by Sofia Daniel
A nurse flung the curtains open. “This patient isn’t allowed visitors. Leave, before I call security.”
Chapter 2
Days later, I couldn’t even look Uncle Trevor in the eye when he came to collect me. He’d already said it all the last time we’d met, and I hadn’t listened to a word he had said. Not only had I refused his help and walked into an ambush of groping bastards, but now, the bullies had escalated and staged an accident with me in Mom’s car. The worst part was that no one believed me.
“Willow…” His voice trailed off.
The burning, agonizing shame of once again being a victim curled my spine. I dipped my head and squeezed my eyes shut. What could he possibly think after being told that I had gotten into an accident after drink-driving? What would he think when I told him that it was the bullies?
“I brought you something of Hortense’s to put on,” he said. “The police took your school uniform as evidence.”
My fists closed over the sheets. “Are they going to press charges?”
He sighed. “I called the station every day, and each time they tell me that they’re still considering your case.”
Silence stretched out between us, and the tension in the air thickened. I parted my lips to explain myself, but no words came out. All my speculations were so outlandish. They almost sounded like I was making excuses for having gotten drunk and reckless.
“What did you think you were doing?” he blurted. “That’s the same stretch of road that killed your mother and fa—”
“I didn’t do it.” My head snapped up, and I met his angry, hazel eyes.
Uncle Trevor flared his nostrils. “Then tell me what happened. Tell me how you went from a grieving girl determined to keep the family home to someone desperate to join your poor mother and father in heaven!”
“You think I’m suicidal?”
“Answer my question!”
I flinched at his sharp tone. Uncle Trevor was the cool relative. The easy-going one who never showed anger or impatience… At least not to Ashely and me.
“Sorry.” His lips pressed together in a firm line. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout.” Then his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “But I have to know why you decided to drink-drive on the exact stretch of road where they died. What was going through your mind? You know better than this.”
I shook my head. “That wasn’t me.”
“What, then?” His brows drew together.
I swallowed hard. “Everything after Monday morning’s a complete blank. Maybe someone put me in that car and shoved it down the side of the mountain. I can’t remember anything after yesterday morning.”
He closed his eyes and let out a breath. “You’re coming to stay with me.”
“But I have to go to—”
“I’m not letting you anywhere near that den of psychopaths.” The steel in his voice told me he would take me back to his apartment, whether I consented or not.
A sigh heaved out of my lungs, and I gave him a sharp nod. Until I remembered what the hell had happened, there was no point in returning. Whoever attacked me could strike again.
My mind conjured up images of Geraldine and Bianca, who probably didn’t want me to press charges about their assault during that awful initiation.
After a few days, I read through my discharge notes in the car. Although the neurologist had told me I had post-traumatic anemia, he had written it up on the records as retrograde amnesia caused by a traumatic brain injury. A cocktail of drugs rolled around in the pharmacist’s bag: a codeine-based painkiller, sleeping tablets, and mild anti-inflammatory medicines that also acted as a painkiller.
My condition would resolve itself without further treatment, but there was a follow-up appointment in two months. I stared out of the window at the array of shoppers milling outside The Lanes shopping precinct, wishing I could be one of the anonymous crowd. None of them worried about night-time abductions and murder attempts.
Uncle Trevor lived in a huge house converted into smaller units in Upperby, another suburb of Carlisle on the east side of the River Caldew. As soon as he opened his apartment door, the noise of shrieking children filled the air.
I followed him into the living room, a ten-by-ten space filled with overlarge sofas and a huge, flat-screen TV. The two and three-year-olds, Anne and Stevie, chased each over around the rug, while Peter, who was four, lay on the couch his back, kicking Aunt Hortense in the thighs.
“What’s happened to you now?” Aunt Hortense ushered Peter off the sofa.
“Don’t give her a hard time,” said Uncle. “She’s been through an ordeal.”
Aunt Hortense tried to pull herself off her seat with one hand but flopped down. I would have told her she was better off on the armchair so that she could use both arms as leverage, but she would probably snap at me for the unsolicited advice.
A wave of dizziness swept over my head, making me grimace and suck in a deep breath. “How long do you have now?”
Aunt Hortense groaned. “Tomorrow’s my due date, but the contractions started this morning.”
Uncle Trevor lurched forward and helped her up. “You should have said!”
“Someone had to help Willow. Besides, we still have a few hours before my waters break.”
Uncle turned to me. “Take the sofa. I’ll move the kids to their room.”
“You’re relegating us?” Aunt Hortense shouted over the strains of Ring a Ring o’ Roses.
“Willow has a serious head injury with post-traumatic anemia. She can’t be left alone for the next few days.”
Aunt Hortense swept her narrowed-eyed gaze over my body as though she could diagnose neurological conditions with the naked eye. “She doesn’t look cross-eyed to me.”
“Come on.” He placed her on the armchair and flicked his head toward the now empty three-seater sofa. “Try to get some rest, alright?”
Between my head throbbing, the children speaking in loud whispers, and Aunt Hortense’s crashing about in the kitchen, it was nearly impossible to get any rest, let alone sleep. I was better off lying on the sofa at Mom and Dad’s house, but the doctor had warned me about the possibility of blackouts over the next few weeks.
I lay on the sofa, reached for my phone, and sighed. Someone had either taken it, or it had fallen down the side of the mountain. With no way of contacting Sebastian, Leopold, or Miss Claymore, I would have to wait until I was well enough to leave the apartment on my own.
The autumn term would finish on Friday, giving us two weeks to celebrate Christmas and the new year before the start of winter term. I blew out a breath. Would I remember who had attacked me before then, or would I return to Brittas Academy not knowing whether Geraldine or Bianca or both had staged this accident?
Aunt Hortense’s contractions had turned out to be a false alarm, but each passing day reminded me that the baby would arrive at any time and worsen the already cramped conditions. If it wasn’t for the bouts of dizziness and light-headedness, I wouldn’t have continued burdening the young family.
One evening, as I dozed to the theme tune of Sesame Street, Uncle Trevor tapped me on the shoulder.
“Hortense’s water has broken, and I have to take her to the hospital.”
“Oh.” I rubbed my sore eyes.
“I’m so sorry to burden you like this, but Mrs. Stokes isn’t around to babysit. Can you keep an eye on the kids?”
I nodded. “No problem.”
About an hour after Uncle Trevor disappeared through the door, Peter picked up the remote and turned off the TV. Annie and Stevie screeched their objections, but the four-year-old picked up a pile of picture books and placed them on my lap.
“Willow, read me a story.”
My head throbbed. “Don’t you want to—”
“You always read us stories!” He turned to Stevie, who gave me a sharp nod.
“Alright, then.” I picked up the first book, cracked it open, and waited for the children to climb up on the sofa. “Once up
on a time, there was a little boy—”
“That’s not what the book says,” Peter snapped.
I huffed out a breath. “What does it say?”
“It’s about a monster who wants a friend…” Peter continued his version of the story, and I stared at the boy through half-lidded eyes. My attention drifted in and out of focus until the landline rang.
Leaning over to where the phone sat on a side table, i picked it up and said, “Hello?”
“Hortense is having complications, and she’ll have to stay overnight. Sorry to burden you, but can you put the kids to bed at eight?”
A tight fist of panic squeezed at my gut. “Is she okay?”
“I’m… I’m not sure.”
“Don’t worry about the children. I’ll take care of them.”
“Thanks.” He hung up.
“Was that Daddy?” asked Peter.
“It was.”
“Is he coming back?”
“The baby’s taking a long time to come out,” I said. “They’re waiting in the hospital.”
“Why?” asked his three-year-old brother.
“What’s that, Stevie?”
“Stevie wants to know why the baby is taking a long time to come out.”
My gaze darted to the door, out to the kitchen, where I had left my painkillers on a high shelf away from curious, little hands. “You’ll have to ask him or her when your mom and dad come back.”
Preparing food for children when all I wanted to do was curl up and piece together missing hours was a pain. Peter, Stevie, and Anne wouldn’t eat the beans on toast I’d made them and demanded pizza. When I told them I had no money, the two little ones lay on their backs and howled.
Each shrill cry reverberated in my throbbing head, and nausea swirled through my insides. Of all the times to have a head injury, why did it have to be when Aunt Hortense’s waters broke?
By the time I had gotten them to eat something and put them to bed, I wished I was back in Cumbria Royal Infirmary, shrinking under the withering glares of the medical staff.
Early the next morning, at the first signs of light, the doorbell rang.
I sleepwalked out of the living room, through the hallway and to the front door and swung it open.
Ashley stood outside with her hands on her hips. “I heard this was where you were hiding.”
My stomach dropped. This was the first time I’d spoken to Ashley since her betrayal. Her parting words in Mrs. Benazir’s office had been a sarcastic reminder not to continue hurting myself. She had even twisted the knife by evoking Mom and Dad’s memory.
She bared her teeth. “Tell me you were lying on last week.”
“About what?”
“Don’t play coy.” She shoved her way into the apartment. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“What did I say?”
Ashley turned around, her face slack. “You don’t remember?”
“It’s a blank.”
Hatred burned in her eyes that looked as dark as coals in the dim hallway. “You accused me of killing Mom and Dad.”
“I wouldn’t have said—”
“That they were driving through the night looking for me.” She stepped closer and balled her hands into fists. “You hurled that fact in my face like a weapon.”
My head throbbed, and a wave of light-headedness caused me to place a hand on the hallway wall to steady myself. Breathing hard, I once again tried to recall Monday. What had prompted me to tell Ashley something so damaging? Just because I’d washed my hands of her, it didn’t mean that I would go out of my way to be hurtful.
“What happened on Monday?” I asked.
“Someone told me you spent the Sunday outside the academy, so I went back to my room to get some things. But you arrived, then turned nasty, and hurled a whole bunch of shit, including the lie about why Mom and Dad went out that night.”
Shallow breaths skimmed the top of my lungs. Knowing Ashley, she was probably leaving out essential chunks of information, but I hadn’t had contact with her in weeks and couldn’t guess what we had argued about this time. Money, perhaps? She would need it to keep up with the queens.
“Tell me,” she said through clenched teeth. “Were Mom and Dad really out looking for me, or had they taken you to one of your award events?”
I bristled at the accusation. “Think it through. I would have died with them if I’d been in the car. Or would have ended up to the hospital, at least.”
The wall clock ticked thirty-eight times before Ashley spoke again.
“So, they were looking for me.” The resentment in her voice grated against my ears. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes.” I walked through to the living room and sat. Ashley followed me and lowered herself onto the armchair. Then as calmly as I could, I told her what had happened the night Mom and Dad had died.
Ashley’s eyes hardened with every word until she looked like she would leap off the armchair and throttle me. Even though we had never had a physical fight since we were young, the lining of my stomach trembled with anticipation.
Pushing away those feelings, I continued until the end of the story. That terrible, summer night, after the police had informed me of Mom and Dad’s car accident, I had called Uncle Trevor. Aunt Hortense had arrived in the morning after finding a babysitter, and they both sat and cried with me in the living room until Ashley had come in the afternoon.
Ashley shook her head. “But it rained that night, and they know that stretch of road is dangerous.”
“They were determined to get you home,” I replied.
“So, I really killed them,” she said, her voice breaking. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Ashley!” Peter bounded through the door.
Her face softened, and she spread out her arms. “Peter-poo!”
Soon after, a sleepy Anne followed, her blonde curls a ruffled mess. She walked up to Ashley and leaned against her lap.
I pulled myself off the sofa and ambled to the kitchen, where I poured myself a glass of water and downed my tablets. Then I shuffled around the cupboards to find cereals and bowls for the children’s breakfasts. If they fussed over what they would eat this morning, I would leave Ashley to feed them.
Uncle Trevor walked through the door, looking drawn. “Thanks, Willow. I really appreciate your help.”
I smiled back. “How’s Aunt Hortense?”
“Her blood pressure got too high, and they took her in for an emergency cesarean.”
I clapped my hand over my mouth. “How is she?”
“They’re both fine.”
“Of course, the baby!” I shook my head. A combination of my sore shoulder and blinding headaches had caused me to forget. “Boy or girl?”
“Girl.” He gave me a warm smile. “We’re calling her Holly.”
“Daddy!” Peter galloped into the kitchen. “Ashley’s here!”
“She knows,” I whispered.
His brows drew together. “About?”
“Why Mom and Dad were out that night.”
Uncle Trevor’s face slackened. “Oh.” He picked up the cereal bowls and walked across the little kitchen. At the door, he glanced over his shoulder and said, “Well, maybe knowing the consequences of her actions might be the catalyst for change she needs.”
I grimaced. He was right about the knowledge being a catalyst, but I wasn’t sure it would be for the better.
Chapter 3
A few days later, Uncle Trevor left to visit Aunt Hortense in the hospital, and I watched over my little cousins. Someone else knocked on the door, and my insides went stiff.
If this was Ashley, demanding answers I couldn’t give her, answers I wanted for myself, I wasn’t sure how I would react. She acted as though I’d just blurted out how Mom and Dad had died as a weapon to hurt her but had refused to tell me what she had said or done for me on that Monday to tell her the truth.
“There’s somebody at the door!” shouted Peter.
Ste
vie raced out of the living room. “Answer, answer!”
“Mummy!” Anne jumped up and down.
I pushed myself off the sofa, ambled to the door, and cracked it open. Leopold stood in the front, and Sebastian hung back several steps.
A jolt of happiness warmed my heart. “What are you two doing here?”
“There was no answer at your house, so someone hacked into Mrs. Benazir’s computer and told us where to find you.”
“Prakash, right?” I glanced up and down the hallway for signs of him, but he wasn’t there.
“A gentleman never hacks and tells. Leopold inclined his head. May we come in?”
I stepped aside and let them both in. Leopold’s fresh, summer scent filled my nostrils, and Sebastian’s masculine, cedar scent filled my heart. While Leopold gave my hand a little squeeze as he passed, Sebastian dipped his head as though in deep contemplation.
Peter, Stevie, and Anne stared at the pair in open-mouthed shock. A smile curled my lips. Even in their winter coats, the pair looked like fairytale princes.
I made the introductions and offered them seats on the sofa, while my cousins huddled together on my lap.
Sebastian swallowed. “Have your memories returned?”
A lump formed in my throat. “I can’t recall anything after you brought me back from the hideout.”
Leopold leaned forward. “What have the doctors said?”
I gave them a summary and explained that my memories might return in time. Something about that made Sebastian relax, but Leopold scowled. I suppose it was because Leopold seemed to be the most impatient of the pair.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I told them everything I could remember. While I struggled with the children squirming on my lap, Sebastian bowed his head. My insides clenched with apprehension. What was wrong with him?
Leopold turned to Sebastian. “Maybe you should tell her.”
He said, “You came to us that night, bleeding from a head wound.”
My hand flew to my temple. “What?”
“And Kash said the girls had attacked you in the morning,” added Leopold.
