18

After a few minutes of standing in the silence, I headed upstairs. I checked my reflection in the mirror, just to be sure. I felt my cheeks, brushed my hair, leaned right up to the glass, blinking.

I was me. I was definitely me.

I stood there for ages, trying to get the story out of my head, the sound of Mum’s voice when the Darkness closed in. It was so loud, so close.

But something about the memories of her felt . . . different.

I tried to picture her, forced myself to remember her face, but it was blurry around the edges. And the blurrier it got, the more the other mum snuck in. The ill mum. The mum I didn’t want to remember.

That was when I decided to do something I hadn’t done since before the Longest Day.

I crept out onto the landing, listening for any noise from downstairs.

If Dad caught me doing this, he’d kill me. I hadn’t heard him come up, so he must have been in the study or sitting in the living room.

Nothing. It was so quiet the only sound I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears.

I can’t believe I’m going to do this, I thought, rubbing my clammy hands on my trousers.

I tiptoed across to Dad’s bedroom door. It was open, just a crack. Just enough to see the mess inside. Clothes all over the floor, magazines and books littering the carpet. As I snuck further into the room, my eyes drifted to the photo on the bedside cabinet. It was facedown, but I knew what it was. Mum and Dad and me, smiling together at the beach.

I wanted to go over and take a proper look. That would get rid of the blurriness. But there was something else, something better, and if I didn’t hurry up, I might chicken out.

I took a deep breath and turned toward Mum’s wardrobe.

Three big white doors that slid open in the middle. They hadn’t been touched in three hundred and seventy-one days. I was close enough to open them . . . but just thinking about it made my arms go heavy.

I reached out and touched the handle. It was so cold. I kept thinking that the last person to touch it was Mum. I closed my eyes and pictured her looking inside, and for a second I felt close to her again.

Ever since the Longest Day, it had felt like she was fading. I mean, she was there when I closed my eyes, but every day she’d been there a little bit less.

But standing there, she was clear in my mind.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the wardrobe.

Perfume. That was the first thing I noticed. Tears stung my eyes. I hadn’t expected that. I didn’t know why. She’d been gone for a year, but it smelled like she was in the room.

I rubbed my eyes, but the tears came back. I shouldn’t have to do this, I thought. She’s supposed to be here. She’s supposed to be here for years yet. No one else at school has got a dead mum. Some people’s parents are divorced, but at least they still get to see both of them.

I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts.

I needed to be quick. I had to get it over and done with.

I could see what I was looking for already. It was in the box at the bottom, beside the shoes. How could one person have so many shoes? I had three pairs: one for school, one set of trainers, and one set of football cleats. Mum probably had about a million shoes in here, all different colors and shapes.

I took the box and slid the lid off. There were photos inside. Photos of Mum and Dad together, looking so young. Dad had longer hair. There were no wrinkles on his face, no bags under his eyes. And he was smiling. A proper smile that stretched all the way across his face.

Some of them had me in them. Me as a baby, me as a toddler, me on my first day at school, wearing that stupid purple sweater.

But I wasn’t here for the photos. I was here for the DVD. There was a label on it that read our wedding day in big black letters. I took the case, then set the box back beside the shoes and closed the wardrobe.

I rushed out of the room and shut the door. I fell back against it, taking deep breaths. It was exactly how she left it. Those clothes were hanging like that because it was how she wanted them. Those shoes were in that order because it was how she liked it.

My heart pounded. I felt like I was going to throw up every bit of Dad’s food. My eyes burned again, and I closed them tight, trying not to cry. Sometimes if you felt like you were about to cry and you didn’t want to, you could think of simple things and it went away. Like a rabbit in a field or the sunrise or snow in the park. They were so easy to think about that you could concentrate on them, and the burning feeling would go away. So that was what I did now.

I headed into my room and played the DVD. I knew I shouldn’t be doing it, but I had to hear her voice—her proper voice, not the one whispered to me by a freak storm.

The video started off showing all the guests arriving at the church in dresses and smart suits with flowers pinned to their chest. Dad was there before Mum. His eyes darted around and he fidgeted every few seconds.

“How are you feeling?” the cameraman asked.

“Excited. A bit sick,” Dad said.

There was a cut, and a car pulled up with white ribbons draped over the hood and flags trailing from the back. Granddad stepped out and opened the passenger door. And there was Mum, with Auntie Jane and Auntie Grace, huge smiles on their faces and flowers in their hair.

This was it. The moment I’d been waiting for. Granddad took Mum’s arm and led her up the steps toward the camera, and there was that same question, “How are you feeling?”

Her eyes shone. A strand of hair fell into her face and she brushed it away. I leaned closer to the TV. I hardly dared to breathe.

“It’s a dream come true,” she said. Granddad squeezed her, and she rested against him, beaming. “I couldn’t be happier. I’m . . . oh, you’re going to make me cry!”

She swiped at her eyes, laughing. Auntie Grace inspected her, checking her makeup, and then they walked away from the camera toward the church door.

I paused the film on Mum’s face. Her cheeks were rounder than I remembered. Her hair was brown and golden, like the sun shone right out of it. I left it frozen like that, just staring at her, because that was how I had to remember her. That was how I had to keep her in my mind.

Not white faced and dark eyed. Not slow and thin and drowsy. Here, her face wasn’t gaunt and her eyes weren’t lifeless.

There was a spark in her.

There was happiness and love and life.

I left it there for what felt like an hour, then turned off the TV. An afterimage flashed up when I blinked. Then it faded and disappeared.

When my alarm blared the next morning, I rolled out of bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I stepped out onto the landing and was just about to go downstairs to make Dad’s breakfast when something made me stop.

Normally his door was closed and the room was dark and full of shadows. Now it was wide open and morning light flooded through the windows.

“Dad?” I said. I headed downstairs, and opened the kitchen door to the smell of fresh coffee wafting out. And there was something else too. Something sweet. Something hot and delicious.

“Thought it’d make a change having oatmeal,” Dad said, glancing at me over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, it would.”

I sat at the table, watching him quietly. His hair was messy and his chin was dark and stubbly but his eyes flickered with life.

The garbage was full of takeout containers. I tied the bag up in a knot and took it out to the big recycling bin, then gathered all the empty bottles from the side of the counter and took them out too. Dad had cooked dinner for himself last night, and this morning he was doing a proper breakfast. There was a spring in his step that hadn’t been there for ages, and it was all because of the writing. It had to have been.

“That’s my boy,” Dad said, when I got back to the warmth of the kitchen.

He ladled some oatmeal into a bowl and set it down for me. As I muttered, “Thank you,” he poured himself some coffee and sat next to me, smiling the same proper smile as yesterday.

“How did the game go?” he said, as I swirled syrup into the steaming oats.

“Hmm?”

“The big match, against Westfield. I don’t think I ever asked you about it.”

“Oh! Um, we lost,” I said, remembering the text from Danny and feeling a fresh wave of guilt. The team had needed me, and I hadn’t been there.

Dad slurped his coffee and locked onto me with his tired gray eyes. “Well, you’ll have a second game, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. I hadn’t thought of that. I crossed my fingers under the counter, praying I didn’t miss that game too. I didn’t think Danny would ever forgive me if I did.

“Was thinking I might be able to pop down. You know, cheer you on. Help you send them packing.”

“Really?” I stared at his face, trying to see if he meant it. Even just talking about going out was a big improvement. “That’d be really good.”

Dad sipped his coffee and turned back to the window. Was he sitting up straighter? His shoulders weren’t slumping like they normally did. He turned back to me. There was a spark in his eyes, a flash of his old self. All the pieces that had broken apart when Mum died—the things that made him him—just for a moment it was like they’d joined back together again.

And that was when I realized . . .

The only thing that had changed was the writing.

Maybe I jumped into Dad’s story for a reason. Maybe—

Maybe if I finished it, I’d get my dad back. Properly back, I mean. He’d be like this all the time and the bags under his eyes would disappear and he’d come to watch me play football again.

All I had to do now was figure out how.