‘No! I will not allow this to happen!’ I shout. ‘Amy, please think about this. We can get you better, I know we can. I have plenty of money. We’ll get the best doctors in the world to make you better.’ I sob, ‘You can’t just decide you don’t want to live any more. It’s not fair on other people.’ I want to add, you selfish cow, but I don’t.
‘And it’s fair for me to be a vegetable forever more, is it? Is that fair on me and other people, Sammy? Is it fair for someone to have to care for me twenty-four hours a day? Is it fair on me never to be able to speak to anyone again? Never to be able to communicate, have another boyfriend, tell someone I love them? Is it, Sam? Is that fair?’
‘But …’ I can see Amy is getting impatient with me now.
‘But nothing, Sam. It’s my life we’re talking about here. At least here I can be me. I can go on dates, I can look beautiful again. I can talk to people. I can always be with my best friend and I can help other people. Think of it as karma, Sam. I wasn’t the nicest of people when I was on earth, was I?’
‘That’s not the point! Amy, you’re not thinking this through.’ If Amy wasn’t a mirage I’d punch her in the arm right now.
‘It is the point, Sam. That’s exactly what it is. I am not prepared to spend a life locked in a vegetative state until the day everything just stops working. What’s the point in that?’
‘But …’
‘Look, Sam, I’ve made the decision and that’s final,’ Amy says defiantly.
My phone rings and I give Amy and Ange a warning look to say don’t you two go anywhere, this is not over yet.
‘Hello?’
‘Samantha? It’s Lorraine, Amy’s mum.’
No, no, no, no! I close my eyes.
‘She’s gone, love. My baby’s gone.’
CHAPTER FORTY
It’s been a little over a week since Amy ‘died’ and I’m still trying to get my head round all of this. How can anyone just choose to die? But then, if, as Amy says, your only other option is a life in a wheelchair, being fed and kept alive by tubes, would you want a life like that? I don’t think I would, but it’s very difficult to think that, in the real world, Amy has died, when she is constantly still with me. And constantly with me, she is – she doesn’t shut up. I’d forgotten just how talkative and bossy she is – was – is!
‘And I don’t want any of those horrible yellow flowers … oh, what are they called? You know, the ones they always put in wreaths? Bloody horrible things.’
‘Daffodils?’ Ange guesses.
‘No, not daffodils, oh you know …’ Amy replies.
‘Well, daffodils are yellow.’ Ange states the bloody obvious.
‘Durh, I know that, but it’s not daffodils. Oh bollocks, what are they called?’
‘Primroses,’ Ange guesses again.
‘No, not primroses. Sam, what are those yellow flowers that they use in wreaths? You know, the ones I don’t like?’
‘Dandelions,’ Ange guesses.
‘It’s chrysanthemums you don’t like, Amy,’ I say, before Ange recites the name of every bloody flower in the flower dictionary.
‘That’s the ones!’ Amy squeals, happy that we have finally worked out which flowers she doesn’t like.
‘And I don’t like those purple ones, either. What are they called?’
Oh, for goodness sake!
‘Tell you what, how about we decide on the flowers you do like?’ I suggest as I finalise the list of Amy’s funeral requests. Her funeral is due to take place in Spain next week, two days before my wedding to Jack, and I’m not altogether sure how Lorraine, her mother, is going to take the news that her daughter wants a Westlife tribute act to send her on her way, or that she also wants twelve pink turtle doves released. Mind you, according to my research, there are no turtle doves in Spain because they’ve all buggered off to Africa for the winter, so she might have to settle for twelve pigeons instead. We could always spray them pink, I guess, and no one would be any the wiser.
‘I would know!’ Amy says in my ear.
‘Well, I can’t find a bloody turtle dove, Amy, let alone twelve, and I do have a wedding to finish organising, if that’s alright with you.’
‘Well excuse me for dying at such an inconvenient time!’
Normally Spanish funerals have to be performed within seventy-two hours of the person dying, but because Amy is British, Lorraine managed to extend the time so that we could send her daughter off in the style she wanted. It’s a good job she got an extension; Amy’s funeral would give a Big Fat Gypsy Wedding a run for its money! So far her list consists of a pink, fur-lined coffin, the Westlife tribute act I already mentioned, and a full male choir, dressed in pink smocks, singing Katy Perry’s ‘Hot N Cold’ while the pink pigeons, sorry doves, flutter around the church. We’ve now established that she wants a mixture of white orchids and orange tiger lilies for her flowers.
‘So, is that all?’ I ask Amy, as I read through the list.
‘I think so. Oh, I don’t want my nosey neighbour, Chelsea, coming to my funeral either. She’ll only be coming for the food, the fat pig!’
‘Right, no Chelsea,’ I mutter as I write it on the list.
Now for the difficult bit – phoning Amy’s mum and telling her what Amy wants. While she knows what my job is, she’s still not convinced that it’s been Amy’s decision to leave the earth plane and remain in heaven or that Amy talks to me every day.
‘Just tell her I know all about Doctor Agapeto. Another surgeon she met when she came to the hospital to turn off my machine. She’s dating him now, but she thinks no one else knows about it.’
I laugh, wondering if this new information will finally convince Lorraine that I really can talk to her daughter.
‘So, have you decided if you’re coming? To your own funeral, I mean?’ I ask.
‘We’re going to watch from the side lines,’ Amy says. ‘Ange is coming with me, then after that we’re going shopping for bridesmaids’ dresses.’
I keep forgetting my wedding is next week. The shops are so chock-a-block with Christmas stuff that the last thing on people’s minds is sourcing a hundred and twenty eight silver boxes, to put Shamballa crystal watches in, for me, which is the last thing on my to-do list. Thankfully, Vicky, a very kind regular on my website forum, has offered to make them for me. In the meantime I have my hen night planned for tonight, so as soon as I’ve called Lorraine and given her Amy’s instructions, I am heading off for a hot bath in preparation for my night on the tiles. I just hope it doesn’t end like Ange’s last night out did!
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Well, what else would you expect with twenty-three women (and that doesn’t include the non-living ones) out on a hen night and on a boat? Not the best of combinations, is it? But Miracle, who was in charge of organising my hen night, thought a party boat cruise would be a top idea. I, on the other hand, have had my reservations confirmed – yes, it has turned into a very wet nightmare!
It all started well: Mum, Miracle, Valerie and Marjorie and her WI buddies came aboard The Shakespeare, a barge type boat, complete with its own very well stocked bar, music and dance floor. Even new mum Gem managed to get time off from feeding baby Si, as he is now known, and turned up in the most stunning, full-length red dress. Within days she’s got her tiny figure back – lucky bugger – and was looking forward to a night out, where she could just let her hair down and forget all that’s happened this year.
After hours of changing into different outfits, I decided on a long black, sequinned dress, which I have to say made me not only look taller than I really am, but the fitted corset also made me look much slimmer than I really am. I wonder if I could get away with wearing it as my wedding dress.
Having boarded the boat in the Bristol harbour, The Shakespeare slowly chugged its way up the Floating Harbour, while we danced to the likes of Jessie Jay and Rihanna. Mrs Horsham – the one who tried to kill her sleepwalking husband and then turned into a serial speed dater – wa
s the first one on the dance floor, quickly followed by Mrs Horsham – the one with one leg shorter than the other, although you couldn’t tell – who was bobbing up and down like a good un to ‘Price Tag’ by Jessie Jay. My own mother thought it would be a great idea to take over the bar and create our own cocktails, which resulted in the most lethal drinks known to woman.
‘Marjorie, dear! Try this one!’ my mum yelled, passing to a now very pissed Marjorie her fifteenth cocktail of the evening, consisting of vodka, rum, gin, Martini and a splash of lime, that my mum named a Volcanic Tropicana and which almost blew Marjorie’s head off.
‘I think I’ve drunk a bit much, Sammy,’ Miracle slurred, at the same time slipping on the slice of lime that Marjorie had thrown out of her drink, resulting in Miracle having hysterics and being unable to get back on her feet. One bottle of VK blue and I already felt sick, bobbing about on the boat.
‘Oh for goodness sake! Look at the state of them!’ I heard Amy say to Ange. Mind you, they did look a bit of a state. Miracle decided to remain sitting on the floor, while my mum, Marjorie and Mrs Jackson danced around her, like she was a human handbag.
Annette, still on bed rest, couldn’t make it, so she decided to send a stripper in her place.
This was all well and good, until the WI members spotted him.
‘Ooo look, Cathy!’ Mrs Samuels screamed, as she tried to jump on the poor fella as he writhed around on the small stage in his silky, black boxer shorts. Have you ever witnessed seven women of a certain age with a twenty-something hot-looking man? It’s not a pretty sight. The poor guy looked terrified and despite trying to maintain an air of dignity – if that’s at all possible when writhing around in your underpants – he was outnumbered and on the floor before you could say, ‘Hey big spender!’
Not only did the poor chap suffer being smothered by Mrs Horsham, who it has to be said is not the lightest of women, but he also managed to lose his pants in the process and ended up jumping off the boat, with six middle-aged women in hot pursuit.
I, on the other hand, behaved impeccably and spent much of the evening holding Miracle up, controlling my uncontrollable mother and her friends, and reuniting the stripper with his undies.
Once the tears and puking arrived – and that was just my mother – we decided to call it a night.
‘Just think, Sam, in a week’s time you and Jack will be married,’ Amy whispers in my ear. ‘And I will officially be dead,’ she adds as I tidy up the bar and pick up slices of lime from the dance floor.
I don’t want to think about it. In just one week I will be Mrs Jack Lewis. That’s scary in itself. I will officially be a grown-up and expected to do grown-up things, like get a pension, life insurance and write a will. Not that I don’t want to marry Jack; of course I do. It’s just a new milestone in my life and one that Amy won’t be sharing with me.
‘Of course I will!’ she says, reading my mind. ‘I’d be no good to you as I was there on earth, would I?’
‘But you won’t really be there, Amy.’ I busy myself tidying away cocktail mats, because if I don’t do something then I will cry.
‘You still don’t seem to get it, Sam,’ Amy says, slightly frustrated. ‘I will always be around you. Just like Ange is always with you, and your dad. Just because we’re not physically there, it doesn’t mean we’ve gone anywhere. You forget; the bodies we have are just a shell for our souls to live in for a certain amount of time that we’re on earth. Think of the body as a kind of vehicle. Would you really prefer to see me in a wheelchair, unable to speak or communicate with you? That’s why I made the choice to stay here. I can do more good here than I could ever do down there.’
I stop shuffling cocktail mats and look up to see Amy with her arms out in front of me. I then cry a lot. Which I seem to be doing a great deal of at the moment.
Why can’t I just be a normal woman, living a normal life, doing a normal job in insurance or something, instead of dealing with all this dead stuff? It’s mentally and physically exhausting. I seem to be in tears practically every day over something or the other and I don’t know if I can do this any more.
‘Lady?’ a little voice comes into my head. Then I see a small figure in front of me, just in front of the bar. It’s Tom, the little boy from the WI séance. He looks sad.
‘Hello again, Tom.’ I smile and look at him. He looks so much more real today.
‘You can’t not do this any more, Lady,’ Tom says. ‘We need people like you. Imagine being dead and not being able to talk to the people you love ever again.’ He says wisely, ‘Dead people like me need you.’
‘Me too,’ Mrs Jackson’s daughter Alice appears.
‘And me,’ Andy says. ‘What do you think would have happened to my mum if you hadn’t got to her at the bridge in time?’
‘And we need you more than ever, Sam.’ Amy and Ange appear.
Strange: I’m on an empty boat and yet I feel all-consumed by the most amazing love from these people.
‘Yeah, so snap out of it and stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself, girl!’ the Viking booms in my ear.
Well, that told me, didn’t it?
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Despite it being the middle of winter, the sun is shining in Marbella where Amy’s funeral is to take place. Jack, Mum, Colin and I flew out yesterday and stayed in a hotel near to the San Pedro Alcantara cemetery where Amy is to be cremated. I shudder at the thought of it, but she insisted she didn’t want to be buried. Well, what she actually said was, ‘What and have all those worms crawling all over me, eating me up? Fuck that! Nah, pop me in the oven!’
My stomach turns over. Cheers for that thought, Amy.
While this is the norm in the UK, cremation is not widely practised in Spain, so we’ve had a bit of a problem getting the authorities to allow us not only to cremate Amy but also to give us enough time to arrange everything. Usually the Spanish like to have their deceased buried as soon after death as possible, but because Lorraine wanted to keep Amy in Spain with her, it took a while to inform everyone in the UK – although it has to be said, she didn’t have much of a fan club here after she left for Spain, having tried to publicly destroy my career.
So here we are, standing outside the crematorium waiting for Amy to be officially cremated – no one is allowed in the actual crematorium – and the pastor will then perform a service for Amy. Her coffin was to her specifications – bright pink, with the words ‘Amy’ and ‘Reem’ written in diamante crystals on both sides - and despite seeing her just feet away from me, I shed a few tears as I see my friend’s coffin go past me. Jack hugs me to him.
‘You OK?’ he asks.
I nod, sniff and wipe my nose on his lapel. He doesn’t mind – that’s love for you, isn’t it?
‘Ooo, I do like the way they’ve done your flowers on the top of your coffin,’ Ange, who is also standing on the side lines, says. ‘Did you tell Sam you wanted the ivy to run all the way down?’
‘No, the florist just thought it would look nice if it was. Can you see she’s sprinkled silver glitter on the orchids?’ Amy adds.
‘Yeah, nice touch,’ Ange muses, as the very pink coffin goes into the crematorium and the Westlife tribute act breaks into ‘Flying Without Wings’ – actually they’re pretty good as tribute acts go, although the one who’s supposed to resemble Shane Filan looks more like Louis Walsh’s younger brother, and they still have the Brian look-a-like, who really does look like Brian McFadden, and he left the band years ago. Or maybe he actually left Westlife and joined the tribute band?
I’ve only ever been to one funeral in my life and that was my dad’s, which was obviously a sombre occasion, but had I known then what I know now, I wouldn’t have spent weeks crying my eyes out. Instead I would have known he hadn’t really gone anywhere and he would always be in my life, even though I can’t see him. In fact, in some ways, I feel quite honoured that I have this ‘gift’ and wish everyone had it. Don’t get me wrong, of course I would prefer that ever
yone could live forever, but they can’t – can you imagine the problems with getting a parking space in Sainsbury’s for starters?
‘Sorry, sorry!’ a woman’s voice interrupts my thoughts. It’s Lorraine, Amy’s mum, and she’s late.
She totters on the highest of heels, flanked by three men in their fifties. I’m not sure which one is her latest beau, but they all fawn over her as if she’s a precious diamond.
‘Typical!’ I hear Amy say. ‘She can’t even be on time for her own daughter’s funeral!’
You would think Lorraine had come to an eighties disco the way she’s dressed: she’s wearing a Barbie pink skirt with a red vest top – even I know that red and pink don’t go – a white jacket, with the biggest shoulder pads ever to have graced a catwalk, and a multicoloured fascinator which looks as if she has a parrot on her head. Her eyes are covered by a huge pair of sunglasses and the minute she sees me and Jack she slumps as if she’s going to faint. Her boyfriends hold her up and offer her a tissue.
‘Oh Sammy,’ she sobs as she reaches me, ‘thank you all for coming. Amy would have been so pleased.’ She sobs again. ‘Have I missed much? You don’t know what it’s like, having to bury your only daughter. I nearly didn’t make it, did I, Roger?’ she says to one of the men beside her. He solemnly shakes his head and pats her hand.
‘The reason she’s late was because she was screwing the guy at the back!’ Amy snaps. ‘Come on Ange, let’s have some fun. This is just too depressing for words!’
‘Sammy! Look!’ Lorraine suddenly gasps as she spots a tortoiseshell butterfly fluttering around our heads. ‘It’s a sign! It’s our Amy!’ she sobs, lifting her sunglasses, revealing a new set of black eyes: the after effects of her latest nip and tuck.
Oh Great, Now I Can See Dead People Page 22
