The Million Pieces of Neena Gill

by Emma Smith-Barton

  Then the door opens and Aunty Jasmine’s voice calls up the hallway. ‘Helloooo. Anyone home? Ready or not, we’re coming!’ She laughs, like she’s cracked a hilarious joke.

  ‘We’ve got gajar ka halwa,’ Aunty Sunita adds, which makes Mum dry her tears.

  And then there’s a commotion in the hallway, shoes being taken off, laughter, chatter, and I need to get out of there. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ I say, standing up. I feel unsteady on my feet, but I try to focus. I can’t stay here any longer.

  ‘Of course,’ Mum says.

  ‘Don’t be too late,’ Dad adds.

  But I don’t really care what either of them says any more. I stumble out into the hallway and squeeze my way through Mum and Dad’s friends, ignoring all the hellos, dodging the hugs. I feel like I’m in a weird dream. It’s hard to breathe.

  Finally, I escape out of the front door. I’m hoping that I’ll feel better the further I get from the house. But no, it doesn’t work like that. My ears are roaring and my heart is pounding and the pool of emptiness I try so hard to keep shut has been ripped open and is swallowing me whole.

  All I can do is walk.

  I don’t know where I’m going, but at the same time I do. I’ve only been there once since everything happened with Akash. I think it was a few days after, but it’s a blur, so I don’t remember it properly. Now, I have no choice.

  My feet: they’re leading the way.

  The Ridgeway was our place. Akash’s and mine. It’s the local beauty spot, which means anyone can come here, but it was ours.

  I stand at the top of the long bank, looking out at the lush green rolling hills in the distance, at the curves and the slopes and the dips, and all the tiny houses in between. The sky is clear and bright. You can see across the Severn Estuary from up here; we thought it was the top of the world when we were kids. ‘Little Switzerland,’ Mum called it. ‘Witzerland,’ I would say, which made everyone laugh, especially Akash. But it was later that it really became our place. When we were teenagers.

  My ears ring.

  My heart races.

  Behind me is the bench we always sat on. We came here when Akash wanted to smoke. And when he passed his driving theory test. When I got a crappy mark for one of my first pieces of GCSE art, I sat beside him on that bench and cried, and he told me how talented I was, that I just had to practise. Here we figured out who we were, away from Mum and Dad and all the noise of the world.

  And then he left.

  Dad’s words replay in my head: You’ll have a brother again.

  I feel full. So full of everything. ‘Akash!’ I call out. Perhaps Mum and Dad are wrong. Maybe he really is coming back. He could … he could be here already. ‘Akash?’

  I shut my eyes and pretend I’m a child again.

  I remember. I remember so clearly.

  He’d make me race him down this hill. My stomach would bubble with excitement and nerves as we stood at the top. I can see his wide grin. Eyes dancing. ‘One,’ he says. ‘Two …’

  ‘Don’t go too fast,’ I say. ‘Give me a chance!’

  ‘But it’s a race!’ he says, laughing. ‘Ready? Go!’

  I run down the bank and it’s like a long green slide. We run. I feel like I’m flying as my feet leave the ground. And then we’re falling, rolling, rolling, down, down, down.

  I stop abruptly in a heap at the bottom. Covered in grass. Mud. Aches. Akash’s laughter pierces the air. Makes me laugh too. I look round, expecting to see him, forgetting, almost forgetting, he’s not here.

  I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest. As I catch my breath, I grab fistfuls of grass. I want to talk to him. Tell him Mum’s having a … a … a baby. A fucking baby. It’s ridiculous. A joke. She must be near the menopause. Forty-four, for God’s sake.

  I wrap my arms round my knees and close my eyes. I imagine a baby taking over Akash’s room. Filling it with his things. His noise. His smell.

  My throat burns.

  I don’t want some other new younger brother.

  I want my old one, my big brother – I want Akash.

  My thoughts spin and spin and spin. Mum and Dad’s voices replay in my head. Pregnant. No Akash. A baby brother. And I think I knew, didn’t I? Out in the garden, when she was being sick. It was like a part of me realized. But I didn’t want to believe it. I still don’t! A new brother. How can that be? I bury my face in my hands and try not to scream. If I could just trace Akash’s steps … If I could find out what happened that night … If only I’d gone to the party with him …

  And then I smell him. My brother.

  I can smell Akash!

  Cigarettes. Whisky. Deodorant. Mint. And something else that’s just him – sweet, like the biscuit tin. I stand up. Look around. I can’t see him, but I can definitely smell him. Is it a sign? Is he trying to tell me something? Sending me a message to let me know he’s near, whatever Mum and Dad think?

  I rush up the hill – but no, he’s not on our bench either. My heart is going crazy; it’s forgotten how to beat. ‘Akash?’ I call out. There’s still no reply, but the air is full of his smell.

  And then I get it. It’s like hide-and-seek, isn’t it? That was our favourite game when we were kids. We played it wherever we went. Is that it? Has he been playing it since the night he left?

  I’m buzzing now.

  I have to figure out where he’s hiding.

  I need to go home.

  I need to check if Akash is there.

  I’m in my bedroom, standing in front of my easel. I have a paintbrush in my hand. Mum and Dad’s friends must have left because the house is very quiet. There was singing when I got back from the Ridgeway, singing and music. I went into Akash’s room to check if he was there; I was so sure that he was the one playing the guitar. But he wasn’t there. I searched the whole house, but there was no sign of him. And then I couldn’t smell him any more. I began to think that maybe I’d imagined it all, that there was no smell, and no clue, and that he really was gone forever.

  But I smelled him, didn’t I? At the Ridgeway.

  I grab my phone to message Fi.

  I know you said it’s a long shot, but do you have any more info on your lead? I’m desperate to know … N x

  She hates me hassling her about this stuff – says I need to ‘manage my expectations’ or whatever, that these things take time and she’d always tell me if she knew more. But I can’t help it.

  I’ve just turned back to my painting when there’s a knock on my bedroom door. My heart sinks. I really don’t want to see Mum right now. She comes in anyway.

  ‘I brought you food,’ she says, her voice soft and sickly, like nothing has happened. ‘You haven’t eaten anything this evening …’

  I keep my eyes on the painting. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  The picture in front of me is almost complete. Usually, it takes me days, weeks even, to finish. But not today. It’s a bit of a blur to be honest – I don’t remember painting it. I remember putting on some music to block out all the singing from the garden. I was shaking because I couldn’t find Akash. I picked up my paintbrush, and then … this.

  I inspect the way the dove-grey sky turns almost black in places. How it blurs into the dark green hills and tiny pink and white houses. My heart lifts and sinks, lifts and sinks. There’s a bit of light, white, shining through the sky.

  Mum sighs. ‘At least eat the halva, huh? It has almonds, good for the brain. With all this study …’

  I roll my eyes, my back still turned to Mum. She really is like a broken record. You know what else is good for the brain, Mum? Not having weirdo parents who think having a baby is the answer to everything. And also having some space.

  I hear her getting comfortable on my bed, the mattress creaking. Great. Make yourself at home, why don’t you? I ignore her, hoping she’ll take the hint and go away. I focus on the painting, the bit of light in the sky. Something’s missing, though I don’t know what. I wait for it to come to me. For that tingle in my
belly that reaches the tips of my fingers in those seconds before an idea arrives.

  But nothing comes. I guess I’m too distracted now.

  ‘Are you … OK?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Never been better,’ I snap. I stare at my painting. What is it? What’s missing?

  ‘Oh, Neena. I thought you’d want this,’ Mum says.

  I swing round to face her. ‘There are a million things I want, Mum. Baby is not on my list, strangely enough.’ I laugh now. She looks so surprised. One of Fi’s friends got pregnant recently and started acting really stupid. Weird stuff, like she couldn’t remember the date, or the name of simple things like cheesecake. Baby brain, or something, I think it’s called. Mum must have that.

  She peers at my face really seriously, like she’s trying to figure something out. It’s a bit intense. What’s her problem? What doesn’t she understand? I thought Akash was coming back. But he isn’t here. And no one can take his place. Simple. If she doesn’t get that, she definitely has the baby-brain thing. Is there something she can take for it?

  ‘It wasn’t easy, you know,’ she says finally.

  I screw up my face. Oh. My. God. Do I really need the details?

  She looks horrified too. ‘Leaving the house,’ she says. ‘I mean, it wasn’t easy to leave the house for the scan. If that’s why … why you’re angry … I know you’ve asked me to go out … lots of times … And I haven’t been able to …’

  My breath catches in my throat.

  Oh. Wow.

  In all the confusion about Akash returning, I hadn’t even thought about the fact that Mum must have actually left the house for the scan. Over six months of being housebound, and she actually went out? My faithful throat lump returns. I gulp and gulp but it stays put.

  I’m remembering all the times I really wanted Mum to leave the house. I can’t help it. The art exhibition that displayed my painting, chosen as one of three from the whole class; I was so happy but I missed Akash so much. Dad’s birthday when I went out for a meal with him by myself, which wasn’t awkward at all (spoiler: it was – we have nothing to talk about other than school). Parents’ evening, when Dad was SO embarrassing, trying to tell the teachers how to teach. I wanted to die and wished Mum was there to stop him.

  But for this baby – she went out.

  ‘So are you suddenly cured?’ I snap.

  ‘Cured?’ she echoes back, frowning.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Like, can you leave the house and stuff now? You’re better?’

  She stares at me. ‘It’s not like I’m ill, Neena. I just … I prefer staying at home … I … I can go out any time. If I want.’

  ‘But you just said – you just told me – how hard it is for you! And all those times when you said no, you mean you could have?’

  ‘No, no. It’s not like that. But … I’m not ill. You’re just exaggerating now.’

  We stare at each other.

  ‘Right, Mum. Sure.’ I give a sarcastic little laugh and blow it out through my nose. I’m being a bit mean now. But does Mum seriously think she’s OK? I guess she could be in total denial that something’s wrong with her. We’ve never really talked about it – it hasn’t come up properly, other than when I used to ask her to do things and she said she wasn’t ready. That was a long time ago now, but even then we sort of accepted it as something temporary that she’d get over once she was ready. I wonder now whether she talks to any of her friends about it. They come here all the time, which is obviously because Mum can’t – I mean, couldn’t – leave. Doesn’t she realize that it’s a big deal?

  She’s staring at me again now. ‘You’re taking your medication?’ she asks.

  I blink at her. She’s never asked about my meds. Not since the first evening. After that, she gave me the tablets every night like they were paracetamol, smiling, breezy, a glass of cool water in her hands. It was like that visit to the doctor’s never happened. Now it feels like a dig. And as if she’s using it to change the subject.

  ‘Yes, I’m taking my meds,’ I say firmly. ‘But, more importantly, have you thought about taking any?’

  Her lips tighten and she glares at me. But I know I’m not saying anything wrong. ‘It’s not normal, Mum, staying in the house all day. You know that really, don’t you?’

  Mum’s fingers nervously pluck at the dupatta round her neck. ‘I just … I’ve been worried about you … All this exam pressure … And what happened before with the Year Nine SAT exams …’

  I cross my arms. Fine, so she’s not going to talk about herself. She’s going to make this all about me. I breathe in deeply through my nose. ‘That was a long time ago, Mum,’ I say. And I’m trying to convince myself of that fact too.

  Mum sniffs. Oh God. She’s going to cry. No. I can’t handle her crying right now. Nothing’s making any sense and I want to be alone. I need to get her out of my room.

  I crouch down by her side. ‘Mum,’ I say carefully. ‘I’ve been taking my medication. And everything is fine. I just … I have A LOT of revision for exams. Plus all this art. But it’s OK. Really. I just need to get on with it …’

  I give her hand a little squeeze. It makes me feel a bit sick, the way I’m so good at pretending. Mostly, though, I’m honestly thrilled at myself because Mum manages a smile. I smile back. Both of us pretending nothing is wrong. Not with her. Not with me.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, her voice a bit brighter now. She stands up. ‘Yes, I’ll leave you to it.’

  I nod. ‘Everything’s fine,’ I say again. Nothing is fine. Nothing will ever be fine again. ‘Everything is completely fine.’

  Once Mum leaves, I get one of my brown paper bags out of my bedside drawer and breathe into it: in for five, out for five. Slow, steady. My head’s spinning. I can’t believe Mum left the house. I should be happy for her, but it’s hard to right now. The dark thoughts that have been creeping around on the edges of my mind sink in. Mum left the house for the baby, but not for me. Maybe I’m just not enough. Is that why they’re having another baby?

  My eyes fill with tears. Despite the brown bag, my breathing worsens.

  I sink down on to the edge of my bed. After a few minutes, I hear Mum and Dad chatting happily as they use the bathroom, getting ready for bed. They flick off their bedroom light and the house is suddenly completely silent. It was never this quiet when Akash was here. I have the urge to blast out Bollywood music, like he used to. But then that would wake Mum and Dad and they’d hassle me. I don’t want that either.

  What I need is a distraction.

  I keep breathing into the paper bag as I check my phone to see if Fi has messaged me back. I really need to know if she’s got any more information on Akash. She’s replied. My heart races as I read her message.

  Nothing, I’m afraid. Not getting anywhere. Sorry, Neens. I didn’t mean to get your hopes up …

  I screw up the paper bag. Chuck it across the room so hard it hurts my shoulder. It hits the wall and bounces back at me, landing beside my feet. A small yelp escapes me, rising up from my belly. I bury my face in my hands as my breathing worsens.

  Fumbling for my bedside drawer, the tears coming fast now, I look down at the tiny tablets. I should take one; it will help to calm the thoughts, my brain, me. But, instead of reaching for one, I remember the day I got the pills. It was two months after Akash disappeared. Everything was extremely hard: my thoughts were racing so fast I could barely keep up with them; I’d stopped eating or sleeping; I cried all the time. I’d had a cold, a bit of a temperature, and Mum took me to the doctor. The doctor had been worried and chatted to Mum quite intensely; I was in a sort of daze. I don’t remember what they were saying.

  But I remember Mum had laughed nervously. ‘She just needs some sleep.’ And the doctor had frowned and scribbled something down.

  Mum and I had picked up the crisp white bag from the pharmacy together. It wasn’t until I was home, back in my bedroom, that I looked at the name of the medicine. It was such a long, strange name, not one I’
d come across before, so I’d opened the package to get a proper look. Antidepressants.

  I was shocked. It hadn’t even occurred to me until that moment that I might be depressed. That the way I felt might be something ‘curable’, that I could take medication for it. I thought it was just the way I was. The way I’d always be now that Akash had disappeared.

  Mum had perched on my bed, holding a glass of water. She took the tablets from me and handed me just one. I had to take one every night before bed, she said. And I felt ready for it, ready to try anything really. But then she added: ‘No one needs to know about these, Neena. It can be our secret.’

  God, the shame.

  I already felt like a failure. I couldn’t function like a normal human being. Sleeping, eating, these were such basic things. And Mum’s words just made me feel that even more. But there was also this strange sense of relief and so I tried to hold on to that. I took the pill, gulping it down with my shame.

  That night I slept. And so I continued taking the pills. I felt just a bit more together. I got out of bed in the mornings. I went to school. I didn’t stop feeling sad, exactly, but they did help.

  I never stopped being embarrassed though. The only person I told about the tablets was Raheela, one evening when she came to sleep over. I thought maybe she’d get it. That perhaps Mum was wrong and it was actually OK. Not normal but also nothing to be ashamed of. But Raheela had looked awkwardly at her lap. She didn’t know what to say.

  Was that the start of it? Us drifting apart. She blames Fi, I know, but maybe she actually thinks I’m too … broken? Messed up? Unmendable?

  I slam the drawer shut. I don’t want the tablets any more.

  Sinking down to the floor, I reach under my bed and pull out the bottle of whisky I took from Akash’s room. I unscrew the lid and drink. It burns my throat and I hate it. But I also want more. And more.

  My muscles relax a bit. So does my brain. And so does my breathing.

  But then I picture Mum and Dad all cosy in bed. Three of them now. Happy.