by Eva Woods
“Why must you spoil everything?”
Rosie stepped back, shocked at the rage of her mild-mannered little sister. “I didn’t mean...”
“Well, you did. It’s my engagement party! And you’re piss drunk, you’ve been sick on the crisps—don’t think I didn’t notice—and you’re all over Dave, for God’s sake, a guy you wouldn’t spit on if you weren’t trying to get at me... God, Rosie, you’re just so selfish!”
“I’m not trying to get at you, Daise! God, it’s the opposite. I don’t think you’re happy, that’s all.” She stepped forward; Daisy shrugged her off. “When I see you with him, you’re not yourself. Your eyes. They’re all kind of tight and miserable. Why are you doing it? Just to make Mum happy? For someone to love you? Anyone would love you, Daise—”
“I’m not miserable. I’m happy! I’m getting married! You’re the one who’s miserable, Rosie, and you’re trying to bring everyone else down with you!”
The door opened and the noise of the party rose and fell; their mother stepped out, shutting it behind her. She looked furious. “Rosie, what on earth is wrong with you? Showing us up like that! What’s going on?” She sniffed at her daughter. “And you’re drunk. Rosie, I think you need help.”
“You’re the one who stopped Dad from coming to his own daughter’s engagement party! You don’t think that was kind of upsetting for Daisy too?”
Daisy stared at the floor.
Their mother’s face hardened. “I think you should leave. You’re embarrassing yourself and us.”
“I just don’t think Daisy should be marrying that guy. He’s a prat. He won’t make her happy.”
“He’s a stable young man, with a good job, who won’t let her down, unlike your father.”
“God, when will you stop blaming everything on Dad? Take some responsibility! What about what you did?”
“Oh!” Her mother’s face tore into a sob. “Oh Rosie. How can you be so cruel?”
“I’m so cruel? What about—?”
Daisy snapped. “Will you just both stop it? I’ve spent my whole life listening to you two tear strips off each other. And this is my party. Stop ruining it!”
“Daisy!”
“Enough, Mum! Just go back inside.” Daisy turned to Rosie. “Mum’s right. You’re drunk, you should go home. But don’t take Dave with you, please. He’s a sweet guy under all the Star Wars stuff. He doesn’t need your drama.”
“What’s going on out here?” It was Gary, of course, sticking his oar in.
Daisy sounded very tired. “It’s okay, I’m handling it.”
“Is she causing trouble again?”
“Just leave it, Gar. Come on. Your boss is here, let’s go and smooth things over.”
Her mother and sister turned away from her, her mother wiping a shaking hand over her eyes, and closed the door behind them. Rosie was left alone on the stairs, shut out from the party. Gary hung back, staring at her.
“You’ve got something to say, I suppose?” she snarled.
“Don’t think I’ll put up with this kind of thing after the wedding, Rosie.”
“How fucking dare you, Gary. It’s my family. It’s nothing to do with you.”
He came close, hissing in her face. “If you ask me, your family would be a lot better off without you.” And he went back to the party, slamming the door, pasting on a smile.
As Rosie watched, her past self gave a long ragged sob, and fled down the stairs, out onto the street. She remembered now that Dave had come after her, clumsily asking was she alright, and she’d dragged him home with her and...oh, it was all a mess. A terrible, insoluble mess. And now she’d remembered, she couldn’t even say sorry, because she was comatose in a hospital bed.
“Eeee,” was all Grandma had to say on the subject. “It does take all sorts.”
Daisy
The village’s sole Chinese takeaway did a roaring trade, and so did not have to bother with niceties such as nonlaminated menus, environmental health ratings or lighting that didn’t make you lose all hope as soon as you entered. The man behind the counter was also definitely not Chinese. “Alright?”
“Yeah, hi. I’ll have the beef in black bean sauce, the chicken chow mein, fried rice, spring rolls, prawn crackers... What?”
He was staring at her. Under his very dirty white uniform hat, his face was narrow and spotty. Early thirties, she thought. “You’re Rosie Cooke’s sister, ain’t you?”
“Er, yeah, I’m Daisy.”
“Thought you was. Andy, Andy Franks.”
“Hi. Were you friends?” Please God it was just friends, not another example of Rosie’s famously terrible taste in men.
“Was mates with Bryn, you know, who she used to have that thing with.”
Daisy nodded, although she had heard of this Bryn only just minutes ago. “I hear he’s in prison.”
Andy’s face hardened. “Yeah. He were a bad lot. Took me a while to see it. Your Rosie, she were...always hoped she’d ditch him. She were way too good for him. All that hair she had, like a princess or something, and in them school plays—she were right good. Did she make it, you know, at the acting? Always look out for her on EastEnders and that.”
Daisy hadn’t the heart to tell him Rosie had given up acting, and was currently lying unconscious in a hospital bed. For this man, Rosie was forever a teenager, the beautiful live wire she’d been back then. Of course, the thing about live wires was they were actually quite dangerous. “Er, yeah, she’s doing okay. I’ll tell her you were asking after her.”
“There you go.” Andy slid over the warm, fragrant bag of food. “Stuck a few spare ribs in and all.”
“Oh, that’s really kind of you, thanks.”
“Tell ’er to look in and say hello when she’s down.”
“I will.” Except Daisy had no idea if Rosie would ever set foot in this village again.
* * *
Despite pronouncing herself “not very hungry,” her mum had eaten three spring rolls and a generous helping of rice and beef in black bean sauce. Daisy was glad. There was something sad about this house, which had once held a family. The pathetic contents of the fridge, the single chair angled to the TV, her mother’s glasses placed on top of her book. Ever since her father left, Daisy had been at pains to keep the peace, between him and her mother and also between Rosie and her parents (she hadn’t done such a good job there). But she’d never really thought about how it was for her mum, left behind, sitting in her empty house while her ex-husband was off with another woman and a new child.
She checked the clock on the microwave. “We should head off first thing in the morning, Mum. Shall I help you pack?”
“I’m fine, darling. If you want to find something to take for Rosie, there’s some old toys and books in your room.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea.”
“I still can’t see it working though. They need to be thinking about an operation, or some kind of medicine, not...the Chalet school or whatever.”
“Well, it’s worth a try. I’ll take a look.”
Daisy trailed upstairs, running her fingers along the bumpy wallpaper. She and Rosie had often crept down these stairs at night as small children, listening to their parents talk in the kitchen, the warm hum of adult laughter. They’d picked off all the flocks with their childish fingers, driving Alison mad. Daisy and Rosie had shared a room then, in twin beds. They’d played a game they called Crocodile, jumping between the beds until they got in trouble. Some nights Rosie told her sister long involved stories, until she fell asleep. Daisy had been afraid of the dark. Rosie always said, the dark is hugging you, Daise. It’s like a big blanket wrapped around you. Nothing to be scared of. And when it had all got scary for real, Rosie would get up and check under Daisy’s bed or in the wardrobe. “See, nothing here. No monsters.” And Daisy could remember her sister tucking
her back in. “I’ll stay awake and keep guard. You sleep.”
Then, suddenly, there was going to be an occupant of the spare room. There was going to be a little brother or sister. At first, Daisy had not been sure how to take this news. She was the baby, wasn’t she? So when her mother got fat and slow, and then disappeared for a few days, she was already suspicious. She could still remember the day they came back from hospital—she didn’t have many memories of being that age, but that one was clear and strong, the half worried half happy feeling that she was a big sister now. Had it been Christmas? She had a vague memory of lights and tinsel.
Daisy paused now in the hallway and ran her fingers lightly over the door of the spare room. For a while after, she had not been sure what to call this room. If you said Petey’s room, Mummy would cry and run out and everyone would look sad. After a while they started calling it the spare room again, but Daisy always felt that second of alarm before saying the words. When Rosie hit her teens she demanded to move into it, which had caused another almighty row. “It’s not like he needs it, Mum!”
Daisy could hear her mother opening drawers in her own room, and so she gently turned the handle and stepped in.
It looked totally different, of course. When her mother went away to get better that time, their father had stayed up all night grimly slapping paint over the blue walls, making them cream and bland. She remembered peering round the door, the fresh lemon smell of the paint. Mum had cried when she came back and saw it. It’s like he was never here. Is that what you want, Mike?
For God’s sake, Alison, I don’t know what you want from me.
Now the room was a typical guest one—magnolia walls, blue carpet and bedspread. Throw pillows, pointless knickknacks on the chest of drawers and bedside table. It hadn’t been slept in for some time. Daisy realized it was ages since she’d visited. Work, she always said. Reports due. Pitches. But it wasn’t a good enough excuse.
She touched the wall gently. Was that where the yellow ducks mural had been? She and Rosie had helped with that—splashing paint everywhere of course. She’d helpfully drawn on a horse in red crayon, but hadn’t even got into trouble with Mum, who’d just laughed, her long red hair held back by a paint-stained scarf. That was when she’d been fat and happy, of course. When Petey was on his way. Daisy could barely remember Petey, was the truth. A blob in a cot, always crying and taking their mother’s attention away. When he’d gone she’d thought it was her fault, for not loving him enough, and she’d lain awake crying every night for weeks. Rosie would slip in beside her. “Shh, Daisy. Grandma said God just wanted another little angel.”
“Then God is a big selfish poo!”
Rosie had fallen silent, trying to puzzle it out for herself. “I know. It doesn’t really seem fair.”
And it hadn’t been. None of this was fair.
An enraged miaow interrupted her thoughts, and Daisy followed the smell of premium tuna to see Mopsy in the doorway, glaring malevolently. “Yes, yes. I lived here before you did, you know. I’m going now.”
She slipped back out, closing the door behind her, just as she heard her mother’s wavering voice from the bedroom, and was momentarily shocked at how old she sounded. Like a frail old woman. “Daisy? I think I’ll turn in. I want to head off early tomorrow.”
“Okay. Night, Mum.” Tomorrow. Day three. Crunch time for Rosie. She had to find out more about her sister’s life, and fast.
Rosie
The ward was quiet. Rosie lay awake, dry-eyed beneath her heavy lids. She knew she must look serene to those watching, the nurses who passed every so often, industrious birds in their uniforms, with kind, efficient hands. Little did they know she was in turmoil. She’d got drunk and ruined her sister’s engagement party. Shouted at her mum. Rejected her little half sister, who seemed like an adorable kid. Lost her friends, screwed them over—Angie, Caz. And Luke. She’d lost Luke. She knew that, deep down. He’d have come, wouldn’t he, if they were in touch. He’d be at her bedside right now, begging her to wake up.
“So what’s the point?” she said, out loud, but not out loud. “Is all this explaining why I wanted to kill myself? Did I walk in front of that bus on purpose, because I’d made such a mess of my life I couldn’t go on anymore?” It was a terrible thing, to not know if you’d tried to kill yourself. If it had been an accident, and you’d clung to your life with all your might as it was torn from you, like poor Darryl. Or if you’d let it go, throwing it up into the air like a captive bird.
What happened to me? How did I lose Luke? That night on the beach, the warm waves lapping and the cocktail flooding her veins, the smell of his tanned skin, the feel of his big capable hand resting on hers. That had been real. Had that maybe been the last time she was truly happy? Had the rest of her problems stemmed from there, a slow slide down until everything was ruined?
Rosie looked around her at the quiet, plain room. The rust stains from the water pipes which she’d already cataloged a hundred times. The switched-off TV that she wished she could turn on via mind control. The magazines her mother had left on her locker, tantalizingly out of reach. She had to try and wake up. And that meant facing everything, all the truth about what she’d done. “I’m ready for another memory,” she called. “Grandma? Darryl? Mr. M? Mel? Dot? Can someone come, please?”
Silence. “Is someone going to come and visit me?” she asked, to the empty air. Nothing. She sighed. “Oh come on. I’ll take any memory at all, I guess. Even though they mostly all suck.”
“That’s good,” said Melissa, appearing by the bed, her frizzy hair sticking up. “They mostly will all suck.”
“You look tired, is it night for you too?”
She yawned. “I’m a teenager, remember. I’d sleep for twenty-four hours if no one got me up.”
“I used to be like that,” Rosie said nostalgically. “Now I’m lucky if I get four hours.” Insomnia had plagued her for years, that almost-hysterical feeling of lying awake in the dark, listening to shouts and traffic outside her window, so sick of being herself that any kind of oblivion seemed better. Was that enough to make her walk under a bus?
“Do you remember when your sleep problems started?” said Melissa, reading her mind again. Reminding Rosie that the girl wasn’t really there, she was just...a memory. A hallucination. Of a friend Rosie hadn’t even thought of in years. A friend who’d died without her even noticing—or had she? She couldn’t access the memories of how Melissa died.
“I guess it was...not long after that drink in London. With Luke.” She remembered the Christmas after the pub encounter, short gray days burning themselves out before Rosie staggered from bed, long nights in her mother’s cold box room, staring at the orange glow of the electric socket. Her father long gone, with a new baby. Finding out Luke was getting married. But from the park memory, he’d clearly still been in her life after that. So where was he now?
“Do you remember what happened, between you two?” Melissa was gentle, but firm.
“No, but clearly I’m going to find out. I’m not going to like this memory much either, am I?”
“Sorry, Ro-Ro,” said Melissa, holding out her ink-stained ghostly hand. “That’s kind of the point of all this.”
Rosie knew now not to argue. She took her old friend’s hand, and closed her eyes, opened them. The hospital was gone; the dial was spinning. 28 2 2015. Several years after the park. She closed her eyes again. It was her last chance to remember, before dawn broke and she was on to day three.
28 February 2015 (Two years ago)
It was a hotel room. Anonymous, clean enough, with one of those stupid tiny kettles and bars of wrapped soap no bigger than a square of chocolate. Past Rosie was on the bed, regarding herself glumly in the mirror. She was in her underwear, the same kind of stuff they’d cut off her in the ER. Marks & Spencer cotton, plain and functional.
“Ooh, free snacks!” Melissa was unwra
pping a packet of chocolate biscuits from near the kettle. “I never stayed in a hotel when I was alive, you know.”
“I don’t remember this. What am I doing?”
Past Rosie suddenly got up, making an expression of annoyance in her throat, and pulled her jeans and jumper over the underwear, fluffing out her red hair. Her face looked pale and miserable. She went over to the bathroom door and knocked on it gently. “Are you okay?” she said, tentatively.
The door opened a crack, letting out steam, and through it the hazy figure of a man in just a towel. “Not really. I feel awful. You?”
“Well...no. I feel rotten too.”
“Christ, Rosie. I’m so sorry. I never meant for... God. This was a terrible idea.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t mean...”
There was an awkward pause. “I better go.” Rosie lunged for her shoes, fumbling on her socks, which had pictures of dinosaurs on them. Not the kind of thing you’d wear for a night of passion, surely. This was clearly the awkward morning after, but after what? And why was it this awkward?
“We should talk though.”
“Should we?”
“I just need... God, this is all such a shock. I never expected... Give me some time?”
Rosie was buttoning her coat all wrong, hiding her face under her hair as if she might be about to cry. “It’s fine. I understand. I...I’ll just go.”
“Rosie!” As she edged toward the door, the man came out of the bathroom after her. “Can’t we just... Christ.”
“Oh my God. It’s Luke,” hissed Now Rosie to Melissa. And it was. The curve of his face, the width of his chest, his wet fair hair. Luke, who had been engaged to a tiny beautiful woman.
“Rosie! Rosie, wait!”
She turned briefly, her face contorted in tears. “I’m sorry, Luke. It’s not fair to her. For Charlie’s sake, you need to at least try.” Then Past Rosie was gone, and Luke, dressed as he was in just a towel, clearly could not go after her. She watched her past self rush down the corridor of the cheap hotel, already in tears. Who was Charlie? Who was her, for that matter?
