“No,” I tell her. “Steve and Hayley.”
“Something you said?”
“Probably.” I concentrate on removing every last scrap of gravy from the jug.
I sense her taking me in. “Okay. Well, we’re heading off.”
“Already? Sure you don’t want to stay? Any minute now Dad’s bound to ask why I haven’t got a girlfriend.”
Normally this is the kind of lame quip that would make Tamsin laugh. But when I look up, the light’s worked loose from her eyes. “I just... let’s just say...”
“We’re not pregnant,” Neil says quietly, dropping the tea towel. He reaches out for my sister’s hand. “We just found out.”
I feel their pain strike the back of my throat. “Sorry.”
Tamsin nods. “I told Dad and Doug I’ve got a headache.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll get our stuff.” Neil leaves the room, patting me on the back as he goes.
“Don’t forget our dinosaur,” Tamsin calls after him. Her voice is parchment-thin.
“I’m sorry, Tam,” I manage, once we’re alone.
She nods, tips her head back against the fridge. “God. I want this so badly, Joel.”
I remember the day Amber was born. I raced up to the hospital, spent the afternoon staring down at my brand-new niece in her little cot. I was puffed up with pride, thinking,My sister’s made a baby. Look, everyone—an actual living human!
“I mean, at what point... at what point do you...?” She heaves out a breath. “It’s been five years.Five.”
“It’ll happen for you,” I say quietly.
“You can’t know that.”
But I do.I know because I dreamed it just two months ago. Tamsin in hospital, me at her side, holding her hand. And next to the bed, the best part of all. A baby boy, Harry, asleep in a cot.
She doesn’t know it yet, but he’s coming next Christmas.
I grab her hand, give it a squeeze. “Yeah, I do. Hang in there, Tam, please. I promise it’ll all work out.”
•••
Washing-up done, I take a few steps down Dad’s back-garden path. It’s mid-October, and the air is thick with an autumn chill. A grubby chasm of cloud is squatting over the nearby houses, spitting drizzle.
Mum loved this garden, called it her sanctuary. I miss her every day.
She passed away from breast cancer when I was thirteen. I dreamed about it four years ahead of time, one awful icebound night in November.
The dream struck me with fear in a way I’d never known. I told no one what I’d seen: I was terrified of scaring Mum, enraging Dad. Breaking up our family. Would I be blamed? Was I causing these things to happen? I became almost mute: wouldn’t speak, refused to smile. How could I be happy, knowing what I knew? The color had been washed from my world. I feared falling asleep, grew almost allergic to shutting my eyes.
She finally told us at Christmas three years later. We were lined up on the sofa like a row of errant toddlers. I’ll never forget the expression on her face. Because she wasn’t looking at Dad, who was standing stiffly by, emotions already fenced off. Or at Tamsin, who was weeping. Or at Doug, so quiet he was barely breathing. She was looking at me, because she knew I already knew.Why?her eyes implored me.Why didn’t you tell me?
Not giving her every last damn chance to live remains the biggest regret of my life.
•••
Behind me, the back door slams. Doug.
