If Colleen had been an ordinary living ex-wife or ex-girlfriend, Ellen could have banned all further mentions of her, but as she was dead, and as it was perfectly understandable that having another child would be bringing back memories for Patrick of Jack’s birth, and as Colleen was Jack’s mother and he loved hearing stories about when his mother was pregnant with him, Ellen felt she not only had to listen politely, but she even had to encourage further revelations about the seemingly perfect Colleen by asking Patrick interested questions with a bright, loving, empathetic expression on her face.

Frankly, it was driving her bananas.

She loved Jack, and she loved the thought of him being a big brother to her baby, but she couldn’t help imagining what it would have been like if Patrick had been a first-time father-to-be, if it could have been just the two of them, excited and apprehensive together.

Also, the nausea didn’t help. She’d known that the nausea could be bad; she just didn’t think it would actually matter, not as much as it did, or at all really. Even though her rational mind knew that it wouldn’t last forever, this awful, seedy, off-color feeling seemed to taint everything. When she thought of holding her baby, all she could think was, How could I possibly look after a baby, feeling like this?

“She’s up in the far corner over here,” said Patrick.

Jack ran ahead. Patrick stopped and touched Ellen’s shoulder.

“You OK, darling?” he said, and his eyes met hers. He did this sometimes, when she least expected it. He would stop what he was doing, and really look at her, properly, his green eyes studying her with such intensity, it was like he was waiting for her to impart a crucial message.

It melted her heart every time.

“I’m fine,” she said. She didn’t want him worrying about her nausea right now, hurrying her back to the car or whatever.

“You sure? Are you too cold?”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, it’s just up here.”

They kept walking, past grave after grave, life after life. Ellen had occasionally walked through graveyards before, but she’d actually never been to visit a grave of someone she knew. Both her grandparents had been cremated and had their ashes scattered in the ocean from their favorite cliff-top walk. Of course she’d grieved for them, but it had been gentle, accepting grief: simple sadness for herself and the loss of their company. Not the sort of raw grief you’d feel for someone who died before their time. She’d managed to reach thirty-five years old without ever experiencing a shocking death.

She saw fresh flowers in front of one headstone and wondered if it had been the one visited by the couple she’d seen leaving.

She paused to read the inscription. It was the grave of a boy called Liam who was born in 1970 and died in 1980. She glanced back to the car park and saw the couple’s car pulling away, the woman’s profile only just visible through the car window.

She kept walking behind Jack and Patrick. Her stomach began to churn. Her mouth filled with saliva. At that moment, nothing mattered, not Patrick’s loveliness, not even that poor woman’s grief. All that mattered was this sickness, this awful, awful sickness.

Finally, they stopped in front of a shiny gray headstone with an oval-shaped picture frame built into the top. The frame contained a black-and-white photo of Colleen caught looking away from the photographer, smiling at someone (Patrick?), her hair blown by some long-ago breeze, love in her eyes.

For the first time Ellen came slam up against the reality of Colleen’s death. This beautiful young girl shouldn’t be dead! She should be in the car with her husband and son, driving up the mountains to see her parents, pregnant with her second child.

Or better still, she should be Patrick’s living ex-wife, not quite as pretty anymore, making unreasonable demands about child support and access visits. That way Ellen could stay in the picture (and after all, she would have excelled at dealing with an ordinary shrewish ex-wife—she’d be so tranquil and accepting, Patrick would have found her all the more attractive!), The carved inscription read:

Colleen Scott

1970–2002

Beloved wife of Patrick, mother to Jack and daughter to Millie and Frank

Life is not forever. Love is.

Right.

“That’s my mum at my first birthday party,” said Jack to Ellen, putting his finger on the photo. “She’s looking at me opening a present from Grandma. The present was a dinosaur jigsaw. I’ve still got that jigsaw.”

“It’s a lovely photo,” said Ellen.

“And by the way, in case you’re wondering, the dinosaur is a tyrannosaurus,” said Jack. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and considered. “It’s a pretty easy jigsaw. It’s got, like, maybe five pieces or something. I can do it in maybe three seconds. Or even one second.”

“We, ah, we sort of talk to her,” said Patrick, without looking at Ellen. “A bit silly—”

“Of course it’s not,” said Ellen. She felt terribly, terribly sick. It would not do to throw up over Colleen’s grave. She looked around. If worse came to worst, she would quickly scoot over to Bill Taylor’s grave. He was “of tender heart and generous spirit,” so perhaps he wouldn’t mind.

Patrick knelt down in front of Colleen’s headstone. He leaned forward and kissed the photo.

Oh my goodness me.

Jack knelt down beside his father and casually, without any self-consciousness at all, did the same thing. “Hi, Mum.”