Before very long, she falls asleep. I just sit next to her and watch her breathing for a while. Then, softly, I take her hand. It feels featherweight and fragile, bird-like, in my own. And I shut my eyes too.
When I stir, Emma is in the armchair opposite us.
‘Took a picture,’ she says with a smile, lifting her phone. ‘Hope you don’t mind. The two of you looked so sweet there together.’
Rachel is still dozing, head tipped to one side. I shuffle upright, gently unclasp her hand. She is beautiful as ever, her pale skin sliced with winter sunlight. The room is warm and smells homely, of cooked food and chopped wood ready for the fire.
‘I’ve been trying to do a bit of forward-planning,’ Emma says.
Like mother, like daughter, I guess.
‘She’s deteriorating quite fast.’
I swallow and nod, albeit I try – even now – not to believe it. To hang on to the hope that Rachel will somehow stabilise. Or that we’re only imagining how swiftly she’s changing. Or that the miracle cure the media outlets keep taunting us with has finally moved beyond trial stage.
In desperation, I even sent an email to Wilf last week, begging him to bring his massive brain out of retirement and invent a way to save her. But my message bounced straight back.
‘I was thinking about having Mum come to live with me in London,’ Emma says. ‘But everyone seems to think it’s better for her to be in familiar surroundings, with her garden, and people around who understand the situation, you know? London would be too overwhelming, I think. And the doctor said it might actually cause her to decline more rapidly.’
‘I’ll do it,’ I say, the words almost outpacing my brain.
She hesitates. ‘You’ll do what?’
I wonder for a moment if I’ve overstepped the mark. Then I take in the fearful face of the criminal barrister in front of me and decide I don’t care. ‘Emma, you should know... a few years ago, your mum asked me to look after you. If anything happened to her. So, if me helping out would mean you could stay in London, and work, and retain some semblance of normality to your life, I’m more than happy to do it.’ Emma spends much of her time on trains or in taxis, wheeling a suitcase between various Crown Courts. And she’s less than a decade into her career. Having to worry about caring for Rachel as well must threaten to overwhelm her sometimes. ‘I’m pretty sure this is exactly what your mum was talking about, when she asked me to look after you.’
‘Why do you say that?’ In the winter light, Emma’s eyes are iceberg-blue.
‘Because... I think she knew. For a long time, before we did.’
She swallows hard, nods. ‘She kept a notebook.’
Briefly, I avert my gaze, because Emma usually prefers to get emotional without an audience. I glance out of the window towards the wintry garden, kissed now by frost.
Emma sighs. ‘The thing is, part of the reason Mum left you is because she wouldn’t have been comfortable with this exact scenario. Looking after her involves personal care. I’m sorry, but it wouldn’t be right.’
‘So, we’ll get carers to do that. But let me help in other ways. I’ll clean, do the shopping, take her to appointments. I’ll sit with her. Whatever you need.’
Emma’s eyes get wide. Icebergs turning to oceans. ‘Why would you disrupt your entire life to do that? You’re busy too.’
She’s not wrong. My life has felt more hectic over the past few years than perhaps it ever has. Film promo stuff, my twelfth novel out soon, and the mentoring programme I’ve recently set up for aspiring writers.
But I’d give it all up in a heartbeat, if Emma asked me to.
‘Because I love her,’ I say.
84.
Rachel
September 2035
A man is sitting with me, reading from a book. It might be about love, or maybe time, because it has a clock on the cover. But it’s hard to be sure, since I can’t really follow the storyline. There are too many characters, and I’m struggling to keep track of who’s saying what.
I prefer watching TV to reading now. There is a good channel I like, which has soothing films of parks and nature and stories about the nineties. It’s so much easier to understand.
The man keeps mentioning someone called Stevens, and someone else called Miss Kenton, and I can’t remember for the life of me who these people are. I glance around the living room, in case they are both here and I’ve forgotten, again.
As I turn in my chair, I feel the man looking at me.
