It was eight thirty-five when I woke up the next morning. I lay under my duvet and watched my clock as the second hand went around and around. Was it my imagination or was it going faster than normal? Had an hour become half an hour, a minute become thirty seconds? I reached out and placed the clock facedown on my bedside table.

Sunshine flooded into my bedroom, birds sang in the beech tree outside and a gentle breeze threaded through the slightly open window, stirring the sawdust at the bottom of Samantha’s cage. It was a beautiful day, the sort that makes you glad to be even half alive. I brushed my hair very gently, avoiding the scar on the back of my head, and applied some mascara.

“I’ve got one day left, Sam,” I said, as she dozed in her little igloo. “I want to make the most of it. If you’re lucky someone will put you out in your run later.”

Downstairs, Dad was tidying away the breakfast things while Jamie stuffed books in his tatty old bag and told Dad not to stress about him being late for school because he’d got a free period first thing. Mum had woken up with a migraine and was still in bed. As Jamie crashed out of the back door I followed Dad upstairs.

I looked around my parents’ bedroom. Mum had photographs on her dressing table too: a picture of their wedding day, Gran and Gramps on holiday, Jamie and me in the paddling pool when we were small. In front of those was a clay pot that Jamie had made when he was about six and above the bed hung a picture of a robin which I’d painted in Year One.

“Just nipping into the office briefly before I go to the hospital,” Dad said, straightening the duvet and kissing Mum on the cheek. “Is there anything you need?”

She didn’t open her eyes. Just shook her head, almost imperceptibly. Tears glistened on her eyelashes.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“No.”

A whisper of a word, so unconvincing.

“There’s no one with Jess. I’ll be all right.”

“So will I, Mum,” I mouthed. “You can leave me for a little while, you know.”

Dad kissed her again and buried his face in her hair. Guilt oozed out of his pores. Could he feel all of the hurt he had caused her? Was remorse caught up in his embrace? I liked to think so and I hoped that he meant it.

After Dad left I sat in the quietness, watching Mum, listening to her breathing. She might have been half-hidden under the covers, her head buried into the pillow to still the pain, but I didn’t need to see Mum to feel her love for me. She left a trail of it wherever she went. We’d only had fourteen years together, nearly fifteen if you’re counting from conception, but I could have sat there for the longest of lifetimes and not been able to return her devotion to me. I tried though, and I knew that, whatever happened, wherever I went, our love for each other would never end.

I also tried to imagine how she felt looking at me in that hospital bed, pouring her love into me, willing me to get better. She’d stroked my hand day after day, and once she’d sobbed that she wished it was her lying there instead of me.

I scrunched myself up in the pink velvet chair next to Mum and Dad’s big double bed and dug my nails into my scalp. If I felt only a fraction of her distress it was too much. I wanted to be strong for her, so that if she’d been able to see me in my invisible life, she’d have been proud of me. She was lying there, with no idea that there were less than twenty-four hours to go before her beloved daughter was to die. Gran says that ignorance is bliss sometimes but part of me wanted to warn Mum of what was about to happen. I thought it might make things easier for her.

“Don’t be stupid, Jess,” I said to myself. “You know it doesn’t work like that.”

We’d known for ages that Gramps was going to die, but when he did I still wasn’t ready, still couldn’t believe that he had gone. Now I needed some space.

“Sleep tight, Mum,” I said, kissing the ends of my fingers and resting them a centimetre away from the top of her head. “I hope you feel better soon. I’ll see you later.”

The sun may have been shining but it looked cold outside, so I went back through to my room, grabbed my turquoise beret to cover my head and rummaged in my chest of drawers for the grey scarf with the silvery sequins down one side. Sara had bought it for me last Christmas and she must have tried it on before giving it to me because there was the faintest hint of her perfume nestling in the fibres. I crumpled it up into a ball and hid it away where I couldn’t see it. Instead I picked out a scarf printed with summer flowers and looped it around my neck. Finally, I grabbed an old purple coat from the wardrobe and leaned into the cage to kiss Samantha on the tip of her snuffly little nose.

I meandered through the suburbs, lingering outside my old junior school and remembering the fun we’d had playing tag during break, the treat of lessons held outside under the cedar tree in the summer and the long corridor lined with a selection of our artwork.

I strolled past the little parade of shops where Mum bought our fruit and veg, daily newspapers and guinea pig food. Every couple of weeks she used to treat us to a cake from the bakery. My favourite was a deep blackcurrant tart topped with a swirl of whipped cream. Jamie always went for something chocolatey, while Dad had a lemon iced bun and Mum chose a millefeuille. Whatever had been going on at home Mum always bought four cakes, a statement that we were still a family, still together. I used to think that when there were only three cakes in the box it would mean she had given up on Dad. I never thought she’d be buying one less cake for a different reason. Perhaps Mum wouldn’t be able to come to terms with it either. Perhaps she’d just stop going to the bakery and buying cakes at all.

I walked past the end of the cul-de-sac where Dad had taught me to ride my little pink bike without the stabilisers. The road is quiet, without many parked cars, so I could wobble and weave away to my heart’s content. I’d been in such a hurry to get rid of those stabilisers and catch up with Jamie. Now I wished I hadn’t been so at home on two wheels; perhaps then I’d have walked to Yasmin’s on the day of the accident or if I’d taken the bike I’d have been more cautious and not travelling so fast. Then I’d have had time to stop before hitting the car. Mum had taken me for riding lessons when I was little but I’d never been a horsey person. If I hadn’t got the hang of riding a bike either I’d probably still have been living my humdrum life, bored by school and with no idea at all of how lucky I was just to be alive.

Farther down from that cul-de-sac is the bowls club where Gramps used to play. The gates are always locked, but as I sauntered past something moved behind the hedge. My stride faltered slightly.

“Gramps?” I called softly. “Is that you?”

There was no answer and I quelled my disappointment.

“You were lucky to see him once,” I said to myself. “Don’t be greedy.”

On the other side of the road is the church where our school carol service is held. I punched the button on the pedestrian lights and waited. A chill ran down my spine, as if someone had dropped an ice cube down my back. I turned. There was no one nearby but I felt sure I was being followed.

“Get a grip, Jessica,” I said sternly as my stomach started to bubble with nerves. “He won’t do anything to you yet. You’ve got a deal and he’s stuck to it so far, hasn’t he? Besides, he won’t want to strike you down in public.”

I pushed against the heavy oak door to the church and stepped into safety. The scent of narcissi and the splashes of stained glass welcomed me. I tiptoed past the font and slid onto a chair smooth as glass from generations of worship. From behind I could feel the gaze of the stone angels who guarded the bell tower and my hands automatically clasped themselves together.

As I stared down at the parquet floor, my thoughts began to flow. In no particular order, some of the things I would miss floated through my brain: having my ears pierced, mastering the guitar, getting married, producing oodles of babies, landing my dream job as a fashion designer, breeding guinea pigs, making bread that doesn’t taste like cardboard, scraping a pass in my maths GCSE, me reaching up to kiss Will, him bending down to touch his lips on the top of my head – the list was endless. I’d wanted all of these things before the accident but I longed for them even more now. I stared at the little gold stars painted on the ceiling above the altar.

“Reach for the stars, pet,” Gramps used to say. “Dreams do come true.”

I closed my eyes and remembered the heaviness of his arm around me as we shared a carol sheet the Christmas before he died. I heard the heart-breaking solo of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ bouncing off the pillars, smelled the tingly pine scent of the huge Norwegian spruce, felt the warmth of the candles flickering at the end of each pew. I would never know another Christmas, that magical time when this whole building seemed to vibrate with love, forgiveness and wonder.

Now, as I sat in a place where dreams are born and put to rest, I wondered what my funeral service would be like. It probably wouldn’t be here unless the whole school attended. More likely it would take place at St Mary’s because that’s where I was christened. It isn’t a particularly big church but I thought it would be spacious enough.

I’d only been to one funeral in my entire life and that was for Gramps. There were so many people there that loads of them had to stand at the back and around the sides. Mum and her brother had stood up and said lovely things about him. Some of what they said made people laugh, but not me. I just wept and wept until my breastbone felt bruised and my eyes were so puffed up that I could hardly see. Gran didn’t cry at all, which I sort of admired but it shocked me too. She was as rigid and upright as the hard wooden pews that we squeezed onto. Her bright red lipstick was perfectly applied and she wore her black patent shoes. Gramps always loved her in those high heels and I hoped he was looking down at her, full of appreciation.

I wondered if there would be lots of tears at my funeral. It’s bound to be different when you’re only fourteen. I hoped Mum and Dad wouldn’t pick dreary hymns and I dreaded everyone wearing black – the more colour the better in my opinion.

Who would speak about me and my short life and what on earth would they find to say? Maybe Mrs Baxter would walk to the front and say something like ‘Jessica has not yet achieved her potential’ or ‘Jessica doesn’t make the most of her abilities’ or ‘Room for improvement’. That last one was definitely true. There’s lots of room for improvement on being dead.

Disappointment swamped me. I didn’t like any of those words for a parting shot, but what could I do about it now? I’d always held a little bit of myself back, felt the need to protect myself, felt I’d got plenty of time to release the real me. I cringed. What a waste. If I had another chance there was so much I could do, so much more I could be. I could be a better daughter, sister and friend to start with.

I curled my legs up underneath me and wondered what my friends would say once I’d gone for good. Maybe that I was generous, kind and loyal. But would they really believe it? Was it really true? I’d tried to be, but I didn’t always succeed. Perhaps, temporarily numbed by a collective cloud of grief they’d manage to delude themselves for a time, forget my failings. Once someone has died, people often seem to put a gloss on their characters, conveniently airbrushing out all their faults. I lifted my head and stared at the altar.

“But I don’t want my faults to be overlooked,” I whispered. “I want time to put them right.”

I listened in the silence for an answer, watched the motes of dust dance in the shaft of sunlight which poured through one of the top windows.

Dancing, parties – Gran and Gramps had loved a party. After Gramps’s funeral we had gone back to the golf club where copious cups of tea had been served alongside the odd whisky. How anyone can eat at a funeral is beyond me but plenty of the previously distressed managed to stuff themselves with perfectly presented sandwiches and cajoling cakes. They talked about Gramps and laughed too loudly, as if they were at a party instead of a wake.

At the time it seemed wrong and I felt upset – I wanted to tell them to stop, to be quiet and sombre, but now I understood a bit better. Now I had changed my mind about what a wake should be. I wanted party food after my funeral, iced gems and pink wafer biscuits, cocktail sausages, teddy-bear-shaped crisps and bite-sized sandwiches with the crusts cut off. There had to be jelly, preferably orange-flavoured, with ice cream to accompany and bowls of hundreds and thousands to sprinkle over lavishly. Would Mum know how important it was that my funeral reflected the true me? I had no idea. It wasn’t something we’d discussed over the cornflakes and I worried that she might be too distraught to care about the ceremonial side of things. When I went back home I would make a list and leave it somewhere obvious where Jamie would find it. I might not have been sure of my brother before the accident but I knew now that I could rely on him not to let me down.

Finally, I knelt down on the little tapestry hassock and prayed. I prayed for Mum and Dad, for Jamie, Gran and Sam, and for Kelly, Nat and Yas. I even prayed for Mrs Baxter and a few other teachers. I gave thanks for all the doctors and nurses who had looked after me in hospital and the man who had held my hand as I lay in the road after the accident. Eventually I said a little prayer for Will. I kept it as brief as possible, just a ‘Dear God, please take care of Will’. I thought that it was more than he deserved. I didn’t pray for Sara and it felt good to leave her out. Last of all, when everyone who mattered had been taken care of, I prayed for myself.

“Dear God,” I murmured into the waiting stillness, “if there is any way this has been a horrible mistake, if there is any way out of this at all, please, please show me, before it is too late.”

I paused, breathed in, sat very still.

“And if not, if it isn’t a mistake, then please give me courage, help me to be brave and make my death as easy as possible for my family.”