Riding home in the back of the car, sitting in the middle of Wài Pó and Marlowe, I am trying not to listen to the words that are coming out of Dad’s and Stepmonster’s mouths, but the more I try not to hear, the louder their words are.
‘James, you have to be calm now.’
‘I am calm.’
‘There’s nothing more we can do. You have to accept that.’
The car speeds faster and so does my dad’s voice.
‘You’re asking me to accept that my daughter is going to die. Do you understand that?’
‘Dad!’ Marlowe says, but it is too late, that word has been said.
Die.
A word that feels like a sharp object, poking inside my chest.
‘Die.’ The word comes out of my mouth now. ‘Die, die, die.’
My world is very quiet. I can see from the corner of my eyes that my dad has turned his head quickly to look at me. I can feel them all talking to me but I can’t see them because I am concentrating on the window outside and the buildings and the trees and the traffic lights and that word.
Marlowe takes my hand. Wài Pó starts munching on candy, munch munch munch. I can see her teeth are sticking to the candy and the candy is sticking to her teeth.
We stop at the traffic lights. My dad pulls over by the side of the road.
‘James, what are you doing? This is a bus stop!’ Stepmonster says.
‘Darling.’ My dad reaches his hand back to touch my knee. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I’m very upset. Can we talk about this properly when we get home?’
I think in my brain about the hospital meeting, about the model heart, about the smart professor.
Die. This is a word that was used so many times when Mum died. Everyone was so sad in their hearts but I couldn’t understand why. When Mum’s body was given back to the soil in the earth, her humming went everywhere; in the wind, the trees, the sun, the stars. All around us she was helping things grow. It is not a secret that when things die they still hum; it just changes. After the dum da drumming of a heart, it becomes a feeling that floods the air, like music.
But I am not going to die. I love my body. Even when it’s sick, I enjoy being in it because I get to do things like: hold hands with my Louis, write letters to my Marlowe, read with my dad, cook with my Wài Pó, and chat and laugh with my friends. I am not going to die until I am old and all my dreams have come true.
‘No need to talk,’ I say. ‘I am not going to…’ The word is stuck. ‘I am not going to…’ It is there at the back of my tongue. ‘Not going to…’ It is tight at the top of my throat. ‘Not going to…’ I am absolutely and very surely, one hundred and one per cent not going to: ‘Die!’ I shout. ‘No way. Not me.’
‘It’s okay, Harper,’ Marlowe says. ‘It’s okay.’
The car is very quiet again. I can’t even hear the sound of Wài Pó chewing. The sharp object is out of my chest. My breath is slower, smoother.
‘Dad,’ I say, ‘there is no need to use that word on me. The doctors will fix me. They always do.’
He looks away. I see Stepmonster bow her head in the seat in front of me. Wài Pó takes my hand in hers. After a while, Dad starts the car again and we drive home.