The air shimmers with shock. Wordlessly, Josh and Emma share a look.
I have more to say, and apologise for. But my eyes seem to want to close.
‘I love you,’ I whisper to Josh.
‘I love you too.’ His voice shakes and breaks, sinking into me in slivers.
And then I whisper the other thing I have to tell him, at which he covers his face with one hand, and begins to cry.
‘And Emma,’ I say. Her name is warm water to the muscle of my heart. She has blown my mind every day since she was born. ‘I love you so much. Enjoy it all, darling. You’re going to be an incredible mum. I’m just so sorry this didn’t come to me sooner.’
I take in the sight of them for a final time, then close my eyes.
92.
Josh
June 2037
A few seconds after Rachel slips back into unconsciousness, Emma stands up and leaves the room.
I watch Rachel for a moment to check she’s still breathing, then wipe my eyes and go to find Emma. On the landing, I pass Rachel’s nurse. She smiles peacefully at me, as if life as we all know it hasn’t just been drop-kicked into outer space.
Halfway down the stairs, I hear the back door close. Emma clearly needs time, and to be honest so do I.
I try to busy myself in the kitchen for a while. Briefly I wonder if, together, we hallucinated the whole thing. Conjured it up between us, a mirage made from pure exhaustion.
Eventually, Emma comes back inside.
A streak of normality follows her in through the open door. Breeze-tossed linen, birds gossiping, sky saturated with sunshine. No hint of shadows, or dark pasts.
She crosses the kitchen, lowers herself into a chair.
I wait for her to speak, because I owe her that much.
‘You said there was no chance,’ she says eventually.
I feel her eyes on me, the endless blue burn of them. ‘I honestly didn’t think there was.’
‘How drunk were you?’
‘Quite. I mean, very.’
‘Blackout?’
I feel like a teenager she’s cross-examining, as though I’m moments from being slapped with an ASBO. ‘Probably. I have no memories past a certain point.’
‘But Mum does, apparently.’ She shakes her head, looks away from me.
‘I’m sorry.’ It’s a weird thought: that I let her down before she was even born. The consequences of being too pissed to remember coming back to bite us all, more than three decades down the line. ‘I know this must be a shock.’
‘What just happened up there?’ she says, confusion spilling everywhere. ‘Mum was almost herself again. I haven’t seen her like that inyears.’ A sob chokes out of her, and she smothers it, too late, with a hand.
Worry stirs in my stomach, concern for the babies. Surely they recommend sidestepping emotional landmines when you’re heavily pregnant? And don’t twins often show up early?
‘Look...’ I attempt to say something reassuring. ‘Maybe how your mum was just now means she’s turning a corner.’
Hope, always. An unburst bud in my chest.
