She holds her daughter’s hand as tightly as Zoe holds hers and waits for the convulsion to pass.
Clutching Zoe’s hand, Audrey remembers the first time she held Zoe in her arms. She remembers Zoe’s warm, sticky skin against hers, the flood of love so great it had temporarily washed away the unfinished pain that was yet to bring Jess into the world. During her pregnancy Audrey had worried that perhaps she would not experience the same intensity of feelings as she had with Lily, that perhaps there was a special bond reserved for firstborns, never to be replicated. But as soon as she had held Zoe against her chest – as soon as those tiny hands had clutched her little finger, as if holding on for dear life – she had understood that every new baby remade you as a mother.
Looking at Zoe now, it is impossible to comprehend that this small, frail ten-year-old is the same robust baby who had parted her newborn lips and cried out into the world, her voice loud and muscular, exuding a confidence that seemed to say: This is my life and I will make myself heard. It is impossible to think that Zoe and Jess – two halves of the same soul who have been inseparable for a decade – are soon to be cleaved apart.
She strokes the back of Zoe’s fingers, rubbing her thumb gently along skin so thin it is like touching bone.
She needs Zoe to know that she is there, that she would never leave her. Audrey understands that sitting here now, being with Zoe, is the most important thing she has ever done, the most important thing she will ever do. She could live to be a hundred and still there would be nothing more important than Zoe knowing that Audrey would never leave her side.
If I could give you my life, I would.
Something rattles in Zoe’s throat and there is a spluttering sound as the muscles respond, an automatic reflex trying to clear the obstruction, but it is as if her body has forgotten what it needs to do and instead her neck twists to one side, her face contorted with pain or distress, Audrey does not know which. All she knows is that her daughter is suffering and that the face on the pillow no longer resembles that of her beautiful little girl.
It is then that she notices the full bottle of medicine by the bed, remembers Grace’s words as she left the previous morning: Sometimes this stage can last a few days. Use as much liquid morphine as you need to keep her comfortable.
There is a moment’s stillness during which Audrey is not conscious of making a decision. But the next thing she knows, she is watching one hand reach out towards the bedside table and pick up the plastic syringe, the other hand the bottle, watching herself fill the syringe to the top with clear liquid.
She slides a hand under Zoe’s head, raising it a few inches from the pillow, and slowly drops the liquid morphine onto Zoe’s tongue, all the time whispering into her ear that she loves her, that she is there for her, that she will never, ever leave her side. She senses a change in the air, a tiny disturbance of light, but she is focused on what she is doing and does not allow her eyes to leave Zoe’s face.
It seems to Audrey to be an eternity until the syringe is empty. But when, at last, it has all gone, she watches her hand reach for the bottle again, watches herself insert the syringe for a second time, sucking up medicine until it is full.
She is aware of performing these movements but is not conscious of being in control of them. Again she lifts Zoe’s head, again she administers the medicine onto Zoe’s tongue, again she whispers the same recitation: I love you, angel. I will always, always love you. There is a gurgling sound in the back of Zoe’s throat as though, in moving her head, Audrey has dislodged a small reservoir that has collected around her tonsils. She waits for it to pass, and once the second syringe is empty, Audrey fills and administers another and then another – too many to count – until there is nothing left in the bottle.
She puts the syringe back on the bedside table and is aware that the room is completely still. It is only when she feels that her cheeks are damp and her face is hot that she realises she is crying.
She lifts the edge of the duvet and climbs into bed next to her daughter, wraps an arm around her and holds her close, hoping the warmth of her body will seep into Zoe’s skin. She rests her cheek against Zoe’s, hugging her tight, breathing her in and filling her lungs, as if, in doing so, she is holding on to Zoe’s life. She places the palm of her hand against Zoe’s cheek, feels the thin sheen of skin where once plump flesh had been, feels the vibrations of air rattling in and out of Zoe’s lungs, but does not let go. She needs Zoe to know that she will never stop holding her, that she will never be without her. She sings softly into Zoe’s ear, all the songs they have always loved – ‘Edelweiss’, ‘Castle on a Cloud’, ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me’ – the notes finding their way through a gap in her lips in spite of the narrowing of her throat and the tears flooding her cheeks. When there are no more songs to be sung, Audrey whispers into Zoe’s ear about all the places they will go, all the things they will do, all the adventures they will have together in Zoe’s dreams.
Audrey does not know how long they lie there. Time seems to bend and stretch. Zoe’s breaths become longer, the gaps between them wider. Audrey breathes in time with her daughter, the two of them inhaling in unison as though sharing a single pair of lungs.
Zoe takes in a breath, holds it, lets it out again, and Audrey waits for the next one to come.
The seconds pass – three seconds, four – with no movement.
And then it comes: the slow, laborious inhalation.
Five seconds, six seconds, seven before the next breath. It is a pattern repeated so many times, the rhythm becomes almost hypnotic.
And then Zoe breathes out and Audrey waits for her chest to rise, for the almost imperceptible widening of her lips, for the air to be sucked in slowly as though it has all the time in the world.
Six seconds, seven.
Audrey waits, her own breath static in her chest.
Eight seconds, nine.
She closes her eyes, listening, silent.
Ten seconds, eleven.
It has been this long before, Audrey tells herself. There has been this great gap of time before.
Twelve seconds, thirteen.
She presses her face tighter against Zoe’s, feels her tears slide onto her daughter’s cheek.
Fourteen seconds, fifteen.
Audrey’s arm tightens around Zoe’s body.
Sixteen, seventeen.
She keeps hold of her, keeps her close, needing Zoe to know she is there.
Eighteen, nineteen.
Her lips caress Zoe’s cheek.
Twenty, twenty-one.
She holds Zoe’s face next to hers, tightly, fiercely.
Twenty-two, twenty-three.
She presses their bodies together, will not let her go.
Twenty-four, twenty-five.
Her throat tightens, her eyes sting.
Twenty-six, twenty-seven.
She clings to Zoe as though she may yet be able to fuse their bodies together, may yet be able to transfer her own life to her daughter.
Twenty-eight, twenty-nine.
The silence hurts Audrey’s ears.
Thirty.
Audrey feels the air exit her own lungs, feels her chest collapse under the weight of her grief, feels something empty out of her that she knows will never return. She hears a sound emerge from her throat, something so raw it is as though it must be coming from someone else, something outside her, somewhere she cannot bear to go even though she knows she is already there. Her throat burns, her eyes are hot with tears, her lips brushing over Zoe’s skin, kissing every inch of her.
She presses her body to Zoe’s, knowing that her daughter is no longer there but unable to let her go.