‘How are you, Dad?’
Not bad. Took myself to the loo today. He nodded towards a nearby walking frame before continuing to type. Like a geriatric.
I smiled, leaning forward. ‘All progress is good.’
Dad shrank back into his pillow, eyeing me with caution.
‘You don’t have to be afraid of me,’ I said, pulling away nonetheless. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to spook you.’
Dad didn’t show any sign of amusement at my feeble attempt at an icebreaker. If anything, it had the opposite effect as he frowned and silently scrutinized me.
‘You don’t believe I’m real yet, do you?’ I said. ‘Even though Ella can see me too.’
I don’t know what to believe.
I read his reply on the screen of his smartphone, which had turned out to be an effective means of communication. For a man of his age, he was pretty adept at using the virtual keyboard, although he avoided many of the texting abbreviations favoured by his younger counterparts. It certainly helped that he was a leftie and had full use of his good hand. But I couldn’t help wondering whether it was all the text messages to his mistress that had made him so speedy.
‘I am really here, Dad,’ I said, pushing that thought to one side. ‘Listen, I had a word with a friend of mine, another spirit, to try to find out what’s going on.’
I was talking about Arthur, of course. I’d managed to get hold of him again last night for a brief chat. I’d been keen to get his take on my father’s sudden ability to see me.
‘Getting through to Ella was really tough,’ I explained to Dad. ‘So you seeing me too – without any of that work – was fantastic, but quite a shock. Anyway, this friend, he reckoned it must be something to do with the way the stroke affected your brain: somehow opening it up to seeing me. He’s no doctor, so he couldn’t give any more detail than that, but he’s been around a while and I trust his opinion. I guess it makes sense. What other explanation is there?’
I was sitting on a plastic chair at the left side of his bed. If I’d had the benefit of a full set of senses, the seat would have no doubt felt warm, having just been vacated by Mum. She’d insisted on cutting Dad’s fingernails and toenails during her visit and I noticed that she’d left her nail scissors behind on his bedside cabinet. I’d accompanied her and Lauren to the hospital this morning with the sole intention of staying to chat with Dad after they left. Now, after waiting patiently for over an hour, I was finally getting my chance.
Dad stared at me for a moment, nodded, and then looked down at his phone. Do you mean any harm to Ella? he typed.
‘Of course not,’ I replied, forcing myself to stay calm despite the affront. ‘She’s my only daughter. I love her more than anything. I know this is a lot to take in, but you have to believe me. I’m here to help; to watch over her.’
So either ghosts are real, he typed. Or I’m in one long, messed-up dream.
‘It’s no dream, Dad. And yeah, this whole thing surprised me too. The first I knew of it was when I found myself staring down at my own battered body after the accident. The official term for us is spirits, though. The word “ghost” has too many negative connotations, apparently.’
Says who?
‘Them up there,’ I replied, gesturing towards the ceiling.
Heaven? he asked.
I nodded.
Why aren’t you there?
‘It’s a long story.’
I’m going nowhere.
‘No, I guess not. Where do I start?’
The crash. Tell me the lot.
‘Very well. I … what’s wrong?’
Dad let the phone slip out of his left hand and on to the bed. He closed his eyes and started shaking his head.
‘What’s the matter, Dad?’
It was a couple of minutes before he finally opened his eyes again and fixed me with a glare. ‘Whaaattheellsgoingon?’ he slurred, his face contorted from the effort of speaking. ‘SSscan’tbereeeeal. Waasapeningtomeee?’
‘Dad, calm down. You’ll draw attention to yourself.’
But it was too late. The ward sister looked across from where she’d been talking to another patient and walked over. It was the same one who’d taken Mum and Lauren into her office the other day. ‘Hello, Tom,’ she said. ‘Everything okay?’
He shook his head angrily and nodded in my direction. ‘Look!’
The sister stared straight through me. ‘Sorry. I don’t understand. What am I supposed to be looking at? What’s got you all worked up?’
‘Dad. Don’t do this,’ I said. ‘I really am here, but if you say anything, she’ll think you’ve lost it. I know it’s a lot to take in, but you need to get a handle on it. Calm down and let me tell you my story.’
I wasn’t that surprised by Dad’s reaction. His initial acceptance, or seeming acceptance, had been out of character. He’d always been a sceptical type, so this was actually more like what I would have expected of him.
He took a deep breath, blinked several times at me and then turned back to the sister, who was waiting expectantly for an answer. ‘Sallright,’ he said, his twisted lips barely moving. ‘Ssnothing. Sorry.’
‘Are you sure?’
He nodded.
‘Right. You could do with some rest now that your wife and daughter have gone. It’s good to see you talking. You mustn’t shy away from it. The more you work at it, the easier it will get.’
As soon as she’d gone, I jumped straight in with my story, not wanting to give Dad another chance to over-think the situation. I decided not to go into Mum and Lauren’s discovery of his affair, which didn’t seem like a good idea at this stage. I also skipped the bit about my deadline and the dilemma I was facing about whether to stay or go, telling him only that I’d been allowed to remain here because of Ella. I hoped that by going into detail about the things I’d observed as a spirit, such as his mini-stroke and how awful I’d felt seeing him cry at the crematorium, I would help him to believe. He kept quiet throughout, his phone lying untouched at his side.
‘And that brings us up to the present,’ I concluded, ‘with you able to see me, presumably because of the stroke’s effect on your brain.’
There was a long silence after I finished. ‘Are you not going to say anything, Dad?’ I asked eventually. ‘I can leave if you like.’
He was staring into the distance, motionless, as if asleep with his eyes open.
I got up to leave. ‘I get it. You need time. That’s not a problem. I’ll come back with Mum tomorrow.’
I made it as far as the foot of the bed before he finally spoke. ‘Sidown,’ he said just loudly enough for me to hear. I turned back to see him pick up his mobile and start tapping out a message with his thumb. Where did we spend your fourteenth birthday?
‘You still don’t believe me?’ I said. ‘No problem. In Florida. We were on holiday there: me, you, Mum and Lauren. It was the last family holiday we all went on together. We had dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe in Orlando. I ate too much and felt sick afterwards. Anything else?’
What was my name for you as a boy?
‘Scamp. You called me that until I asked you not to. I’d just turned seven and was in infant three at school at the time; I was worried that one of my friends might hear you and make fun of me. I actually missed it once you stopped, but I was too proud to admit it. What else do you want to know, Dad? I had a blue and white BMX for Christmas when I was eight; it had back-pedal brakes. I was so nervous before my first day at secondary school that I was sick all over the kitchen floor at breakfast. I did it again when I was seventeen and drank too much gin at a party. You were the first person I spoke to after Alice died. You were in the car, on speaker phone, going to pick Mum up from the station. You told me how sorry you were and to “hold it together” until you could get to me; you drove so fast that you picked up two speeding tickets along the way. It’s me, Dad. Honestly.’
There were tears in his eyes as he slowly nodded his head and keyed three words into his phone: I believe you.