The Lives We Touch

by Eva Woods

  Her parents had not seemed to notice Dot going into the room past them, and were still bickering out in the corridor. Did that mean she was another ghostly visitor?

  ‘What on earth are you wearing, anyway, Mike?’

  ‘Carole bought it.’

  ‘It’s about ten years too young for you.’

  ‘Dot,’ Rosie tried, though she knew she wasn’t really speaking out loud. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on. Are you real? Have you come to take me away?’

  ‘Not to worry, darlin’. You’ll soon be better. I just know it.’ And she patted Rosie’s limp foot under the bedclothes, and bustled out again.

  ‘But wait … are you … is there another memory coming up? I’m so confused!’

  A voice said, ‘Don’t worry, lovie, it’s me who has to do this one. We take turns.’

  ‘Grandma,’ said Rosie, relieved, as she spotted the small ghostly figure in the corner of the room. And was that …? Yep, there was a ghostly pug with her, waddling about sniffing at things. Filou, back from the dead, or at least the depths of her memory. ‘Do you know who that was?’

  ‘No, sorry, darling. Eee, your mum and dad are really going at it, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yup. Grandma, what the— What on earth’s going on with our family?’ Grandma was her father’s mother, she now remembered. Maybe she’d know what he’d been thinking when he’d spawned a small child. At his age!

  ‘Well, your mum and dad had a few troubles over the years,’ said Grandma, who was still knitting away furiously at the pink dog garment. ‘You know, after … everything. Happens all the time. Course, it didn’t in my day. You just put up with it, hid the sharp knives, smiled on the outside.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds very healthy. So Dad and Mum are divorced?’ She prodded her mind, trying to find the information, but it felt like such a jumble, the files scattered everywhere. ‘Carole.’ The name came from the depths of her brain-mush. ‘Is that the name of my … stepmother?’

  ‘That’s right. She’s not so bad, is Carole.’

  ‘And she’s the mum of …?’

  ‘Scarlett, yes. Though what kind of name that is, I don’t know. Fashionable, I suppose.’

  Rosie remembered now that ‘fashionable’ was the greatest insult her grandma could bestow. Oh, your new jeans came ready-ripped? That’s very … fashionable. ‘So I have a half-sister.’ She tried to process everything she’d just learned. The child in the Elsa costume, that was her sister. (And what was Frozen? Was that something Rosie should know?) Her dad had left her mum for some mysterious woman called Carole, had had another child. But more pressingly, she had three days to wake up, to try to remember what had happened to her, why she’d walked in front of the bus. The doctors thought she’d meant to do it. But it must have been an accident, surely. She wouldn’t have tried to kill herself, would she?

  ‘Ready for another memory, lovie?’

  Rosie knew she had to be. For some reason, reliving her life was the only way to find herself again, to remember, to wake up. At least the last one had been nice. There must be others in there of a time when everything was good. When she was very little, maybe. A time in, say, 1991. That year seemed significant for some reason. Maybe if she shut her eyes and tried really hard, she could control the strange time dial thing and go back to a happier time. Put things right again, even. Was that how it worked?

  She pictured it, the numbers spinning on the grey. Everything blurring, a big noise in the background. She focused hard on the date. 1991. Take me there.

  1 July 1991 (Twenty-six years ago)

  Rosie blinked. The light seemed different in this memory, brighter and softer both at once. Choosing the date seemed to have worked. She was in a room she recognised – the house she’d grown up in. The hallway, lined with framed pictures of her and Daisy as babies, her parents on their wedding day. You’d think, looking at them, that everyone was happy, a normal loving family. Rosie’s eyes adjusted to the gloom and she saw in front of her a small girl knocking softly on a closed door. She was six or seven, maybe. She wore a Flintstones sweatshirt and pale green jeans, her red hair in a swishy ponytail. It was her. It was Rosie as a kid.

  ‘Lord, this is a long way back,’ said her grandmother’s voice, near her ear. ‘Look at the dust on those pictures. Place needs a good clean.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘You know what’s going on, pet. It’s … the bad time.’

  Rosie swallowed hard. Little Rosie knocked on the door again. ‘Mummy? Mummy, are you awake? Daisy’s crying, Mummy. I think she wants some lunch.’

  There was no answer. The little girl looked so small beside the door. She barely came up to the handle. Rosie watched as her younger self put an ear to the wood, listening hard. Nothing. She stood for a moment, then set her small shoulders with determination and marched into the kitchen. Present-day Rosie and Grandma followed, mere shadows.

  A very young Daisy was standing on a stool and colouring something in with moody intensity. A sea of dark blue. She was only three or four here, was that normal? ‘I’m hungry, Rosie.’

  ‘I know, but Mummy’s still sleeping.’

  Daisy stabbed a crayon at her colouring. ‘She’s been sleeping all day! For ever and ever!’

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ Rosie hissed to her grandmother. ‘Why isn’t he looking after us?’

  ‘He’s at work, pet. They didn’t have the same type of parental leave back then. Different times. No harm came to you.’

  ‘You really think that’s true? Watch what happens next.’ Rosie nodded at it. ‘I remember this now.’

  ‘I’ll make our lunch,’ declared Little Rosie confidently. ‘I’ve seen Mummy do it. It’s not that hard.’ She stood on a chair and took out the bread from the bin, then went to the fridge for butter and ham. Then she opened a drawer and selected the biggest, sharpest knife in there. It was as long as her arm.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ said Grandma softly.

  Little Rosie worked on the sandwiches, tongue poking out with effort. Butter on bread, that was easy enough. Slap the ham on top. Just leave it, Rosie was urging her younger self. Eat it whole. Put the knife down!

  But there was no point. She knew how this memory ended. And she watched all over again as Little Rosie grasped the carving knife – not even a bread knife – and tried to cut the sandwiches into triangles, like Mummy did when she was awake, and sliced the top of her little finger right off. Rosie winced. She could feel it again, that slice of bright pain, the way the spongy white bread suddenly turned red. The tip of her finger sitting there on the table like a discarded plaster. For a moment, Little Rosie just stared at it in curiosity. Then Daisy began to howl. ‘MUMMMMEEEE!’

  Younger Rosie herself was dazed, just looking down at it with something like wonder. Older Rosie remembered that feeling. That the world was not as she’d thought. Your finger could come off. Your mother could forget about you. But now she came, staggering out from the bedroom like a zombie in her pyjamas. They had food crusted down the front and she hadn’t brushed her hair in days. ‘What did you do?’ She seized Rosie by the arm. ‘What did you do, you stupid girl!’

  Rosie looked down now at the little white scar around the tip of her ghostly adult finger. They’d sewn it back on – it was quite common, apparently, for kids to lose bits of themselves – and she’d worn a bandage for a few weeks, which meant she couldn’t help out with the school hamster, which was a more life-shattering event at seven than cutting a piece of your finger off. More than anything she’d never forgotten her mother’s voice, hoarse and angry. You stupid girl. You stupid, stupid girl.

  ‘There there, pet.’ Grandma was holding out a ghostly handkerchief. ‘Have a good blow.’

  Rosie took it, surprised to feel cotton under her fingers. None of this was real. It was just a hallucination inside a memory. She was not really here. But … she could feel it again, the sadness and the fear. ‘It wasn’t fair,’ she said thickly. ‘I was only a kid.’ Her eyes were
filling again, as in the memory her mother lunged for the phone, screaming into it, and little Rosie just stood and bled into a puddle on the floor, and Daisy cried, and everything was awful.

  ‘It’s not real, love. You know that, don’t you? It’s just in your memory. You’re remembering how you felt. Helpless and scared.’

  ‘And angry,’ Rosie said. ‘Really angry at my mum.’

  ‘I know, pet. But she was scared too. You can understand that, can’t you, after everything?’

  ‘I don’t remember what “everything” is!’ This was no good. She kept seeing memories, but she didn’t understand what she was supposed to be learning from seeing herself cut off her finger. Wasn’t that one for the mental waste-disposal? Leaving room instead for more memories of beaches, of Luke, of the warmth of his skin …

  ‘Come on, let’s get you back. Looks like something’s happening.’ Grandma held out her arthritic hand, and the world came back as the memory dissolved.

  Rosie

  Rosie woke up and she was … buried.

  Above her eyes, just inches away, was a curved hard surface. Oh God. Was she dead? If only she could move any part of herself. Come on, foot, move! I’m sorry I crammed you into all those uncomfortable shoes. If we get out of this, I promise, it’s pedicures and Birkenstocks all the way. She remembered what the doctors had said. Even if she did wake up, she might not be able to walk. But no, that couldn’t be true. After several moments of straining, her foot twitched very slightly – a victory! But even that tiny movement made her toes hit against something. Her entire body was encased in this thing – what was it?

  A coffin, her mind whispered. You died during that memory. You’re buried.

  Panic surged through her, although she knew it was stupid. She hadn’t been under long enough for that. Had three days really passed?

  A morgue drawer, then. Locked in, on ice with the corpses.

  But I’m not dead! I’m not dead!

  They don’t know that. Maybe they pulled the plug. Thought it was kinder than keeping you alive, locked in yourself, not able to eat or talk or even scratch your nose.

  Rosie’s breath began to hitch. Get me out! Get me out! But she couldn’t move. That tiny twitch of her foot had worn her out, taken an effort of will akin to climbing Mount Snowdon (when had she done that?). She tried again, but the foot lay there limply against the side of the coffin/morgue drawer/ whatever it was, like a dead fish that had nothing to do with her. Help. Help! I’m NOT DEAD. I’M NOT DEAD.

  Oh God. She was trapped in this thing, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t even push her way out, she was trapped and she was going to die here and …

  Light began to dazzle her eyes. She was moving. Not by herself, but some kind of mechanism was pulling her out into a harsh clinical light. ‘Rosie. Rosie, are you OK?’ The pretty posh doctor was standing over her, looking concerned. She spoke to someone over her shoulder, ponytail whipping. ‘She was in distress. Her heart rate went through the roof.’

  ‘You think she knew where she was?’ The voice belonged to the other young doctor, the boy.

  ‘I don’t know. Rosie? You’re safe, I promise. We just gave you an MRI. It can feel a bit scary if you’re claustrophobic, but you’re out now. We just had to look at your brain, that’s all.’

  Rosie tried to react. Make a noise, move something, but she was back to nothing. The other doctor came over. He had a Twix sticking out of the white pocket of his coat. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Hm. No. But I’m sure she was aware of her surroundings. Anything on the scan?’

  ‘Yeah, some activity in the memory centres, then suddenly boom – a massive flood of cortisol and the elevated heart rate.’ They both stared down at her again. ‘You think she can hear us?’

  ‘Maybe. It doesn’t mean she’ll wake up, of course. Or that she’s even aware.’ She bent over, so Rosie could smell her faint perfume. Jo Malone Bluebell. ‘Rosie? If you can hear us, I know it’s frightening not being able to move. These things take a while sometimes. You need to heal. If you can communicate with us in any way, try, OK? We’ll be watching.’

  The foot twitch had clearly gone unnoticed. Rosie wasn’t sure how long it would take her to work up to another one. They were wheeling her out now, into the hospital corridor with its hushed energy, the rush of people with purposeful important jobs, healing and diagnosing and helping and comforting with that particular NHS brand of brisk kindness. And there was Rosie, helping no one, causing nothing but pain to her family, helpless on this trolley. Overhead, the bright lights looked like the midday sun. Rosie was pushed back into her room and efficiently hooked back up to her tubes and drips and monitors. She could sense her parents in the background, but couldn’t turn her head.

  ‘What did you see?’ Her mother. Anxious, hovering.

  ‘There’s definitely some brain activity.’ Pretty doctor. ‘But we can’t be sure what it means. Do try to talk to her. If she hears your voices and maybe her favourite songs – if some friends stop by to talk to her, read to her, that sort of thing – it may well help to switch her brain back on.’

  If only they knew, Rosie thought. The voices of her family made her want to hide deep in herself and never come out. They might have more luck playing her Loose Women all day instead. After all, if her family struggled to communicate when she was awake, how would they manage to chat to her comatose body?

  Daisy

  She sat on the Tube, looking around her as if her eyes were suddenly raw and open to the world. All these people, heads down on their phones, music leaking from headphones. What secret sadnesses were they carrying? My sister’s in a coma, she said to herself, trying it out for size. My sister got hit by a bus. There was something almost comical about that, and she wouldn’t be able to bear it if people laughed when she told them. If Rosie died because of a stupid accident. She could just imagine what Gary might say: Typical Rosie. Off in Rosie World. Perhaps that was why it was now lunchtime and she still hadn’t told him about it.

  Was it even an accident? My sister walked in front of a bus. My sister tried to kill herself. No one would laugh at that. But she couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t. She stayed on the Tube, clanking and blessedly noisy, drowning out all thoughts, then got out at Angel and walked slowly along Upper Street, past the antique shops and chain restaurants. Rosie had liked it here, she knew. The area was buzzy, and there were so many cafés and shops and bars that she never had to sit in her flat alone. Daisy knew that sometimes Rosie felt the walls pressing in on her, crushing her, and she just had to get outside, fill her ears with music and chatter, anything to escape herself.

  She stopped outside a narrow doorway between an estate agent’s and an organic bakery, and let herself in using the keys from Rosie’s bag. It had been untouched by the accident, thrown clear. Her clothes were so hopelessly bloodstained they’d have to be burned as medical waste. Daisy shuddered at the thought. Rosie’s flat was up three flights of stairs, dusty and dirty. The hallway was littered with junk mail addressed to long-gone people. Something lonely about it, living with these ghosts. As Daisy went up the stairs, the door of the flat below Rosie’s opened, revealing a man in tracksuit bottoms and a fraying polo shirt with a gilet on top, a Maori tattoo looping around his arm, though he was extremely white. A blast of weed emanated from the flat behind him, along with some banging dubstep. ‘I thought you were Rosie. She’s not been in all morning.’

  ‘I’m her sister. Um – she’s had an accident, I’m afraid. She’s in hospital. I’m here to get some things.’ And also to have a snoop in her sister’s flat, and see if she could find any clues, anything at all, as to what had happened.

  His reaction was slow (drugs, thought Daisy, who’d seen the same look on the faces of many City traders) but gradually his forehead creased. ‘An accident?’

  ‘Yes, she … um, she was hit by a bus.’ She paused. ‘They think … maybe she did it on purpose.’ Hoping he’d say, God no, Rosie would never do a thing like that.<
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  ‘Oh. You know, she did seem kind of down lately …’

  Daisy’s heart began to race. ‘… not sleeping, doesn’t want to come out, that sort of thing. And her hair’s been all, like …’ He twiddled a hand above his own, indicating tangles. ‘Like she doesn’t brush it any more, you know. So … did she? Do it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I … sorry, I need to get her things.’ Daisy couldn’t talk about that. She had to keep moving, keep doing things. She called back: ‘That stuff will fry your brain, you know. It’s giving you a fifty per cent chance of developing psychosis.’ Then, feeling bad – it wasn’t his fault Rosie was in a coma – she fumbled the key in the lock and went inside. Who was that guy? She really hoped Rosie hadn’t gone there. She knew the type – confident but paper-thin, a rumour of a person rather than the real thing. He reminded her a little of Jack, in fact. Thank God that hadn’t lasted.

  Daisy leaned her back against the door and looked around Rosie’s flat. A square of kitchen, the tiles dirty and unwashed dishes piled up, fruit flies buzzing round a bowl of rotting bananas. On top of the dusty TV was a picture Daisy recognised, a crack in the glass. But she couldn’t look at that, not right now. ‘Oh Rosie,’ she murmured, ‘how can you live like this?’ She thought briefly of the house she shared with Gary in Beckenham. Barely even London, Rosie had scoffed at the time. Gary wanted to move even further out, to Guildford perhaps. Get a three-bed with a garage. ‘Start a family,’ as he insisted on describing it. They were ready. They had matching plates, house plants that didn’t die, a barbecue set. They were grown-ups. They went to B&Q on weekends. And here was Rosie, three years older, living like a student.

  Daisy tentatively opened a drawer in the tallboy, looking for pyjamas. That was the main thing for hospital, wasn’t it? But the only ones she could find were old and washed out – she could remember Rosie having them one far-off Christmas – or dirty with encrusted toothpaste. In the small bathroom, which had creeping mould up the tiles, she found a bent-looking toothbrush and some squeezed-out shampoo. This wouldn’t do. Daisy left everything where it was, and instead picked up a few books and CDs she knew were her sister’s favourites. As she stuffed them into a Tesco bag she noticed something on the coffee table, among the dirty plates and magazines. A piece of lined paper. Her heart stopped. A suicide note. But no, it looked like a list of names, some crossed out and scribbled over. Daisy peered at it.