We Are All Made of Stars by Rowan Coleman Page A

us.
    You’ll be standing up at my funeral and talking about me as if we’ve met, which we never have, and I thought you might like to know a bit about me, so as not to appear like the deluded charlatan you are. I’m fifty-nine now – I don’t suppose I will see sixty. We never had children, me and him. I wanted them, and so did he, but we just weren’t blessed that way. Truth be told, I like animals more than I like most people. I’ve volunteered for Cats Protection for fifteen years. You know where you are with a cat. Cats don’t believe in God either, now I come to think of it. It’s a good rule of life, I think, not to take anything seriously that a cat doesn’t. Stops you fretting about all sorts of stuff and nonsense and keeps you focusing on what matters.
    You know what? If there was a God, if he did exist, I’d like to grab him by the throat and throttle him for finishing me off this way – before I am ready. For making me leave my husband behind, when we both know he won’t cope. If there was a God, I’d have a good old go at murdering him. But seeing as I don’t believe in him anyway, maybe I kind of have. Ancient Egyptians worshipped cats, you know? That seems sensible.
    If I have to have a hymn, I want ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’, and someone to do a reading – I don’t mind about what, as long as it’s tasteful. If he looks like he might cry, my husband that is, tell him not to be so soft. We knew it was coming. And remind him, he’s only stood in a church so he can feel better.
    We didn’t make many friends – we didn’t need them, not when we had each other. So, maybe you’ll visit him from time to time. I wouldn’t like to think of him being alone and missing me. That would seem like the Christian thing to do, and I have always liked that about your lot.
    Yours sincerely,
    Lottie Moorecroft

CHAPTER TEN
STELLA
    â€˜Hey, you,’ I say to Issy in a low voice.
    She is wide awake, staring at the moon out of her window, as Thea sleeps deeply on the guest bed, exhaustion temporarily excusing her from her vigil. A tired-looking soft octopus is tucked under Issy’s arm, and a book open near the beginning is resting on her lap. This is where Shadow has been visiting tonight, I see – his long, lean body is stretched out along the length of her thigh. He lifts his head and looks at me sleepily for a moment before nuzzling it back against Issy’s leg. ‘How are you feeling?’
    â€˜Good, actually,’ she whispers, turning her face, which shines softly in the moonlight, to look at me. ‘Is that weird?’
    â€˜No,’ I say, ‘that’s good, of course.’ I take a seat next to the bed, and for a moment we both watch Thea sleeping – her mouth open, her face slack. Suddenly she snorts, a deep rumbling noise, and Issy smiles, reaching out and pulling her mum’s blanket up over her bare arm. Once she is certain that Thea isn’t about to wake, she speaks again.
    â€˜But it doesn’t mean … I mean, I’m not getting better or anything, am I?’ She poses the question as if it worries her.
    â€˜Because when the doctors said that things were … you know, nearly over, it was kind of a relief. I don’t want to go through it all again: having more treatment, feeling so ill, trying to stay alive for Mum. And the reason … the reason I asked to come here, instead of being at home, is because I didn’t want home to be the place where Mum and Katy think of as the place where I died. If I go home again, then … I feel OK now, but I don’t want to do it all again.’
    I sit down next to her and take her hand. ‘There’s this sort of phenomenon,’ I say, ‘that all nurses know about, but there’s no evidence for it. But it’s this thing we call a surge or a bloom. Just before the end, we often see our patients