I resented anyone else having a share in the limelight? Was I as self-serving as my uncle? Possibly. Probably. But I was certain of one thing. I didn’t want him here.

I filed the thought away, because I knew that what I wanted didn’t matter. There was only one lead in this drama and it was the old woman dozing in the chair inside. At the end she should have her son there. At the end she should have as many people who loved her as possible.

So I nodded.

It turned out that Uncle Mike was a good cook. Who would have guessed? He made a beef stew for dinner that was melt-in-the-mouth. Gran didn’t eat any of it. She was getting thinner by the hour, the amazing disappearing grandmother. But she watched us eat and seemed to take some pleasure from it. When I got back from washing the dishes, she and Uncle Mike were playing Scrabble. I felt a small twinge of jealousy, though I was pleased to see that she was kicking his butt as roundly as she’d kicked mine. But even placing a tile on the board appeared to cause her pain. Nobody remarked on it. Then I read to her while her son took a shower. After he was done, I got her to the bathroom and back – Uncle Mike didn’t try to take over any of those duties, which was a relief. I wasn’t giving that up.

I even got some time alone in my bedroom when Gran and her son started talking about the past – things I hadn’t been involved with and that were clearly personal to them. So I tried making a few refinements to my tricks for the TikTok grand finale, but my heart wasn’t really in it. There were six messages from Simon on my phone – I’d missed the promised catch-up to do another video and I hadn’t told him. I thought about explaining, but my heart wasn’t in that either. He’d forgive me. Or he wouldn’t. I couldn’t really care about either outcome. I tried ringing my mother, but it went to voicemail. I could guess the reason for that. In the end, I just turned off the phone.

When I got Gran to bed and tucked her in (that felt lovely, though the whole conversation about reverting to childhood loomed up before I pushed it beneath the surface), she put a hand to my cheek, stroked it.

‘The pain is unbearable, Grace,’ she said.

I froze. It was the gap between the gentleness with which she touched me and her words that did it.

‘I’ll talk to Sonja,’ I said. ‘Maybe . . .’

‘I’ve already talked to her,’ said Gran. ‘There’s nothing to be done.’

I didn’t know what to say.

‘But I only have another nine days to go, Grace,’ she said.

‘I know, Gran.’

She stroked my cheek again.

‘Please don’t grieve for me,’ she said. ‘Grieve for this . . . unpleasantness, if you must. These last remaining days. But don’t shed a tear when I’m gone. It’s what I want. More than anything, it’s what I want.’

I bent and kissed her forehead.

‘You can ask me almost anything, Gran,’ I said, ‘but you can’t ask me not to grieve because I’m not sure that’s in my power to grant.’ It’s like asking the sun not to come up, I thought. Our wishes don’t matter. Like your wish, Gran, for me to make your heart disappear like a playing card. I’d do it if I could, but I can’t. Because miracles don’t exist.

That night I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. My uncle was curled up on the couch in the living room and when I’d said goodnight, I have to confess that the couch didn’t appear that it would be doing him any good. Like Gran, his face twisted when he turned over. I could hear faint sounds from my grandmother’s bedroom coming through the walls. But it seemed to me that as the pain increased, so did her determination to conceal it.

Apart from a few soft words when I tucked her in.

I must have dozed for a while because when I became aware again, Jake was sitting on the bed.

‘Can I get into bed with you, Grace?’ he said.

I turned back the covers.

‘If you were alive,’ I said, ‘this would be out of the question. But you’re not, so you might as well hop in, sibling figment of my imagination.’

So he did. We slept side by side, though, naturally, when morning arrived, he was gone.