DADâS BIRTHDAY, AND I GOT UP BEFORE ANYONE.
He just wanted a quiet day. No presents, no cake, no nothing. It just wouldnât be right, he said. People forget birthdays arenât just about them.
Dadâs birthday is also the same day my mum died last year. I think itâs called a tragedy or a catastrophe or some other big word which means more than just âbad luckâ when two things like that happen on the same day.
I sat outside Dadâs bedroom door with his birthday cards, waiting. Through the gap in the doorway I could just make out the dark hump under the covers and his dark head making a deep dent in his pillow. He sighed, so I knew he was awake.
There were six birthday cards for Dad. One from me, one from my older brother Luke (still in bed or on his computer â the door was shut) and four that had come in the post. I nudged Dadâs bedroom door open a bit wider and flung my card in. I saw Dad patting round the bed, feeling for the blue envelope that landed by his back, and heard it crunch as he opened it. It was a picture of a grey bear with a blue nose. It was speaking on the telephone and on the front it said A Message From Me To You.
Dad said, âThanks, thatâs nice.â
And I said, âAre you thinking about Mum?â
Silence.
And then he said, âGet me a cup of coffee, will you?â
It didnât feel like a birthday at all, not even with the cards on top of the telly. Dad had the volume turned low while we sat around waiting for the rest of our family to arrive and come with us to visit Mumâs grave for her anniversary.
GRANDPA AND GRANDMA HAMBLIN PICKED US up and drove slowly to the cemetery. We met Granddad Fisher and Aunty Sue and walked together along paths of tidy grass and loving memories.
We made a circle, stood still as statues, not talking about her because Dad says itâs too hard to talk about her. We stared at the cold, grey stone marked with her name. Louise Fisher. The same as my middle name.
And I thought about her, up there, somewhere. Not here. And because she was so far away I missed her like crazy and I wondered if I should have had some breakfast because my belly hurt like mad.
And then there she was. I saw my mum. And I know what youâre thinking â you canât really see dead people. But I did. She was standing on the wall of the cemetery, wearing her red raincoat and waxy green hat. And I wasnât scared. Why would I be scared of my own mum?
She put her arms out to balance, swaying as she walked along the wall. Just like she always was, doing something that made you want to laugh or do it too. She wobbled along, until she was as close as she could get to us without jumping down. She pushed her hat flat on her head. She looked at me and smiled, just like she did when she saw me sing in the school musical of Charlotteâs Web. Like youâre everything.
Grandma had a bunch of sweet peas wrapped in silver foil.
âBe a good girl and put the flowers in the vase,â she said, holding them out. Her tissue fell out of her sleeve and floated to the ground.
âDo you believe in ghosts?â I whispered, picking up her tissue and handing it back. âDo you believe Mum could come back and we could see her?â
The purple and pink flowers reflected in her glasses and made them look like a church window. She closed her eyes and dabbed her nose.
âOh, dear,â she said, âweâre all a little upset.â She sniffed the flowers and put them in my hand.
I made my way round the tight circle of bodies and squeezed between Aunty Sue and Dad.
âDo you believe in ghosts, Aunty Sue?â I said. âHave you ever seen Mum, even though sheâs not supposed to be there?â
I guided her arm so that she would turn round and look over at the wall, so she could see Mum, colourful and bright and real as anything. I watched her eyes for the sudden surprise. Her mouth made the shape of a smile, but she frowned. I didnât know what that meant.
âSheâs there, Aunty Sue,â I whispered, pointing. âOver there.â