Page 52

Sophie

‘Walter? Are you there?’

A boy’s face looms large and becomes blurry as his nose touches the screen. His brother joins him, giggling. It’s Walter’s grandsons, James and Luke. Chico trots up, grinning and barking.

‘Hello. Is your grandad there?’

‘Grandad!’ James shouts. ‘A ladeeee wants you on the iPad.’

The screen spins and there’s scuffling noises and more barking.

Eventually, Walter arrives, but I can’t see him.

He’s pointing the device at the table. His son or daughter-in-law must be close by, and they reposition it for him.

He appears, smiling, but his face is paler than usual and dark shadows encircle his eyes.

‘Sophie! This is a wonderful surprise.’

I smile back, relieved his numbers haven’t speeded up since I last saw him. ‘Actually, your grandchildren rang me. ’

‘Ah, that was serendipitous. I was going to call you tonight to see how you and the lovely Adam are doing.’

He shifts position and the screen suddenly swerves. I catch a glimpse of his number – 9 – before the frame focuses on Chico. I don’t have the energy to correct him.

‘It’s not great, to be honest. I’m struggling.’

‘You’re not enjoying yourself with Adam and Wren?’

‘It was great,’ I clarify. ‘But Adam’s numbers are still counting down even though he’s happy and getting on well with Wren and his mum. I thought he’d get more time, the way you have, but it’s not happening.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Like you, I’d hoped things would turn out differently.’

I touch the scar beneath my hair. ‘I agreed to go to a party with him on Saturday night. I thought I’d have altered his countdown by then, but now it could be when he’s destined to—’ I can’t bring myself to say the word.

‘I’ve messed up massively, and don’t want to see him until I can figure out what I’m doing wrong. ’

‘Perhaps you’re not doing anything wrong.’

‘But I must be! His numbers are getting smaller and smaller. Nothing has changed.’

Chico tilts his head quizzically, as if pondering my statement.

‘Exactly,’ Walter says quietly. ‘Absolutely nothing has changed since we had our first conversation about Adam on that bench in Clifton Village.’

‘How do you mean?’

The silence lengthens and Walter doesn’t attempt to fill it. The meaning of his words finally sinks in. Cold dread sweeps over me and I have to sit down on a stool.

‘This is it?’ I gasp. ‘Adam is going to die on Saturday?’

‘Possibly. Remember how we talked about final days, and making the most of these small moments, the way I’m doing now with my family?’

I brush away the tears rolling down my face.

‘Dance with Adam on Saturday night, hold him in your arms and tell him you love him. Remember and cherish all these last little pleasures – the look in his eyes when he sees the quilt you’ve made for him and Wren, the sound of his laughter and the curve of his smile.’

I cover my eyes, sobbing. ‘I can’t do it. It’s breaking my heart.’

‘You must. Enjoy picnics, kiss on the beach, make love, knowing this could be the last chance you get to do any of it. You’ll never get back those exact moments in time, however long either of you live. Don’t let any of it slip away. It’s too precious.’

I shake my head vigorously. ‘I won’t give up. I have to hold on to hope.’

‘You can do that without pushing Adam away. Maybe his numbers will change for the better, maybe they won’t.

But don’t waste these beautiful small joys, wishing for more when they must be enough.

’ He breaks off, coughing. ‘No one is guaranteed a tomorrow. We must all live every day like it’s our last. Enjoy these experiences now, instead of hoping you’ll repeat them at some point in the future. ’

Shouts ring out in the background and he shifts the screen, finally coming into view again with a warm, kind smile.

‘I’m needed, sadly. Armageddon has broken out here – James and Luke are fighting. It’s always a pleasure speaking to you, Sophie. Goodbye and God bless.’ He takes a moment. ‘Before I go, I want you to know that I love you, my dear. I consider you my adopted fourth grandchild.’

I stifle another cry. Walter’s not just talking about ending this call.

‘I love you like the grandad I never had growing up,’ I reply brokenly. ‘You’re the best one ever. Goodbye, Walter.’

I’m in pieces when the call ends and need a lie-down. I nap fitfully for half an hour on Mum’s bed, disturbed by a sharp rap at the door. Half of me wonders whether Adam’s turned up. Peeking out from behind the curtains, I catch a glimpse of a man with a goatee.

Tom again!

I dart back from the window. He must have stopped emailing because he knows he’ll eventually see me face to face.

But it’s not happening here. The bags in the corner of the bedroom catch my eye as I wait for him to leave.

I can’t face taking them to the charity shop; Lily’s old clothes are among my cast-offs.

Five minutes and 40 seconds later, I take the sacks downstairs.

There’s no note on the mat – Tom’s given up for now.

I sift through everything at my makeshift sewing station in the dining room and re-read the cards from Roger and Betty.

Examining Lily’s turquoise maxi dress and shocking-pink evening gown, I discover Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup wrappers in the pockets.

Lily used to love these! I’d find the brown paper casings scattered across my bedroom floor and even inside her novels, used as bookmarks.

Once, she threw up because she ate so many when we were playing her favourite childhood game, Hungry Hippos, which she’d rediscovered in her parents’ loft.

She loved peanut butter and anything hippopotamus related.

I hear her laughter, loud and powerful. It drowns out the piercing screech of brakes that echo around my head.

Inhaling sharply, I’m winded as the truth strikes me.

I’ve concentrated so long on the darkness, I’ve mistakenly blocked out all the light: the times when we danced or surfed until our legs were wobbly; walking arm in arm back from the beach and whispering confessions to each other in the dark while I lay on the camp bed in her room, sweet wrappers rustling.

Lily’s stories are far too precious to lose.

I remember Nadia’s joyful tears over her nan’s framed log cabin sampler.

Could a memory quilt comfort Roger and Betty?

I lay all the fabric on the floor and sit on my heels.

It won’t take long to finish Adam and Wren’s commission.

This would be a far simpler design. I could use the boys’ old clothes and mine to weave together the history of the four of us.

Me, Lily, Adam and Tom.

This could help Tom too. If I tell him what I’m making, he might finally understand I haven’t forgotten Lily. Before I can start work, my phone vibrates. It’s an unusually long WhatsApp from Adam.

Dear Sophie,

I promised Wren I’d be more open with people I care about, so here goes... I can’t begin to imagine how hard it is for you being back here, processing your grief about Lily and your mum.

I’ve been thinking about what you said when you helped me patch up things with Mum and Wren.

You told me it was too late for you to mend your relationship with your own mum.

But becoming a parent means I can say this with 100 per cent certainty: it was never *your* responsibility to fix things with Jude. It was hers.

Jude was a terrible mum, but you were the best daughter, and the best friend to Lily. They were both lucky to have you. So am I. When I was a teenager, you made me feel as though I was ‘enough’ – but please, please know that you are billions of times more than enough.

I’m here for you no matter what. I can explain about Stanford, I promise. Please meet me for a bike ride and picnic tomorrow? I miss you so much.

Adam xx

His words of support on top of new memories of Lily finish me off.

Tears roll freely down my face, but I feel overwhelming relief.

I fetch the old pictures of Mum I discovered in the loft and study each one.

Adam’s right. I couldn’t force Mum to love me or become a better parent.

It had to come from within her, the way it has with Adam.

The thought of how quickly his days, hours, minutes and seconds are ticking away makes my stomach twist into painful knots.

He’s my anchor, my everything.

I force myself to focus on the light: the new memories and numbers we can still make together. They won’t be infinite, but they must be enough. I’ll count and savour every single hug and kiss.

I tuck Mum’s photos away and message Adam back.

Thank you for being you, Adam Bailey. Yes to the bike ride and picnic. Yes to everything about you. I will always love and miss you. xx