Oh, the names Mum called me…
Did you push him?
Patricia was formless but I sensed her grin, too wide, too sharp. Of course. The little shit had it coming. Why the shocked face — you think you did any better?
Cast her out, Annika had urged, but you can’t cast out a part of yourself. I tipped my head back and let tears trickle out the corners of my eyes. The beams met above my head like a vaulted ceiling.
* * *
There was a moment, I breathed. There was a moment when the last scrap of Mum was gone and we could do nothing but wait. I sat beside her for days. No sleep, only coffee — too much coffee. Mum had always been proud. Self-sufficient. She would have hated this. She would have said you wouldn’t put a dog through it. It would be kinder if…
I asked her. I stroked her hand and actually asked my mum if she wanted me to end it.
I’ve gone over that moment so many times. It’s a scab I have to pick. In most versions, she doesn’t respond; she’s barely conscious. In others, she gives my finger a little squeeze. There’s a cushion behind me, or on the foot of the bed, or propping her head up. Wherever I find it, I crush it to me like a ratty teddy. Sometimes it’s corduroy. No, she deserves better — it’s pleated satin, or mink. Lately, it’s been embroidered with roses. Only once did I imagine pressing it onto her face, only for a second before my mind jerked away, disgusted with itself. But that’s the image that stays, the phosphene that dances on the inside of my eyelids. And like the quiet moments and the hideous moments, given enough time, it might as well be real.
* * *
I begged, asked, demanded that she leave, but Patricia wouldn’t be banished so easily. The small hours were her most spiteful, once she knew my secret. She taunted me, almost drove me mad. After a few years, I learned to withstand her barbs. Annika re-applied for university and we cleared out the loft to make room for her studies; only when Patricia’s room was no longer hers did the pain finally begin to fade.
So did Claire. Losing her stung as much as losing Marley, but even the good times must be forgotten in the end.
I plotted flowerbeds in the garden with sticks and twine, filling my hands with the smell of rich loam. I chose begonias, busy Lizzies and cosmos. In summer, my house of dead things burst with life. In between weeding and watering, I would sit back on my haunches to let the sun warm my face and imagine a split in the hard pit of my heart; a green shoot.
Were we kind? To the house, to each other, to ourselves? We tried. Annika and I listened out for Charlie every night. It was the least we could do before he left us forever. I don’t know how you slept through it, Annika would sigh. You must have been a monster.
Tonight, after the crack, I let out the breath I was holding. Slowly, the secret sounds returned. I frowned: they’d changed. My new nurse’s uniform hanging up on the back of the door rustled with starch; by my feet, Puss groomed himself and purred; beside me, Annika breathed; in the guest bedroom, her sister, brother-in-law and nephew, come to stay the fortnight, turned in their sleep.
I’d never known my house so content.
Do you hear that, Annika? I whispered.
She lifted her head, dozy with sleep. Hear what?
I smiled and stroked her lovely cheek. I think they’re finally gone.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Begin Reading
Copyright
Copyright © 2020 by G. V. Anderson
Art copyright © 2020 by Audrey Benjaminsen
Hearts in the Hard Ground Page 3
