I said I was glad to be getting back to school. Now I was glad I didn’t have to.

At the time it had seemed like an escape from all I was worrying about, but I realised that there was no escape, not until this drama had played itself out to the bitter end. School had no place in my world just then. Luckily I had no place in the world of school either.

The doctors turned up with Sonja at just after ten a.m., so I went into the garden. I didn’t have to because Gran couldn’t get out of bed that morning, so the house was clear. But I needed air. Uncle Mike went for a walk. He said the couch was starting to mess with his back and that he needed some exercise to loosen it up. He was on his phone before he hit the front door.

I didn’t do anything in the garden, just stared into nothingness, like Gran on the day of my father’s funeral. The day was sunny for once and birds were twittering. I tried ringing my mother but it went straight to voicemail. I left a message. I’d left several, but she hadn’t got back to me. I thought about doing some tricks but didn’t. So I just sat there and waited for time to pass. It was reluctant to do so.

Sonja called me in after about an hour. The doctors sat in the front room, wearing the expressions of a pair of judges who had come to a decision. I drew up a dining chair. Sonja stood. It was Dr Death who spoke first. He was wearing his waistcoat and fob watch. I thought about how easy it would be to rid him of the latter. Hey, on my best day I could probably make the waistcoat disappear as well. My fingers started moving of their own accord.

‘Ms McKellon,’ he said. ‘We have examined your grandmother and we are agreed that she is eligible, that she has met the mandatory requirements for voluntary assisted dying.’ He paused and leaned forward. ‘I don’t know whether I should say I’m sorry or that I’m pleased for her. It’s what she wants and I think, given the pain she’s clearly experiencing, that it’s humane and necessary.’

Dr Gardner took over.

‘Your grandmother has given us her written request, which goes along with the verbal request she made previously.’ He bent his head and then looked up and met my eyes. ‘As you know, it is a requirement that the patient makes three such requests, two verbally and one in writing. I will come along in four or five days to receive the third request.’

‘Couldn’t you just accept that now?’ I asked.

‘No. It is important that the patient is given time to think things over. But the ten-day minimum requirement starts today. This means . . .’ He glanced at his watch. ‘. . . that a week on Thursday, the twenty-second of this month, your grandmother will be able to access the medication that will end her life, should she choose to do so. We have made it very plain that she can, of course, change her mind at any time. Her GP, Dr D’Ath here, will prepare the prescription. I suggest, Ms McKellon, that you discuss the details with your uncle and your grandmother as to how and by whom that medication is administered, should your grandmother go through with this.’

Everyone was looking at me, but I didn’t know what to say. Then Uncle Mike came in and they brought him up to speed, so I didn’t have to say anything. There were handshakes and expressions of gratitude and sympathy, but they were all . . . distant.

Dr Death had a word with me before he left.

‘Ms McKellon . . .’

‘Call me Grace,’ I said.

‘Grace. Is there anything I can do for you as your family doctor?’

I tried to work out what that meant, but it was difficult, so I just shook my head.

‘This must be a . . . nightmare for you,’ he continued. ‘And I don’t want to trivialise what you must be going through, but if there’s anything in the way of medication that you require . . . you know, something to help you sleep or . . . settle your nerves, well, I’d be happy to help.’

‘I don’t think drugs are what I need right now,’ I replied. Was that true? Maybe drugs were exactly what I needed, but I trusted what my gut told me. ‘But thank you,’ I added. ‘And thank you for believing that Gran is of sound mind.’

‘I’m with you on that one,’ he said. ‘She’s smarter than any of us.’

He turned away and then turned back, gave his waistcoat a sharp tug.

‘Do you have anyone to talk to?’ he said. ‘I think it’s very important in these situations to have someone to share the load. You have your uncle, I suppose, but if you want professional support then I could . . .’

Uncle Mike was never going to be someone to share the emotional burden. The physical care? Yeah. He helped. But I wasn’t going to discuss my feelings with someone who had stolen from his dying mother. I hadn’t forgotten that and I hadn’t forgiven it either. There would be a reckoning.

‘I think I’m okay, doc,’ I said. ‘Sonja talks to me every day, and that’s good.’ I wasn’t going to mention my therapist. I still hadn’t fully made up my mind about her.

‘Well . . .’ He shrugged. ‘If you need anything . . .’

‘I’ll be in touch, yeah.’

Sonja tried to do the same thing when she left, but by this time I was out of patience and probably out of my head. I wanted to say, For Christ’s sake, why don’tyou all just piss off and leave us alone so we can get on with this?

But I didn’t. I thanked her and she said she would be back tomorrow.

When I went into the front room Uncle Mike even gave it a go. ‘Do you want to talk, Grace?’ he said in a voice dripping with sincerity.

‘No.’

He gestured towards Gran’s bedroom. ‘Shall we go in to see her?’

‘You go,’ I said. ‘I can’t just now. I’m going out for a while.’

And I stepped out into a day that had gone from sunny to overcast. A few big splats of rain hit my head as I walked down the front path.

My house, even from a distance, seemed lonely. The curtains were drawn downstairs, like the home had withdrawn into itself and didn’t want visitors. It was blanking me. My mother’s car was in the driveway, parked at an angle that indicated either carelessness or drunkenness. I walked up to the front door and fumbled my keys a little before opening it.

The hallway smelled of decaying food and despair. There were no sounds. It reminded me of the times I had let myself into Gran’s house, not knowing what might await. I called out for my mother, but there was no reply.

I found her in the kitchen, sitting at the dining table, a glass of colourless liquid in front of her. She was swirling the liquid and staring at the table. She didn’t look up as I came in. I let out a long sigh. I’d had enough of death – enough to last a lifetime, frankly – and the sight of her released a fear I hadn’t fully understood until that moment.

‘Hi, Mother,’ I said.

She looked up then, looked back at the table and raised the glass to her lips.

‘Water,’ she said. ‘Just water.’

I sat opposite her.

‘You haven’t answered my calls,’ I said. ‘Or replied to my messages.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know where my phone was for the longest time and when I did stumble across it, it was out of power. For some reason I couldn’t be bothered charging it.’

‘I was worried.’

‘But not enough to come home.’

‘Like you weren’t worried enough about me to charge your phone.’

I put my arms flat on the table. I’d only been in the house for a minute and already we were on a collision course. It had always been like this. My mother and I would circle each other, like two fighters looking for the opportunity to strike first. Or we would keep out of each other’s way because . . . well, it was just easier. I was tired of it.

‘I come in peace,’ I said, but she just grunted.

‘How are you?’ I added. It was a useless question. Mum looked like she hadn’t showered in a week, her clothes were dirty and probably slept in, her face drawn and sunken with despair. But her eyes . . . I could see myself in her eyes, something about the colour and the shape. I hadn’t noticed that before. Maybe I hadn’t looked before.

‘Oh, you know,’ she said. ‘Surviving.’ She took another sip of water, looked up at me. ‘I’m still drinking, you know,’ she added. It was like an act of defiance. ‘I haven’t stopped. But I haven’t got worse either. Maybe that’s something.’ She put the glass down. ‘Probably not, though.’

‘I want to apologise,’ I said.

‘For what?’

‘For not being a daughter,’ I said.

She laughed then, though there wasn’t much humour in it.

‘Well. Quid pro quo,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been a mother.’

‘True.’

Mum got up, took her glass to the sink, refilled it and then sat down again. She pushed hair out of her eyes.

‘Well, we’ve got that out of the way,’ she said. ‘We’re both shit at the mother–daughter thing. You’ve apologised. I’m sorry too. Are we done?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I want to talk.’

‘What about the times I wanted to talk, Grace, hey?’ There was anger there now. I was almost relieved to hear it. The deadness in her voice had been sad. But there was emotion now. Anger, yeah, but it was a start. ‘I remember the last time I tried to get a conversation going and you just talked shit about the universe being a computer game or some such crap. Put me in my place, didn’t it? Told me exactly how badly you wanted to build bridges.’

‘It’s a good theory, though, Mother, that simulation thing. It’s fun. But I guess you’re right. I was just trying to blow you off.’

‘Still think you’re the centre of the universe?’

‘Don’t we all?’

‘Probably.’

‘I talked to Gran about the accident,’ I said. ‘Now I want to talk to you.’

The accident. Those two words needed no qualification or context. Everyone knew what they meant.

‘Not sure I can do that sober,’ said Mum. ‘What did your grandmother have to say? It was all my fault? Because that’s what she believes.’

‘Not all your fault,’ I said. ‘But some of it.’ I knew this was dangerous. What do normal people do in these situations? They dilute the unpalatable, so that people can get along. Making others uncomfortable is to be avoided at all costs. Most human interaction is based on lies. I couldn’t do it. I especially didn’t want to do it with my mother. Not now.

She bent her head.

‘Yeah, that’s probably fair.’

‘But she thinks most of the fault lies with her.’

I explained how Gran felt guilty about asking Dad to visit her when he wasn’t in a fit state to operate a car, that she felt it was selfish of her, that if she hadn’t asked none of it would have happened, that Dad and Jake would still be alive and the world and all of us would be different. Mum thought about that for a long time.

‘I hadn’t realised she’d think like that,’ she said finally. ‘I probably should’ve.’

‘Maybe you were wrapped up in your own guilt too much to think about how others were feeling,’ I replied.

‘Maybe.’

‘Why do you feel guilty?’ I knew I was pushing, but I didn’t think I had much choice. My family had kept stuff locked away for so long, me included, that no one knew how to communicate anymore. We were isolated and it wasn’t doing any of us any good.

‘Guilt is a weird thing,’ said my mother. ‘I shouldn’t feel it over that. I was ill that day. I’d been throwing up at the side of the road for a couple of hours before we got home.’ She met my eyes. ‘And no, it wasn’t alcohol. I think I’d eaten something nasty on one of our stops at a petrol station. Some pie or something that had been sitting in a bain marie for too long.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t drive. I couldn’t do anything. I just had to be at home, close to the toilet. Right next to it as it turned out. Calling God on the big white phone.’

‘So not your fault.’ I wondered whether I should tell Gran this version. Would it help? Or would it set up a clash of different viewpoints? Maybe it was all too late for that. But maybe it wasn’t too late for me.

‘I should’ve told your father not to drive anymore. I should’ve insisted that he stayed there with me. He would have, you know. But I told him I wanted to be alone, so he should go and see his mother.’ She picked up her glass, looked at it and put it down without drinking. ‘I was selfish. Vomiting is best done alone. I didn’t realise the price I would have to pay. That all of us would have to pay.’

We were silent for a few minutes. I was going through things in my head. Mum was probably doing the same.

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Look at us. Talking! Who’d have thought it?’

She gave a small smile.

‘It’s a miracle,’ she said.

I even told her about my guilt, crazy though it sounded, about how maybe I might have helped when the accident took place, that I might have been able to free Dad and Jake from their seats as I must have freed myself from mine, the gnawing suspicion that I was too concerned with getting myself out and that I just left them there to die. I wanted to remember, but I couldn’t. What did that say? That I’d blocked the memory because it would be too painful to confront my own cowardice? Mum said what I’d always told myself. I was only six.

‘Guilt, as you pointed out, is a weird thing,’ I said.

‘Here’s another angle,’ said my mother. ‘I lost my entire family that day, all except you. And then I lost you.’ She took another sip of water. ‘In some ways that was the worst because you were still here, still walking around. How sad is that?’

We sat in silence for a while. What she said didn’t need explaining. She retreated into the bottle, I retreated into magic and we lost each other in the process. Whose fault was it? Did it matter?

I told her about Gran and her date with death. When I’d finished, she went to the freezer, got out a bottle of vodka, poured herself a decent slug, sat down and looked at the glass.

‘I’ll go around to see her,’ she said.

‘Pity? Guilt?’

I don’t know if I was expecting a reaction, but she didn’t give me one. She just took a sip, looked at me.

‘Your father’s mother,’ she said. ‘We are connected. And she’s in hell right now.’ She thought about another drink, but put the glass on the table instead. ‘Your father would’ve wanted me to see her and that’s good enough for me. I just hope it’s good enough for your grandmother.’

‘I’ll ask her,’ I said. ‘Speaking of which, it’s time I went back.’

My mother saw me out, the glass of vodka in her hand. She saw me glance at it.

‘No judgement, Grace,’ she said. ‘Not now, okay?’

I nodded. Then I thought of something.

‘Do you want me to have a word with Jim?’ I asked. The idea had been rolling around in my head for a couple of days. Maybe if I explained to him that I had put the cockroaches into his breakfast, that Mum missed him, that it wasn’t her fault she had an arsehole for a daughter . . . perhaps they would have a chance together. Maybe I could make amends. I told her that.

‘Jim?’ said Mum. She smiled, though it was weak and fragile. ‘No. I’m better off without him. It took me a few days to realise that. I was scared, Grace. Scared of being alone. But then I realised that loneliness can sometimes be better than the alternative.’

‘If the alternative is someone like Jim.’

She laughed.

‘Yeah. Something like that.’

Then I got the strangest feeling. I wanted to reach out, touch my mother, maybe even hug her. I didn’t, of course. But I felt it might be possible in the future. What was happening to me?

‘I will try to be a better daughter,’ I said. ‘When all of this is over.’

Mum raised her glass in a mock toast.

‘And I will try to be a better mother,’ she said. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ She did.

I was halfway down the path when she called out.

‘You’re right. I’m an alcoholic, Grace,’ she said. She didn’t even try to keep her voice down. There were probably curtains twitching in various neighbours’ houses. She held up the glass again. ‘But this is so damn good. One step at a time, right?’

I didn’t answer. There wasn’t anything to say. Two minutes later I realised I’d forgotten to run a bath. Oh well. It’s not like my life was depending on it.

The next day I dropped into the supermarket because I had a couple of things I needed to buy from the cake-making section. You know, those shelves filled with rainbow sprinkles and chocolate chips and icing mixtures.

I didn’t want any of those things.

I’d thought about the colour of pain.

And I had some idea what it might look like.