That Girl From Nowhere

by Dorothy Koomson

  ‘Please …’

  ‘At some point, very soon, I will not be able to do anything for myself.’ Pause. ‘I will need help with everything. I do not want to burden others with that.’

  This was what it was like with Dad, of course. But I did not mind. Mum did not mind. He seemed to mind, he did not like not being able to help himself, take care of himself. That he needed help to do the most basic things from washing his face to going to the toilet. From the little I know of people, and the even smaller amount of info I have about this woman, that level of dependency would be awful. Loss of dignity, people call it.

  I stare at the woman facing this loss of dignity, and sadness overcomes me. Her pride, her need to not lose face in front of other people, even the people who cared for her, made her want to give up on life. She would rather be away from other people than be ‘weak’ in front of them.

  ‘You do not understand,’ she states.

  ‘To be honest, no, I don’t, not completely. Part of me understands, of course, and I’m sort of impressed that you seem so determined to do this. On the other hand, no, I don’t understand. Your family would be heartbroken without you.’

  She laughs quietly, the tic on her face suddenly moving rapidly before settling again. ‘You are my family, too, Clemency.’ A pause. More laughter. ‘Did you forget that?’

  ‘But not like the others,’ I say.

  ‘My dear, you do not want to be like the others.’

  The look that had passed between my other mother and my grandmother comes to mind, the mutual dislike, the overt signs of a power struggle. What would that be like? How would I feel being looked after, having my intimate needs taken care of, by someone I didn’t like. A coldness slips through me and settles in my stomach at the thought of having to ask my cousin Nancy to fetch me a bedpan or even remember when to bring me my medication. Seeing that look on her face, experiencing the weight of her disgust and dislike, making myself vulnerable to her so I can simply survive. I wasn’t sure what the source of the animosity was between my birth grandmother and birth mother but it would not be a sustainable situation: looking after someone you hated, being cared for by someone who resented you.

  ‘My biggest worry.’ Pause. ‘Is another attack.’ Pause. ‘That renders me.’ Pause. ‘Helpless.’ Pause. ‘Locked in. No way out.’

  That sounds a bit like my terror of being buried alive, trying and failing to claw my way out of a coffin, knowing I’m trapped under a ton of dirt. I know my terror, which borders on a phobia, is mostly irrational, hers isn’t. Because, not only is the confined space her own body, it is also a perfectly rational worry with what is slowly and insidiously happening to her health. Involuntarily, I shudder at the idea of mentally trying to claw my way out of my own body, knowing I’d never be able to. Knowing the only way out is …

  ‘Thing is, how am I supposed to do it?’ I say to her. I can understand a bit better where she is coming from, but that doesn’t mean I can do what she wants. There are a million trillion miles of road between understanding why she might want this and actually doing it. ‘I mean, do you expect me to put a pillow over your face or something?’ I freeze for a moment at the thought of it. ‘I wouldn’t be able to do that. Or anything like that. It’s simply not in me.’

  ‘When you tell me you will help.’ Pause. ‘I will tell you what to do.’

  ‘So you will do it? I only have to help you?’ That may not be so bad if I don’t have to actually do it.

  She raises her hands from her lap and the tremors, which do not seem so pronounced in her body, are shockingly violent in her hands. She lowers them again. ‘I cannot.’

  I would have to do it. I would have to kill her. I know I’m supposed to call it ‘helping her to die’, aiding her in ‘fulfilling her final wish’, ‘being merciful’. In truth, though, I would be killing her. Ending her life. It would be what she wanted, but it would not alter the facts of what I had done. And I would still be arrested if the police found out what I had done. I would still be ostracised by the family I have only just found if they discovered what I had done.

  My birth grandmother, a woman I have met for a total of about three hours, would like to make a killer of me with herself as my first victim.

  She moves suddenly forwards, a violent jerk that causes my heart to lurch. I move towards her, immediately desperate to help. I could look after her, I think. I could look after her and then she might not want to do this. ‘No,’ she says firmly.

  She struggles and pushes against the arms of the chair until she is upright. I stand too, ready to catch her if she should fall. Ready if she needs me. This sort of thing I can do, this sort of help I have no problem with.

  She moves forward, reaching her hands out towards the high dresser with five drawers beside her bed, even though it is at least three strides’ distance from where she is. I do not attempt to help her again, I simply wait for her to move, poised to help. She stumbles, but manages to shuffle and jerk forwards, aiming for her bed, I guess. It would be easier if I helped, but I can see the lines of defiance and pride that are set in her face.

  As she reaches the dresser she stumbles again, more severely this time and her fingers, groping blindly for the bevelled edge of the dresser, slip away and she falls forwards, her body hitting the dresser, dislodging most of the neatly lined up medication. I catch her before she stumbles backwards and falls to the ground. She is unexpectedly heavy, a veritable dead weight in my arms, and I stumble, too, but manage to keep my balance.

  ‘Let me go!’ she orders.

  I resist the urge to do as I’m told and instead, with my arms hooked under her arms, I move her to the bed and allow her to place her hands on it then lower herself into a seated position.

  ‘I did not need your help,’ she barks at me.

  I bet you’re a treat to look after, I think.

  ‘You must leave,’ she says. ‘I will call you.’

  Lucky me, I think. I hide my face by dropping to my knees, gathering up the containers littering the floor by her bed like I am gathering pebbles on the beach to use as inspiration for my jewellery. ‘Right, fine,’ I say. The names of the drugs run idly through my head as I line them up as neatly as I can. There is no way I can begin to know if they were in order of consumption, and if they were, which is the right order to stack them, so I don’t even try.

  Besides, I have been dismissed. It’s probably best to leave as soon as possible. ‘You think.’ Pause. ‘Promise me.’ Pause. ‘You will think.’

  ‘I will,’ I say. ‘But I don’t know you. This is something you can’t ask a virtual stranger to do.’

  ‘We do not have much time … my illnesses make it difficult … but would you like to get to know me?’

  More than anything, I think. I didn’t realise how needy I could be until this moment. ‘Even if I did, that doesn’t mean I’d be able to do this thing.’

  ‘I know, Clemency, I know … But come back to see me … for a short time, we can talk … And you can tell me about yourself … about your life.’

  ‘You want to know about me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I shrug. ‘OK.’

  ‘And you must promise to at least think about my request.’

  ‘I … I … I promise. To think about it. Nothing more.’

  ‘I do not need any more than for you to think.’

  ‘OK, I will think.’

  The woman in front of me eases herself backwards, seemingly stronger than she was a second ago. A fleeting thought dances across my mind: Was she putting on that show to get me to do what she wants?

  Of course she wasn’t. Who would do that sort of thing?

  ‘Goodbye then,’ I say. I am standing at the door.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she says. ‘I look forward to seeing you again.’

  I leave the house with the memory of her smile, something that seemed painful for her to do, and a deep sense of unease that not only am I keeping things from Mum, I’m going to be keeping m
y meetings with my grandmother secret, and she is expecting me to do it. Whatever I say, whatever I promise to think about, whatever I know deep down inside that I can’t do, she is expecting me to become her killer.

  33

  Smitty

  ‘Can I see your jewellery?’ I ask her.

  We don’t have much time together, only the thirty or so minutes between the district nurse leaving and my other mother returning with Lily-Rose from school. My grandmother told me that my other mother often took Lily to the library on the way home or sometimes to run around in the park, but the thought of her catching us together was a risk I didn’t want to take. My other mother still hadn’t called me to arrange another meeting and I didn’t want to impose myself upon her. It was nice to be with someone, like my grandmother, who made it clear she wanted to be with me. I wasn’t stupid, though – I knew what motivated her interest in me, but that didn’t matter because even if it was for snatches of time, it would be nice to get to know a little bit about her.

  ‘Of course, of course.’ She moves to indicate the chest of drawers where her medication is stored, but the shaking in her hand is so pronounced and severe she stares at it as though it is not connected to her body, like she has never seen it before. The horror seems to dawn on her anew that this is her body, her arm she has lost control of, and then grief unfolds carefully and precisely on her features as she seems to mourn what this means for her body and her life. I avert my eyes – I do not want her to know that I have noticed her distress at what is happening to her. It is private, not something I should be a part of, no matter what she has asked me to do.

  ‘The bottom drawer,’ she says quietly, her upset like a thin paint wash that covers her words – there but not immediately obvious. Still there though, still an indicator of what she is truly feeling.

  The district nurse had given me a huge smile on her way out, nodded as though she approved of my visit – and I could see why when I entered the bedroom – my grandmother had seemed pleased to see me, lighter and freer somehow. Relieved, too, I’d imagine.

  As I lower myself to the bottom drawer, without intending to, I pause to look at the medication on top of the cabinet: some of the tablets and capsules are distorted behind the colour and curve of the glass and look like the little jars I keep beads in. I know what ails her, but what are all these tablets actually for? How do they alleviate the pain she is in? Do they alleviate the pain she is in? If they do, there would be no reason for her to be contemplating what she is, surely?

  From the bottom drawer I remove a heavy, large, shallow, lidded box that is a pale beige, the thickness of the butterfly box I once slept in, but not decorated like that one. ‘This?’ I ask. I hold it up and she nods slowly. Her tremors seem worse today, her face tired and agonised at the same time. I should not stay here too long, but I need to get to know her if I am going to think seriously about what she asked me to do.

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  I place the box on the floor by the bed so she can see it, and sit cross-legged in front of it. For some reason, the idea of taking photos of this stuff seems unsavoury as though I am planning to kill her for it. I want to see it, though, because jewellery is how I get to know people.

  ‘You are a true Zebila,’ she says suddenly. Although her tremors are more pronounced and have destabilised her mood, she seems able to talk more clearly and fluently today. Maybe that is how it works, with the conditions she has – some days your body, beyond the basic necessities for survival, will concentrate on being able to do one thing.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask. Has Abi shown her the DNA test results? The idea of that panics me, makes me think that after everything they still didn’t believe I was one of them.

  ‘When Abimbola said you made jewellery, my heart soared. We are from a gold family. Your grandfather’s great-great-grandfather was one of the first Nihanarans to own a gold mine. The Europeans tried to trick him out of it and then with later generations they tried to steal it from our family, but it never worked. It has been passed down through our family until now. My eldest son, Douglas, he is in Nihanara, he runs the family business.’ She rests back on her mountain of pillows. ‘You are the first one to work with the family metal.’

  I don’t make much gold jewellery from scratch because it is expensive and not worth having unless it is pure, but I do relove a fair amount of it since once someone has a piece made from gold they’re often loath to part with it.

  ‘That is something that makes you special in this family,’ my grandmother says. Considering she didn’t even see me after I was born, she is laying it on a bit thick – but I don’t mind. It’s a way of getting to know her; finding out what she is really like. What she is really like is that she over-eggs the pudding because she thinks it will get me to do what she wants. Which shows how little she knows about me.

  I open the box and inside there is a universe of wonder. It’s almost as though someone has created my fantasy world inside this box. That was why it was so heavy, there is so much inside, and it is disorganised and meshed together, and like something from my very best dreams. I’m not sure where to begin – I have to unravel pieces from each other, which adds to the excitement building inside me. Having to do this starts the reloving process: I can see what different shapes the item can be twisted into, shaped and made. How it can look next to different materials, jewels and other stones and precious items.

  The first piece I reach for is a thick link bracelet, heavy because each link is solid, eighteen-carat yellow gold. It’d be impossible to wear for any length of time – male or female – without developing wrist ache. I run my fingers over the flattened top and bottom of the bracelet. They are smooth and cool to my initial touch, leavened to allow them to rest flat against the wrist. ‘Is this yours?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. Julius’s father gave it to me when we were courting in Nihanara. He did not realise that it was a man’s bracelet.’ My grandmother chortles, quietly, the most she can manage, I guess, and the laughter she is able to produce livens her face. It tells me she must have been so in love with my grandfather, the way she laughs at the thought of him. ‘He had no idea. It was far too heavy, too thick.’ If I was to relove this item, I would take it apart, break it down to its tiny component links and then remake several items to suit the owner. I usually start with the person, but in this case, it would need to be broken down and rebuilt.

  ‘Tell me a story about you. Something that no one else knows,’ I say to her. ‘Not about the jewellery, anything about you.’

  She seems to go away to another place while she thinks about this. Her body tremors, her face twitches violently on her right cheekbone, but her eyes are still and steady as she contemplates what it is she does not mind me knowing that no one else knows. ‘Your grandfather, he was called Ivor, too, he was not the first man to win my heart,’ she confesses. ‘There was another boy who … he was from another family in the same city. We had grown up together. I met him at school. The three of us, we were friends but it was clear to me as we moved through our years who I was to marry.’

  A shiver of recognition shimmers through me – it sounds like the situation I was in with Dylan and Seth. My grandfather was her Seth – not the first to win her heart, but the one she realised she loved and wanted to be with forever. I stop myself there, prevent myself from remembering where that eventually led.

  ‘Didn’t the other boy love you enough?’ I asked. Or was it like with Dylan and me – did she finally stop loving him when she realised how uninterested he was in anything except keeping her dangling on a line for when he needed an ego boost or an unchaste Christmas kiss.

  My grandmother frowns at me as though I am being ridiculous at the very idea that someone wouldn’t love her enough. ‘Not at all. They were both in love with me.’ It must be nice to have that certainty of how other people feel about you.

  ‘If you loved him, he loved you, and he was the man you were meant to marry, then why didn’t you?’


  ‘He was not the man who I was meant to marry. Ivor was.’ I must look confused. ‘Ivor Zebila was from a decent family. They had status and wealth.’

  ‘The other boy didn’t?’

  ‘He was nice, he had some wealth, but he was not a Zebila. Everyone knew of the Zebilas. They were respected and coveted.’

  ‘That was important to you?’ Status, wealth, power. Everything done for show.

  ‘When you grow up with very little, you learn what is important and necessary to have in life. Their parents could both afford the school, my parents had to work long and hard to make enough money to send me, the eldest of their six daughters, to school. I knew what was important, what I had to do for my family.’

  So not like Seth, Dylan and me at all, really. I know nothing of what it must have been like to be in love with someone but to do your duty and marry someone else because it will mean your family is taken care of, your sisters will be able to go to school and your parents will not have to work so hard.

  It still rankles, though, that she would choose money, wealth and status over love. She is doing a very good job of removing any images I might have had in my head of her being a fluffy grandmother, ill and sickly, who is coming to the end of a life lived with and filled by love. She is showing me she will do whatever it takes to get what she wants.

  ‘Did you love my grandfather?’

  ‘Of course. I grew to love him over the years, very much. He chose me because he knew I would make a good wife, I would improve the standing of their family by giving him strong children. You asked me to tell you something that no one knew and that was it. Are you disappointed?’

  ‘No, no, just surprised at how candid you are.’

  ‘I see.’

  I look down at the bracelet again. I would struggle to remake this piece even if I had broken it down. It would need to be completely melted to start again. Or maybe … I pick it up again. If I were to reshape one of the links into a circle, I could make it into a flower pendant. Solder the different links on to the circle. Or maybe the links laid out in a seemingly random pattern, linked into an asymmetric chainmail design, that would sit across the chest. It would be heavy but, like the other design, showy, large, unmissable. This is what she would like – the outward appearance of wealth. I move the links, see how they look next to each other.