The Bones of You

by Debbie Howells

  “It’s stunning,” I tell him.

  Alex shrugs. “It’s not groundbreaking. People think they like the unusual, but when it comes to their own garden, mostly they like things a bit traditional.”

  It’s exactly what I find. There will always be the odd client with a taste for the avant-garde, but mostly people like English-garden flowers that they know the names of, the same ones that have been around for years.

  “That’s exactly it. But if you’re a designer, what are you doing working for Dan?” Trying not to appear overly interested, but I can’t help wondering if those dark, impassive eyes that tell me nothing might be hiding something.

  Alex frowns, and I feel his eyes boring into me.

  I’m suddenly uncomfortable. “Dan mentioned you used to work for the Andersons. But only because he knows I live nearby.”

  He just shrugs.

  “Actually, I’m glad I’ve met you. I’m really impressed with their garden. I love the borders.” Trying to defuse his obvious hostility and strike a more friendly tone, watching the expression on his face remain unchanged.

  “It’s always easy when your client throws money at it.” He sounds bitter, as though he resents them. “They didn’t mind what I spent as long as it looked ‘impressive,’ I think the brief was. ‘Expensive’ may have been in there, too.”

  I nod. Impressive and expensive describe everything about the Andersons’ house, but then why not? They can clearly afford it.

  “I think they miss you. Or the garden does. . . .” It’s meant harmlessly. Humorously, even. I’m not expecting the look like thunder that crosses his face.

  ROSIE

  A barreling surfer’s wave drops me into a summer without my parents. The summer I discover what happiness means. A summer of uninhibited noisiness, with camping in homemade tents hung over washing lines and long nights under starlit skies, with toasted marshmallows and English beaches and freedom.

  It’s running wild with my cousins through cornfields speckled with poppies until we reach the beach, shrieking as we dive into the waves. It’s the timeless shift of tides and blazing sunsets, lying on cool, damp grass and staring long enough until one by one you see the stars. It’s homemade cakes and ice cream, Auntie Carol playing with Della’s hair, her head full of invisible thoughts of her daughter, Isabel, who died.

  Everyone says how sad it is that Isabel “went” so young. It’s the wrong word. Isabel didn’t “go” anywhere. She crossed an invisible line, just as I have. She’s here now, her head on Carol’s shoulder, her arms encircling Carol and Della, grinning over their shoulders at me.

  It’s a summer I wish I could live my entire life, while my own life floats like the fair-weather clouds above my head, until my mother arrives, holding out arms, chasing freedom away with her perfume.

  “Darling! Come and give Mummy a hug! She’s missed you so much.”

  While the last sweet, mouthwatering taste of happiness melts away like the strawberry ice creams on the seafront, I walk toward her, holding out my arms, because I love her.

  And then I feel guilt covering me from head to toe, because until now, I haven’t missed her. Guilt because I love her, but I don’t want her here. In her perfect, pale, uncreased clothes she belongs at home, not here in Auntie Carol’s world. Because I want this summer to last forever.

  I look at her. Have I really forgotten how she looks? Her face a flawlessly painted mask stretched over her bones? Where are the lines that hold love and laughter, like Auntie Carol has? But then, Mummy doesn’t need them. She doesn’t laugh.

  11

  November

  Another week goes by, the tenth since Rosie went missing, a week in which autumn eventually takes a hold and, after the summer we’ve had, brings a year’s worth of leaves down almost overnight. It’s another week in which I don’t see Jo, nor do I hear from her. It’s only by chance, when I’m driving home after work one afternoon, that I see Delphine.

  It’s her hair that catches my eye. Rosie’s hair, only longer and clipped back off her face. She’s walking along the pavement in small, precise steps, looking straight ahead, until I slow down and pull over.

  “Delphine? It’s me. Kate. Your mum’s friend. Would you like a lift?”

  Alarm, then a flicker of recognition cross her face. Does she wonder at every passerby? If that man who looks like someone’s father, or that woman with the fair hair, who looks completely innocent but might not be, could they have killed her sister?

  She climbs into the passenger seat. “Thank you,” is all she says.

  I wait for the click of her seat belt, then drive on.

  “How is school?”

  “Fine, thank you.” Her voice is girlish, but then she’s twelve. So young—far too young to know this kind of grief.

  “I haven’t seen your mum for a while,” I say. “How is she?”

  “She’s okay.”

  “Is she at home, do you know?” It’s the perfect excuse to just pop in and say hello to her.

  Delphine hesitates. “She might be. I don’t know.”

  When I pull up outside their house, she doesn’t meet my eyes, just gets out and picks up her bag.

  “Thank you for giving me a lift.”

  “You’re welcome.” I frown. Both Neal and Jo’s cars are parked in the drive. “You know, I haven’t seen her for a while,” I repeat. “I might just go in and say hello.”

  But Delphine says nothing as she walks toward the door, then pushes it open, leaving it ajar for me to follow.

  I stop just inside. “Hello? Jo? It’s me. Kate . . .”

  I hesitate, thinking perhaps she’s still mad at me, but as I turn to go, I hear a man’s voice.

  “Kate? Thank you for dropping Delphine back. It’s good of you.”

  Neal’s coming toward me, in jeans and an open-necked shirt.

  “It was no problem. I was driving right by. I hoped I might see Jo.”

  “Ah.” He glances away, slightly guarded. “When did you last see her?”

  “A couple of weeks ago.” I shrug, making light of it. “I just wondered how she was, that’s all.”

  He nods. “It’s good of you. Look, she has one or two things going on at the moment. She’s gone away. Just for a while.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She’ll be fine.” Then he studies me. “Actually, do you have a minute?”

  When I come away half an hour later, I’ve learned that Neal cares deeply for his wife and that, not surprisingly, Jo is struggling more than she lets on, as he told me.

  “She’s gone away . . . to rest, mostly. She’s been working too hard—for me, I’m afraid—as well as everything else. I’m hoping it’ll do her good, just getting away from here.”

  We’re sitting across the kitchen table from each other, Neal leaning on his elbows, hands clasped, his eyes trained on them.

  “Poor Jo. I had no idea things were still so difficult.” Realizing too late the crassness of my words, because how could they not be? Thinking, If I’d lost Grace . . .

  He pauses, frowning at the table, considering something. Then he looks up. “Has she told you she’s been ill?”

  It’s the first I’ve heard about an illness. I shake my head. “No. She hasn’t.”

  “Joanna . . .” He hesitates. “Her life hasn’t always been easy. She had a breakdown, Kate. A lot of stuff caught up with her. From the past. Stuff she’d buried for a long time. But that’s what happens. And it’s always just when you think life’s going your way. . . .” He breaks off. “She’s very good at hiding things. You must have noticed. Particularly since Rosanna died . . .”

  His voice cracks, and then I get it, that every second of every day, for Neal and Jo, in this house, surrounded by their memories, there will never be any escape from what’s happened.

  “I didn’t know, but she’s surprised me,” I say honestly. “Just the way she’s kept going. If it was me, I don’t think I’d be capable of anything.”

&n
bsp; “The thing is . . .” He trails off. “It’s hard to put into words, but you keep going because you have to, but it’s always there. Guilt. You can’t stop thinking about it.... And as soon as you forget, even for a few seconds, you feel guilty, Kate. So guilty . . . Guilty that it happened and we couldn’t do something. Guilty that we’re here and she isn’t.” He slumps, defeated. “That’s where we are, I guess. Both of us.”

  Wishing in some small way I could help them all, my heart reaches out to him, because he’s clearly hurting just as much as Jo is, and to add to it, he has to prop her up, too. I feel an overwhelming sadness at how unfair it is that one person must bear so much alone.

  I come away knowing that in spite of the blowup, his outburst at Jo, Neal’s a good man.

  It occurs to me only much later that I’ve forgotten to tell him I met Alex.

  ROSIE

  It’s the year I come top in my class, with As in every subject except math. You don’t see how hard I’ve worked or how proud I feel, or the small part of me deep inside that glows. My teachers are happy, and so is Mummy. Only, because of the math, that evening, when my father gets home, he makes me fetch the little pink TV set from my bedroom, the one I’ve always had, then takes it outside.

  As he places it on the low wall, I hear birds and faint strains of laughter from next door. It’s a beautiful evening, the pale blue sky crisscrossed with vapor trails, sunlight flickering through the leaves, but my stomach is churning as he gets a chair for me to sit on. Then, not speaking, he picks up a brick.

  “About your grades . . . ,” he says. His voice is too loud as he stands in front of me, passing the brick to and fro between his hands, and I wonder what he’s doing. Then he raises it and brings it down. I hear the splintering of the pretty pink plastic first, then my own gasp of shock as the screen shatters into a million pieces. I’m thinking, Why? even as I lean forward and I’m sick.

  He tells me to wash down the deck with the hose. Then says how stupid I am to be sick over a little girl’s TV set. A TV set, for Christ’s sake! That my math grade isn’t good enough. I need to knuckle down and work harder. Then he hurls the brick into a bush.

  I get the hose and wash down the deck, wanting to vomit the ugliest words I can think of in his face, tell him that it wasn’t the TV set that made me sick. I’m not that stupid.

  It’s him.

  I’m fifteen by then. I have a new friend called Emma Carnegie, who you know is happy just by looking at how her hair swings when she walks, how her eyes are lit from inside, and how she laughs at nearly everything. She has three older brothers and thinks it’s cool that I’ve lived in so many places. She’s lived in Winchester her whole life and says it’s boring.

  Winchester. I could like it here, but I already know I won’t let myself. This is where our home is—for now. Another house in another town, where Delphine wants to stay forever. She doesn’t understand yet that we won’t.

  When it’s Emma’s birthday, she has a party. Her house is messy but full of music and chatter and life, coming and going. Her parents and their friends. Her brothers and their friends. Others—always welcomed, like I am.

  Before her party, Emma asks me to sleep over. My heart sinks because I know I have to tell her that my parents won’t let me, which she says is really stupid.

  “For F’s sake, we’re fifteen, Rosie. I said ‘F’!” Then laughs at her own joke.

  “You’re so right!” I laugh with her, a hollow pretend laugh. “I’ll ask them again!”

  And I’m frightened then, feeling that worried look like my mother’s that makes my head hurt, that if I don’t go, Emma won’t want me as a friend. Then I’m angry that my parents won’t let me decide, when it’s my life and Emma’s friendship is important to me.

  Now I see a dilemma that’s my parents’ doing. But I don’t know that at the time. As I work out how to keep Emma’s friendship, how to keep my parents happy, I have no choice. And so it starts.

  The lie begins with two lies. To my mother, that I’m going to Emma’s to watch a movie; to Emma, that it’ll be great! I’m sleeping over!

  I wear jeans and a T-shirt so my mother doesn’t question me, just drives me over there and doesn’t come in. Emma isn’t a perfect friend, but because her father’s in a famous orchestra, she’s good enough. Already there’s music. Food on foil-covered plates prepared by Emma’s mum, generously and happily, and with love.

  I get ready with Emma, curling our hair, putting on makeup—sweeping eyeliner and long layers of mascara, then soft pink lipstick—laughing with her, pretending I do this all the time.

  I lie that I’ve forgotten my clothes—that was the third lie. How could she believe I’d forget my clothes? The thrill I feel when Emma says I look gorgeous in the short dress and pretty shoes she lends me. I look at myself, eyes sparkling. Alight, like Emma. I remember the reason for it, too.

  His name is Adam, Emma’s youngest brother, not quite two years older than us, kind of shy and sweet, the first boy who holds my hand, dances with me as the sun goes down, then later, much later, when it’s dark, under the oak tree at the end of the garden, when no one’s watching us, the first boy whose soft, gentle lips touch mine.

  I remember him being just the right amount taller than me, so that when he leaned down and I turned my face up toward his, our lips met. The denim shirt he was wearing with the sleeves rolled up, his hair kind of messy and needing cutting. How when he kissed me, everyone else faded into the background, and how I floated, so high I nearly forgot the lie. How I remembered just in time, clasping a hand to my head, closing my eyes. Crashing down to earth.

  “I’m sorry, Adam. I really don’t feel well.”

  And I so don’t want to do this, so want to stay here, with him and everyone else. It’s the lie that kills me inside.

  His look of concern. “Come and sit down. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

  But I don’t want him to leave me, even for the minutes it will take for him to walk to the kitchen and back. “It’s okay. Really, I’ll be fine. It’s a migraine. I get them sometimes. It’s probably best I go home.”

  Telling Emma, watching the disappointment spread over her face, followed by sympathy I don’t deserve. I don’t see the tear she sheds as she goes to get me a glass of water, how sad she is because I’m her friend and I’ve let her down. Or how she stands up to Leah Williams, who says I’m a weirdo and she doesn’t understand why Emma even asked me here.

  Adam’s eyes, following me down the drive as I get into my father’s car, which arrives dead on ten o’clock and waits, just as we agreed.

  I don’t see that when we drive away, the party mood goes quiet, then dies. I just sit as my father drives, hands clenched on the steering wheel, waiting.

  And he knows I’m waiting.

  After ten minutes like ten hours, when we’re nearly home, as we turn into our drive, when he’s spun it out as long as he possibly can, at the very last minute, when I’m holding my breath, he spits it out with contempt.

  “Who was the boy?”

  The boy.

  “Emma’s brother.”

  It isn’t a lie, but if it was, I wouldn’t care. One lie, fifty lies. What’s the difference?

  He hesitates, while I get out of the car and calmly walk inside, because whatever else he can do, however he looks at me, whatever questions he asks, he can’t make me say things I don’t want to say. The secret is hugged inside, where no one can get to it, no one except me, where I can say his name over and over and no one can hear it.

  His name is Adam, I say silently, looking at my father’s back. Adam. Adam. Adam.

  Lies are like dough or malignant tumors. They get bigger. I meet Adam at lunchtimes. On Tuesday evenings, when I walk to the library with books that don’t need changing, or Thursday evenings, at running club, only neither of us puts on the trainers we’re carrying. We just walk.

  It takes a few weeks, the shortest, sweetest time, to learn what it is to trust. To know he won
’t hurt me for no reason. That he’ll be where he says he’ll be. That nothing will change out of the blue, without warning.

  Until it does.

  One day, when I get to school, Emma is cool with me, then sits with Leah Williams, their backs to me. Adam isn’t in school. Then on Thursday, he doesn’t meet me at running club.

  Next time I see him, it’s between classes. He’s walking along a corridor toward me; then about ten feet away, he looks up and sees me. Freezes. My heart does that flutter, but then I see his eyes. Cold, hurt, staring at mine, full of hostility and broken promises. Then he turns and walks away, and my friendship with Emma follows, like his shadow.

  I never find out why. I just remind myself that no one’s different. People are all the same. You can’t trust any of them. You can’t have faith in them, because eventually, they will always let you down.

  Only now, as I watch myself, my head staring at the floor, filled with those black words, Adam’s back disappearing down the corridor, I see how wrong I was. There are such good people. People worth taking a risk for. If I’d run after Adam, questioned Emma, made them tell me the truth: Adam walking back from the library that night. The car slowing, drawing up alongside, the window winding down. Adam stopping. His lovely, warm face friendly. Opening his mouth with a greeting that isn’t uttered, instead forced to listen as foul threats and abusive words are hurled in his face. The car driving away.

  My father’s car.

  12

  Grace comes home, just briefly, a whirlwind of lightness and laughter. We go out riding, me on Zappa, her on Oz, in spite of the drizzle, which stubbornly refuses to let up. After a canter through the woods that leaves her cheeks pink and her eyes glowing, conversation inevitably turns to Rosie.

  “Mum? Do you think they’ll ever find who did it?”