by Leah Mercer
I’d douse the flames with the truth of the past. It was time, and I was ready.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ELLA
I was desperate now to tear into the past, as if the faster I ripped off the makeshift plaster inside of me, the faster the wound would heal. I sighed, realising the logical person to talk to was Carolyn. She was the only one I could remember in our lives back then, and she’d known my mum better than anyone. She’d be more than happy to talk to me now about my mother; she’d been trying in vain for ages, often inserting little titbits about her in our daily conversation. I’d tune her out or interrupt, willing her to stop talking. Not that she ever got the message. You couldn’t will Carolyn to do anything.
Would she ask why I wanted to know about my mother now? I wondered. After all, I’d put her off for years, always slamming the door closed with every attempt. I swallowed. No way would I tell her about the advert I’d seen or how much it had unsettled me. I didn’t want her to know that, somewhere deep inside, some part of my subconscious still smarted from what my mother had done.
I could barely believe it myself.
I made it through the day at work, hurried home to feed Dolby, then threw on my jacket. Dolby looked up at me with an enquiring gaze. It wasn’t often I went out in the evening . . . actually, it wasn’t ever. I spent the whole day avoiding people at work, so why would I voluntarily meet up with them after hours?
‘Just going out for a minute or two,’ I said, scratching her behind her ears. ‘Won’t be long.’
The soft summer sun had given way to fog, and I hurried along the promenade with my chin tucked down against the wind. A few minutes later, I was standing outside Carolyn and Rob’s, staring up at the brilliant white facade that was dazzling, even in the dim light. At huge expense, they had it painted every three years or so; Rob hated any bit of potential peel. The house was their baby – they had rescued it from demolition after it had fallen into a state with squatters, who’d almost burned it down at one point. With Carolyn a newly qualified teacher and Rob only just starting out as an engineer, they’d bought it for hardly anything and spent the next ten years making it into the home it was today.
Not that I’d ever considered it my home. After almost fifteen years here, right up until I got my job at the museum and had saved enough money for a deposit on my studio, it still didn’t feel like that. This house would only ever be the place where my life had changed. It was here that, after years and years, I’d finally accepted Mum wasn’t coming back.
It was here that I lost a mother, and here where I was no longer a daughter.
But that first morning . . . oh, how sure I was that my mother would never leave me. It never crossed my mind that she didn’t mean the words she uttered every night. Memories tugged at my brain now, and for the first time, I didn’t stop them. I urged them forward, welcoming them into me.
I’d known my mother was gone the second I opened my eyes. Everything was unfamiliar, from the scent of frying bacon (made Mum ill) to the radio blaring BBC4 (gave Mum headaches). I could hear the clanking of plates and Carolyn’s cheerful yet tuneless humming, and for a second – a second I’m so ashamed of now, yet at the time I had no idea of its true significance – I wished this could be my reality: that Carolyn was my mother and every morning started this way, instead of the heavy silence pierced only by my mum’s snores.
But that morning there were no snores, and I was happy. That meant my mother was up and about, and I wouldn’t have to creep into her room and try to wake her up . . . though for what, I didn’t know, since her piano students had long since stopped coming for lessons. That morning, there’d be a hot breakfast on the table and I could fill my tummy until bursting, and Carolyn would still urge me to eat. I’d slid from the covers, grinning.
What had happened next? I strained to remember, but for a morning that had blown my world to bits, everything seemed fuzzy. I recall Carolyn asking where my mother was, and me saying I didn’t know before tucking into the breakfast – funnily enough, I remember the toast was black on one side; Carolyn didn’t know our toaster liked to ‘keep us on our toes’, as Mum always said.
And then the hours are a blur of Carolyn ringing round – although I couldn’t imagine who she was calling, because it’s not like we knew anyone. I remember night falling and Carolyn taking me to their house in the car, me only too happy to sit in front of the telly we didn’t have at our place. It was only at bedtime when it really started to hit me: Mum wasn’t here. She’d promised she’d always be with me! Where was she?
I remembered asking Carolyn that question over and over. In all of my five years, my mother had never not been there. Carolyn responded that she wasn’t sure, but my mum must have had something important to do and would probably be back in the morning. At last, my eyes grew heavy and I slept.
I woke up on the soft, downy mattress at Carolyn and Rob’s house. Voices drifted up from the kitchen, and I raced down the stairs in my pyjamas, which Carolyn had brought over from home. I couldn’t wait to see my mum and hear her stories of where she’d been. When she was in a good mood, Mum had a way of making even the most mundane event sound like the funniest and most exciting thing in the world.
I’d rounded the corner into the kitchen, my bare feet skidding on the unfamiliar polished tiles. I froze at the sight of two policemen sitting at the table with Carolyn and Rob. What were they doing here? But before my five-year-old brain could begin to even conjure up answers, my gaze fell on the clear plastic bag on the table in front of them. In that bag were things I recognised: the cardigan full of holes that Mum always wore, her gold hoop earrings, the butterfly bracelet I’d broken once and Mum had managed to fix . . .
What were all those things – those pieces of my mother – doing there, in that bag?
Where was she?
Carolyn took me by the hand and led me the lounge – one of them, anyway, the one they called the sun-room. She sat me in a wicker chair and told me I’d be staying with them for the next little while. I’d shaken my head, saying I had to get home. Mum would be wondering where I was. If she wasn’t here, she’d be waiting there – waiting for me to crawl into her bed, to hear those ten words and say them back again.
I slid from the chair and opened the door. Carolyn tried to grasp me, but I was too quick for her to catch hold. Forgetting I was only wearing my nightclothes with nothing on my feet, I slipped out the door and into the fresh morning air. The sky was a heavy grey, and as I streaked across the manicured lawn dew coated my bare feet. On the beach in front of me, I could see police officers sifting through the rocks and chatting to people with dogs, usually the only ones out so early. A boat was moving back and forth, back and forth, people on board prodding at the water as if looking for something they’d lost.
‘Ella.’ Carolyn had touched my arm, and I’d jumped. For a second, I’d forgotten where I was. ‘Come back inside.’
‘What are they doing?’ I remember asking. ‘What are they looking for?’
‘Come inside.’ Her voice had sounded unfamiliar then, miles from the usual cheery tones I’d been used to. Even though I’d been intent on going home, a little voice in my head had urged me to follow her. Her feet had been bare, too, and they couldn’t have been more different from my mum’s slender, delicate ones. The door closed behind us, and although questions bubbled up in my brain, I couldn’t get them out to ask. Somehow, I knew those policemen on the beach were connected to my mother, but I didn’t know why. I couldn’t put it together.
I wouldn’t put it together. Mum would be back for me, and that was that. Even when Carolyn sat me down a few days (a few weeks? I don’t know; time had lost all meaning for me) later and said that although police hadn’t found my mother, they didn’t think she was coming home, I still wouldn’t believe it. Even when Caroline and Rob held a private memorial service on the beach one windswept morning in autumn, I clung on. The marker on my mother’s empty grave on the hill became weathered, but I hel
d out. The rosebush my aunt had planted in memory of my mum grew and grew, sprouting more heady-smelling blossoms each summer. And still I thought my mother would come back for me. I was certain of it.
Mum wouldn’t break those ten words. And more than that, if she really was going to leave me for ever, she would have left one thing behind: the necklace with the heart pendant that she always wore. It hadn’t been in the plastic bag I’d seen that morning. She’d promised it to me when I grew up . . . when I was old enough to have a love – a life – of my own. Her eyes always looked sad when she said that, and I’d throw my arms around her and say that I’d never leave her.
My eyes widened at the memory. I’d forgotten about that necklace. I strained to recall when I’d first seen it around my mother’s neck, but of course I couldn’t remember. It was just always there, a flash of gold against my mother’s creamy skin. I’d loved the heavy heart, always begging my mum to take it off and let me prance in front of the mirror, playing princess. I’d hung on to the fact that she hadn’t left me the necklace as proof she was going to return.
But gradually, like those ten little words, I’d realised it was just another promise my mother wasn’t going to keep. I’d shoved the memory and her empty words to the back of my mind; to the back of my soul . . . until now. Why hadn’t she left the necklace? I wondered. Why hadn’t she left a note, something – anything – or me, her only child? Anger darted through me, but I managed to block it quickly, a quiet confidence seeping through me as the rogue emotion faded away. I could do this. I could face the past and walk away unscathed.
I took a deep breath and headed to Carolyn’s door.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ELLA
I pressed the doorbell, shifting back and forth as I waited for my aunt (it was always Carolyn who answered, pushing past Rob if he ever tried). It was like she was living in a permanent state of expectation, waiting for me to come home again.
‘Ella!’ Her eyebrows flew up. ‘Come in, come in!’
I paused for second, wondering if she was going to try to hug me, but thankfully, she’d stopped trying. She opened the door wide and I stepped inside, struggling to remember the last time I’d been here – in December, probably, for Christmas lunch. I’d dragged myself out of bed as late as possible then thrown on my clothes and headed over. It was the one day I didn’t have to tuck my chin down to avoid passers-by; the city was quiet and still, like I was the only person in the world.
‘I’m so sorry, but we’ve finished all the fish pie,’ Carolyn was saying. ‘I can knock you up a nice grilled cheese, if you like?’
I shook my head. ‘No, thanks.’
Carolyn didn’t look surprised by my rejection. ‘Come in, then. Rob’s in the lounge, struggling with sudoku.’ She rolled her eyes and I couldn’t help smiling. Every night, Carolyn and Rob competed to complete the day’s puzzle. And every night, Carolyn won. They used to ask me to join in, and I’d pretend I wasn’t playing, even though I was trying to figure it out, too. I loved puzzles: a simple problem contained within a nice, neat box that could always be solved.
‘Look who’s here!’ Carolyn ushered me into the stuffy room. Even though it was summer, a fire blazed in the hearth. Carolyn always kept the place on jungle-setting, as if heat could banish the house’s emptiness. Warmth seeped into me and I could feel my cheeks flush.
‘Well, well.’ Rob glanced up with a grin. ‘It’s good to see you. Come and sit down and let me know what you’ve been up to. Thank God you came – I was about to lose it with this puzzle!’
I sat down beside him. I never felt the same discomfort around Rob that I did with Carolyn. Maybe it was because I’d never had a father in my life; someone whose place he’d tried to fill. My dad had died shortly before I was born, but even if he’d lived, I sensed he wouldn’t have been on the scene. Mum had always said I was hers and hers alone. She hadn’t even named my father on my birth certificate, showing just how superfluous he was.
I blinked, remembering the time Carolyn applied for my passport. I must have been around ten, and even though my mum had been gone for five years, I still believed she’d be back. I’d picked up a document on the table, noticing it was my birth certificate, my eyes tearing as I ran my fingers over my mother’s name. The box for my father’s name was blank, but that didn’t faze me. He’d always been just that: a blank, and I’d never felt the urge to fill it in. Seeing the document had made my mother’s words even clearer: I was hers. She would come back.
When she didn’t, I realised I was no one’s but my own. Only I could protect myself, keep myself safe.
That’s exactly why I was here.
I bit my lip. Now that I was ready to face the past, I wasn’t sure how to start. I shifted in the chair, drawing a cushion into my arms. Much to Rob’s dismay, Carolyn had a habit of cluttering every sofa and chair with cushions. She claimed to love the contrast of colours and I’m sure she thought she was making everyone as comfortable as possible, but to me it felt like she was smothering every surface. Now, though, I was happy for their presence. I held it against me like a shield.
‘So’ – Carolyn cocked her head and smiled – ‘how are things at the museum? I’ve been meaning to see their new exhibition . . . songs of seabirds, isn’t it? Did you help put it together?’
I nodded, my mind flying through the hours upon hours I’d spent combing through the sound archives, pulling the right files for the exhibition. Others might see it as a tedious task but, for me, there was something hypnotic about listening to the sharp cry of birds above the rolling sea. If that was the last thing my mother had heard before the water took her under, then she was lucky. In a way, I almost longed to duck under the salty, cold water myself.
I cleared my throat, shaking myself from my reverie. I wasn’t here to talk about the exhibition. The sooner I got this over with, the better.
‘Look . . .’ I clutched the cushion tighter. ‘I just, well . . . I’ve been thinking of my mother a lot lately.’ That much was true. Ever since seeing that advert, I’d barely thought of anything else. Carolyn shot Rob a questioning glance before her face returned to a careful neutral expression I knew very well. ‘I guess I just . . . well, I was wondering why she took her life. Was she really that unhappy with me?’ The last question slipped out before I could stop it, and I wanted to kick myself. I sounded like the five-year-old I once was. It was more than obvious she hadn’t been happy with me – with being my mother – wasn’t it?
‘Oh, Ella.’ Firelight flickered on my aunt’s face, the glow highlighting her sympathetic features. Annoyance and irritation darted through me. I didn’t need sympathy. For a second, I regretted opening up this Pandora’s box. But I had to. I couldn’t turn around now. Not if I ever wanted to be at peace again.
‘Jude loved you very, very much.’ Carolyn reached out to touch my hand, but I saw her stop herself. ‘Her death had nothing to do with you.’
Anger flared inside, and I tried to keep my features from twisting. My aunt meant well, but my mother’s death had everything to do with me. We’d been connected in a way only a mother and child could be, and even though I’d got over it, her leaving had torn me apart for years. I drew in air, forcing away the emotion. Now wasn’t the time to succumb to feelings.
‘But Jude had . . . well, she had some issues,’ Carolyn continued. ‘Depression, you know.’ She gazed into the fire. ‘At first, we thought it was just the baby blues, after having you. Hers seemed a bit more serious than usual, so I took her to the GP. She took some medication for a while and seemed better, but then . . . then I’d find out she’d cancelled all her lessons, and that neither of you had left the house in days.’
I tilted my head, trying to cast my mind back. Had my mum been depressed? I remembered her sleeping a lot, but I’d thought that’s just what adults did. I’d very often get up and make my own breakfast (a piece of bread and some milk, if we had any), then play with my toys until she stirred. There were days she’d sit and star
e at the sea for hours as I played around her, trying to poke and jab her and get a reaction. Eventually, she’d drag herself upstairs into bed and I’d crawl in next to her, listening to her heartbeat and telling myself it was okay; she would always be here.
But I hadn’t known any different. I’d thought that was what everyone did; what every mother was like.
‘I tried to get her on to her medication again, but she refused to see the doctor. Before she died, I think she was drinking quite a bit,’ Carolyn said. ‘It was her way of dealing with her depression, I guess. She tried to hide it from me, but I could smell it on her breath.’
I nodded, remembering the sweet, cloying smell of my mum’s breath sometimes when I crawled into the bed – and those thick glass bottles filled with clear liquid I’d sometimes find under the sink. I hadn’t known what it was then, other than it seemed to make Mum better. In my head, I’d called it her medicine.
‘So she was depressed and she drank,’ I said. ‘Was there anything else?’ My tone was matter-of-fact, but that’s how I needed to be: business-like and removed, as if this had happened to a stranger, not my mother – as if it hadn’t happened to me. I couldn’t let emotions touch me again.
Carolyn slowly shook her head. ‘No.’
The room was silent for a minute as I thought about what else to ask. ‘And the police . . . did they do much investigation? When was she officially declared dead?’ It hit me once more how little I knew. I’d been so young, and of course Carolyn and Rob had kept the finer details away from me. I’d never wanted to know until now.
‘After I told the police about her depression, combined with the reports of people who’d seen her walking into the sea and her belongings on the beach, well . . . it didn’t take long for the police to decide she must have taken her own life. The currents that day were strong and although the police made every effort, they said the chances of finding her body after a few days were very slim. I almost didn’t want them to. I wanted to keep Jude in my head exactly as I remembered her: beautiful and full of life.’
