At the age of nine, Audrey thinks she has a better handling and understanding of death – or at least the idea of death – than most people even twice her age. Not that her mother is dead, of course. Her father is very adamant about the fact that her mother is not dead. No, every time she asks it's always Mommy's sleeping, she's tired. Except Mommy's been tired for the past year, too tired for birthdays and Christmas and Thanksgiving. Every holiday has been spent in that hospital room, watching her mother sleep. Nobody talks. It's quiet, apart from when the Baby cries. The Baby who still doesn't have a name because her father won't name without mommy. Audrey thinks the baby will never have a name. If you asked her how she knows, she'd be unable to tell you why. A feeling in her gut. The monotonous way her mother's chest rises and falls, the harsh intrusive sound of the machines, there's nothing natural about it. Nothing natural about the way she just lies there, pale and unmoving and so unlike her mother… no, Audrey knows her mother has gone. She just wishes that her father would see that too.
When the baby is a year and a half old, Audrey decides he needs a name. He's not really much of a baby any more, waddling around on his fat legs. There's a book of baby names on a shelf in her Daddy's office, used when he's stuck for characters names, but it's high up and she almost falls off the chair while trying to reach it. She spends the whole of one night looking through them, compiling a list of her favourite names and ends up pulling them out of a hat. Healy. Irish origin, means ingenious. Good. It suits him. He's going to grow up to be good and strong and clever and intelligent. She tells her father his new name, and although she wasn't entirely sure what his reaction would be, but when he screams at her and tells her she has no night to make those kind of choices, especially that particular choice, not without him, not without her mother. Healy starts crying, and her father's attention is diverted away from her, bends down to pick him up. So, Audrey runs.
She runs to the hospital, hot and sweaty and dirty. Really, she shouldn't be here. Visiting hours are long gone, and she's probably carrying all sorts of germs in, but the nurses and the doctors are nice, and they like her. Pity her. And as long as she sits quietly and does as she's told, then really what's the harm? It's where her father finds her, maybe an hour later, Healy in his arms. He puts Healy on the bed where he happily sits with a fluffy giraffe with plastic ears for teething. He lifts Audrey up easily, takes the chair she was sat on and then settles her on his lap.
"He needed a name." she mumbles into his shoulder.
"I know, I know. Go on, tell me about Healy."
"It's Irish. Means ingenious."
"How did you choose that one?"
"The baby book. I picked out all my favourites and then I put them all in a hat and I picked one. If you don't like that one we can pick another one – there's a lot, but he needs a name. Daddy, he needs a name."
"I know, sweetheart. I know. I like Healy, and I think Mommy would too."