Chapter 50

50

October 31, 6:55 a.m.

low tide

The faucet of grief never turns off completely. It allows a person’s sorrow to slowly drip inside them until they are so unbearably full of sadness they have no choice but to let it flow freely and pour out. Drowning every other thought and feeling.

“She’s dead,” says Trixie with tears in her eyes. “Why would she do this?”

The eighty clocks out in the hallway seem to tick more loudly than ever before.

“Because it was her time,” I say. “I think she always planned to take her own life when it was over. She could never live with what she had done. I understand why she did what she did now, but I still don’t know why you went along with it.”

Trixie sits down at the table, on her little chair covered in stars, and she looks so small to me again. Like the child she used to be, not the woman she is growing into.

“Do you remember what it was like when they all realized that you were broken?” Trixie asks in a quiet voice. “The way they treated you? Well, it was the same for me. My mother stopped letting me go out with my friends, wrapped me up in cotton wool, and every time she looked at me, all I could see in her eyes was pity and resentment. Not love. My mother and Nancy didn’t think anyone else should know about my heart condition—as though it were a dirty secret, something to be ashamed of. They didn’t even want the rest of the family to know. Let’s be honest, they really were horrible people. All of them. Look what they did to you.”

“They all thought I wouldn’t live beyond fifteen.”

“Your mother knew that you might, if she’d let that doctor try to help you. I had the surgery that you didn’t. There were some complications, but the doctors think I might live until I’m twenty now. Twenty-five if I’m lucky. And that’s all I want: to live what is left of my life. I’ll be sixteen soon, I can leave school, I can travel the world. I just want to live while I still can. Surely you must understand that? The only people in this family who ever really loved me were Nana and you. And you’re a ghost. She couldn’t forgive the rest of the family for what they did to you. Neither could I. We killed them so that you and I could both be free. You shouldn’t still be here, it isn’t right. Nana thought your soul might have got trapped because you died on Halloween. That’s why we did it tonight.”

I stare at her, but don’t know what to say.

“What Nana said was true: you haven’t aged,” Trixie continues. “I know you can’t see your own reflection, but you must be able to see that you’re still wearing the same clothes you did that night? The denim dungaree dress, the stripy tights, the trainers covered in daisies? You’re still a thirteen-year-old girl. You might be my aunt, but I’m really two years older than you now.”

I can’t process her words anymore. I am trapped inside a nightmare, one in which I’ve been dead for years. Poppins starts to whimper again, and I want to do the same.

“I might give you some space, take Poppins for a quick walk,” says Trixie, as though this were a normal day. “I can see this is a lot to take in. You should have a think about what Nana said. Her theory about why you’re still here might not be as crazy as it sounds. And if she was right, maybe there is a way for you to leave.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She thought you should write your own story. Think about it: using your words is the only thing you can still do. Death isn’t like the movies, at least not for you. I’ve never seen you walk through walls or even a door unless someone has opened it first. But you can move Scrabble letters, and books, and type on keyboards.”

Trixie walks out into the hall.

“Wait!” I say. “Don’t leave me here alone with … them!”

“I’ll be back soon, I promise,” she says, attaching Poppins’s lead to her collar. “The pen Nana’s agent gave you the night that you died is still in your dress pocket,” Trixie adds.

She’s right. I take out the special silver pen with four colors, and find Nana’s agent’s business card too. I stare at his name and the address of his office in London.

“Perhaps writing your own story is the only way you get to escape this life? Maybe telling the truth about what happened is your unfinished business? Nana’s agent told you he’d read a story about the real Daisy Darker if you wrote it, do you remember? I won’t be long, Aunty Daisy. Come on, Poppins!”

I retreat inside the darkroom of my mind, trying to develop a picture of a future that would be more appealing, but all I see is black. I rush to catch up with Trixie, but she closes the front door behind her and I can’t seem to open it. She’s right; I can’t walk through walls. I bang on the door, but it doesn’t make a sound. I peer out of the tiny round window in the hallway; it’s like a porthole on a boat, and I do feel as though I am trapped on a sinking ship. My view of Trixie and Poppins gets smaller and smaller as they walk across the causeway, leaving me behind. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to love my niece the way that I used to. Sometimes we love monsters without knowing that’s what they are.

I love this house too. I never wanted to leave it. Until now.

The eighty clocks surrounding me in the hallway start to strike seven and the noise is deafening. I stare at the punch clock and see the faded card with my name on it. The last date stamped on it says 1988. I run up the stairs to my bedroom and find Conor’s laptop on the desk where he left it. The cursor is flashing on the screen, and the word that I wrote last night is still there:

Boo!

The letters disappear one by one, and are replaced with something new:

DAISY DARKER

My fingers tremble when I have finished typing what I hope might be the title of my story. I feel for the business card in my pocket, take it out, and stare at the agent’s name again.

I wonder if I could really write a book.

I wonder if I could really tell the truth.

There is so much we don’t know we don’t know.

The tide is out now and the sun is just starting to rise above Seaglass, casting the sky in streaks of pink and purple. I’ve always thought that dawn is the most beautiful time—shining a light on the clean slate of a new day. A chance to start again. The birds are swooping and singing above the waves in Blacksand Bay, and as I look out toward the ocean, I spot a pod of dolphins in the distance. The sound of the sea is serenading what feels like my final scene.

I want to be free.

I wonder if anyone will ever read the story I want to write?

The eighty clocks downstairs are quiet again, and I enjoy the silence as I type the first few words on the blank page: I was born with a broken heart. I spent my whole life hiding inside stories when the real world got too loud. I don’t know if anyone will ever read mine. There are some stories only time will tell.