What's Yours Is Mine by Tess Stimson

I touch his face, but he can’t feel me. And worse: I can’t feel him. My fingers stroke his cheek, but it’s as if I’m smoothing air.
    He grasps his wife’s hand, and suddenly I yearn desperately to be able to feel his touch. I close my eyes, and will myself back in my own body. I open them, and I’m still here, in limbo.
    I’m brought up short by a thought. Is that what this is?
Limbo?
    Long-forgotten phrases from my schoolgirl catechism come back to me.
Limbo is the border place between Heaven and Hell where dwell those souls who, though not condemned to punishment, are deprived of the joy of eternal existence with God
. But it refers to children who haven’t been baptized, or those who lived before the birth of Christ, not adults, practicing Catholics, like me.
    Not limbo, then. But … perhaps Purgatory.
    Purgatory. For those who must atone before they can be forgiven. It’s not fashionable to talk about Purgatory anymore; these days it’s all about tolerance and loving the sinner, if not the sin. But that doesn’t mean Purgatory doesn’t exist. Is there something I need to put right before I can move on? Something I need to stay for?
    I look at my daughters, on opposite sides of the bed, unable to come together even now, at a time like this. At my husband, who hasn’t spoken to his youngest child in nine years.
    I’m ready to die. Not eager, certainly, but ready. I believe God is waiting for me. I’ve been lucky enough to know love in my life: the love of a good man, and the love of my children. There isn’t really much more to say about me; I didn’t have a career, or change the world. I was happy to stay at home and look after my family. I think girls these days have it much harder, despite all their washing machines and expensive clothes. All those
choices
. So much easier in my day, when you knew what was expected of you and how to give it.
    David will survive without me. He’ll grieve, of course, which is as it should be. And then he’ll recover, and live the rest of his life, which is as it should be, too.
    But I worry about my Susannah. She still needs me so much.
    I follow her as she stalks over to the window, peering through the slatted blinds with one finger. I can tell she’s itching for a cigarette. Gently, I stroke her hair, though of course neither of us can feel it. Such pretty blond curls sheused to have, when she was little. Now look at it: thick, matted rat’s tails reaching halfway to her bottom, tied back with an old elastic band. And the way she dresses these days. Like an Emu, Grace says it’s called. No: an Emo, that’s it. All black and ugly. When I think of the care I took of her when she was a baby, worrying every little graze would leave a scar. And now look: all those ugly tattoos, and pieces of metal stuck into her face. She looks like a bundle of wet newsprint. Why would such a lovely girl want to deface herself the way she has?
    Then I see her expression as she watches David put his arm around Grace. Grace, our perfect daughter; the daughter who turned out so well, the daughter we can be proud of. Such a credit to her parents.
    It never seems to have occurred to David that if we take the credit for Grace, we must take the blame for Susannah, too.
    â€œThis is too weird,” Susannah says suddenly, pointing towards the bed. “Look at her. You can tell, she’s not even
there
.”
    â€œDon’t say that,” Grace snaps. “Of course she’s there.”
    Typical Grace. Always believing that if she wants something badly enough, she can make it happen. That may be true of passing exams or getting into Oxford, but it’s not true of life. She’s still got a hard lesson to learn.
    She pushes herself too hard. She’s got so
thin
. She’s not eating properly. I know she and Tom have been trying for a baby, but she needs to look after herself better if she