Page 114 of The Art of Loving You

Limited time.

I have to.

Think.

‘You know if I could change things, I would,’ Alice says softly. Evenly. ‘If I could travel back in time I wouldn’t have come round that day. Jack wouldn’t have gone out for booze and—’

‘I’d still have a brain tumour,’ I finish.

‘But Jack would be here and you’d feel you had something to live for.’ She places her palm against my cheek; it’s cool and I lean against it, allowing her to take the weight of my head which is heavy with thought. With doubt. For the first time I look at her properly, her eyes, the same green as mine, are rimmed red. The whites streaked with tiny blood vessels from where she’s been crying and I realise despite her steady voice she is no more together than I am. ‘If I could go back …’ She falls silent before she can blame herself, again. I can’t bear her guilt. Her shame. I have enough of my own.

Slowly I look around the room for all the places Jack should be, but isn’t: leaning against the radiator, gazing out of the window, eyes lighting up at the sight of his art students traipsing down the path. Sprawled on the sofa, patting the space beside him, my head fitting into the hollow between his shoulder and neck. Crouching down, building a fire, his skin glowing orange from the flames.Pointing the remote control at the TV, popcorn balanced on his stomach, as we watched yet another home improvement show, picking out all the things that we would do to our house.

I carry them in my heart, the plans we made, the dreams we nurtured.

I will always carry them in my heart.

‘Alice. Mum. I love you both dearly but I need you both to leave. I promise’ – I raise my hands as Mum opens her mouth to protest – ‘that I won’t do anything rash.’ I hold out the box of pills to Mum. ‘But I just need a little time to think everything through. Please.’

‘Fuck!’ Alice says sharply.

‘Alice, please don’t …’

But I don’t finish because Alice has doubled over in pain. It isn’t my words that have hurt her.

It’s the baby.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Alice lets out another cry and all thoughts of Jack, of my diagnosis, of the decision I have to make fade away to nothing as I drop to the floor next to my sister and reach for her hand.

‘The baby …’ she mumbles. ‘Hurts …’

Both Mum and I lightly touch Alice’s stomach. Feel the tightening and release. I don’t know what to do. I wish I’d paid more attention when she’d told me about practice contractions. Brackon Hicks or something. Why had I been so wrapped up in myself?

‘This could be Braxton Hicks.’ Mum has read my mind.

‘Hurts. Too. Much.’ Alice whimpers again.

Helplessly I turn to Mum. ‘We have to get her to the hospital.’

‘I’ll call for an ambulance.’ Mum grapples around in her bag for her phone.

‘We can take my car.’ I try to stand but Alice squeezes my fingers tighter.

‘You can’t drive, you’ve had a seizure,’ Mum says. ‘I can’t drive in this state. Ambulance please,’ she says firmly into her handset, giving them her name and my address, relaying that Alice is only thirty-four weeks pregnant. ‘I think she’s in labour,’ she adds. ‘They’re on their way.’ She tosses her phone back into her bag and kneels the other side of Alice.‘Go and get changed, Libby,’ she says, not looking at me as she speaks.

‘What? I don’t need—’

‘You’re still wearing a hospital gown for God’s sake.’

At the hospital Alice is unloaded from the ambulance on a trolley. Me and Mum trot alongside as we wend through the corridors, battering our way through double doors. We reach the maternity unit. Mum gives Alice’s details.

‘Is dad on the way?’ we are asked.

‘No. It’s just us. The three of us.’ Mum’s eyes meet mine and I nod. We had always been a three. We had always coped.

We would now.

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