didn’t think I could handle it, but was preempted by Mrs. Slater whispering “please Danni. I’d really like you to be there. I think Amber would too.
I nodded my acceptance and Mrs. Slater and I gripped one another’s hands tightly as we followed the doctors through the double swing doors. We hadn’t been allowed beyond those doors before. But that was before. We were led to a small room. As we stood at the door tentatively the doctor said “she’s ready for you now.” What do you mean “she’s ready?” I cried inwardly. Amber’s never going to be ready again. She’s never going to be ready again, is she? IS SHE? ANSWER ME THAT! But nobody did, because nobody had heard, because I hadn’t trusted myself to speak aloud.
As Mrs. Slater pushed the door ajar I started trembling all over, fearful of what I might find. And as we walked in I kept my eyes averted from the bed, not wanting to see what or who lay there. Then Mrs. Slater said “doesn’t she look peaceful?” and I was forced to look over. Against all the odds, Amber did look beautiful, angelic almost. She must have been wearing her lucky Levi 501s and a turquoise t-shirt when she’d arrived at the hospital, because somebody had put them back on her. A white blanket was loosely draped over the lower half of her body, but that was bearable because at least her clothes were bright. All blue. Her favourite colour which complimented her hair perfectly, although you wouldn’t know it now because they’d wrapped a beautiful brown and gold silk scarf round her head. I wondered whose it was.
Oh Amber, you do look peaceful. So peaceful that perhaps you’re putting it on, and any second now you’re going to open your eyes and break out into one of your heart-warming, mischievous grins. Go on. Do it. I won’t run screaming, like I’ve just walked into a scene from the horror flick Carrie. I promise you. Go on. Do it. Dare you. But she wasn’t going to. There was no rise in her chest, no flare of her nostrils. All of her was so very, very still. Mrs. Slater was stroking Amber’s face, speaking quietly to her. I moved to a chair by the other side of the bed and looked at her hand, contemplating. Part of me was scared to touch her. Afraid of how she might feel. But Jesus, if you’ve loved someone as much as I’ve loved Amber, if you’ve done so many things together, shared so much with each other, then you can damn well hold her hand just one more time, because you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t. So I put her hand in mine. There was nothing nasty about it. It was all perfectly natural and death wasn’t as scary as I’d thought it would be. It’s just that I didn’t expect to experience it so soon, so young, so here, so now, so with my best friend who has moved onto a different place now. A place I can’t reach her.
I stroked her hand, warm flesh on cold. I looked back up at her face, a face that would never again smile or frown, blush or kiss, and the shock of it all burst a dam somewhere deep in the depths of my belly, unleashing a tidal wave of emotion. The shock of the roller-coaster ride from my mum calling me in Cannes barely sixteen hours earlier to seeing Amber lying so scared and poorly in that hospital bed, to seeing her lying so still and lifeless here and now. I’d never seen a dead person before, let alone touched one. I’d never even considered how it might be, let alone imagined that my first time would be with my best friend at the age of twenty-six.
This time I couldn’t hold it in or keep it quiet. I started blubbing and snorting and wailing incomprehensibly, speaking to nobody in particular, but from time to time looking at Mrs. Slater, Amber and the ceiling, towards the God who had let me down. Let Amber down.
“What am I going to do without you? WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITHOUT HER? I HATE you! I hate you for taking my best friend from me. Why did you do it? She was the
I nodded my acceptance and Mrs. Slater and I gripped one another’s hands tightly as we followed the doctors through the double swing doors. We hadn’t been allowed beyond those doors before. But that was before. We were led to a small room. As we stood at the door tentatively the doctor said “she’s ready for you now.” What do you mean “she’s ready?” I cried inwardly. Amber’s never going to be ready again. She’s never going to be ready again, is she? IS SHE? ANSWER ME THAT! But nobody did, because nobody had heard, because I hadn’t trusted myself to speak aloud.
As Mrs. Slater pushed the door ajar I started trembling all over, fearful of what I might find. And as we walked in I kept my eyes averted from the bed, not wanting to see what or who lay there. Then Mrs. Slater said “doesn’t she look peaceful?” and I was forced to look over. Against all the odds, Amber did look beautiful, angelic almost. She must have been wearing her lucky Levi 501s and a turquoise t-shirt when she’d arrived at the hospital, because somebody had put them back on her. A white blanket was loosely draped over the lower half of her body, but that was bearable because at least her clothes were bright. All blue. Her favourite colour which complimented her hair perfectly, although you wouldn’t know it now because they’d wrapped a beautiful brown and gold silk scarf round her head. I wondered whose it was.
Oh Amber, you do look peaceful. So peaceful that perhaps you’re putting it on, and any second now you’re going to open your eyes and break out into one of your heart-warming, mischievous grins. Go on. Do it. I won’t run screaming, like I’ve just walked into a scene from the horror flick Carrie. I promise you. Go on. Do it. Dare you. But she wasn’t going to. There was no rise in her chest, no flare of her nostrils. All of her was so very, very still. Mrs. Slater was stroking Amber’s face, speaking quietly to her. I moved to a chair by the other side of the bed and looked at her hand, contemplating. Part of me was scared to touch her. Afraid of how she might feel. But Jesus, if you’ve loved someone as much as I’ve loved Amber, if you’ve done so many things together, shared so much with each other, then you can damn well hold her hand just one more time, because you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t. So I put her hand in mine. There was nothing nasty about it. It was all perfectly natural and death wasn’t as scary as I’d thought it would be. It’s just that I didn’t expect to experience it so soon, so young, so here, so now, so with my best friend who has moved onto a different place now. A place I can’t reach her.
I stroked her hand, warm flesh on cold. I looked back up at her face, a face that would never again smile or frown, blush or kiss, and the shock of it all burst a dam somewhere deep in the depths of my belly, unleashing a tidal wave of emotion. The shock of the roller-coaster ride from my mum calling me in Cannes barely sixteen hours earlier to seeing Amber lying so scared and poorly in that hospital bed, to seeing her lying so still and lifeless here and now. I’d never seen a dead person before, let alone touched one. I’d never even considered how it might be, let alone imagined that my first time would be with my best friend at the age of twenty-six.
This time I couldn’t hold it in or keep it quiet. I started blubbing and snorting and wailing incomprehensibly, speaking to nobody in particular, but from time to time looking at Mrs. Slater, Amber and the ceiling, towards the God who had let me down. Let Amber down.
“What am I going to do without you? WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITHOUT HER? I HATE you! I hate you for taking my best friend from me. Why did you do it? She was the
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