The Bones of You

by Debbie Howells

  “I haven’t seen her. She’s tied up with work and the boys.”

  “Well, why don’t you go and see Grace?” he suggests. “Get away from there for a bit. A change of scene would do you good.”

  I know what he’s really saying. It’s his unvoiced reminder to me not to get too drawn into Jo’s problems. He may be right. And the thought of seeing Grace is irresistible.

  ROSIE

  You can’t know that air shimmers. Or that a north wind is violet streaked with indigo, and a southerly wind is the color of a sunflower. That it carries the sound of bees swarming and angels crying, even though you can’t see them.

  You can’t know any of this. How it feels to have none of the residual sensation an amputee might have. No wraithlike limbs or ghostly body, like in movies. But that doesn’t mean I’m not here. That I’m not something. Just because there are no words to describe it.

  Colors have become ever changing; faraway sounds, knife sharp. Time elastic, catapulting me from a night that’s lasted forever into the middle of the building storm.

  The randomness of the universe isn’t random at all. I see that now. Take the molten metal streams of silver raindrops, snaking downward, streaking the forest floor. Or the storm, a product of heat and moisture in the air, swirling like an ocean current or riptide, charging the clouds until they explode into their own light show.

  Across the woods, I glimpse a streak of white. As it comes nearer, I realize the storm has brought me a horse.

  I know Zappa instantly, as light and fluid as the rain. Kate says I have an affinity with horses. That horses read your soul. Is that what I am now? I call out to him.

  “Hey! Hey, boy! Zappa . . .”

  He throws up his head, startled, and I realize he’s heard me. Then I see Kate riding him. Urgently, desperately, I need her to hear me, too, to know the truth, to send someone out here to help me.

  “Kate . . .”

  As the thunder crashes, I scream her name. Hear it echo, see the air ripple, taking it to her. I try again, and this time her face is stricken with terror.

  “Kate, it’s me. It’s Rosie. . . . Help me. . . . Please. Help me. . . .”

  For a moment, I think she’s heard. Then I realize, even if she hasn’t, Zappa has. He bolts, galloping too fast. Kate can’t stop him.

  I have to do something, help them both, but all I can think of is to bring them here, where the ground is flat and the trees will protect them. To show Zappa where the path is. To take away Kate’s fear. To bring them to me.

  In my mind, I see a glow around me, under the trees, casting shadows that move with the wind, and then it’s there. Dim at first, slowly growing brighter.

  As if he reads my mind, Zappa turns, takes the slope in two long strides, then, seeing me, stops dead, his huge, astonished eyes trying to figure out what he’s looking at, as Kate pitches onto the ground.

  Zappa stands there, spooked, snorting at me.

  “Good horse. Good boy. It’s okay, Zappa. . . .”

  He doesn’t get it. How can he see me? I don’t get it, either. But he’s okay. I turn to Kate. She isn’t moving.

  Somehow, I’m beside her, at her head, hearing her whisper a breath, and I reach out, a butterfly touch to her cheek.

  “It’s okay, Kate. You’re okay. I’ll look after you. . . .”

  But I don’t see what happens to her. I’m floating away, even though I’m grasping at branches, which my hands just slip through. Calling out. I don’t want to go. I can’t leave her.

  Then it’s dark again, the sky a mass of twinkling stars calling me in a million voices to be one of them. But I can’t. Not yet. Even though my body’s lifeless, my last breath squeezed from my lungs. I’ve seen my life flash by. Seen the truth about those I thought were close to me. I’m supposed to move on. But there’s a reason I’m still here. It’s because I’ve lost someone. Someone I know I have to find.

  Then I’m overcome with a strange, sinister feeling. And in front of me more pictures start, only these are darker, faster, more menacing. The story behind my own story. The part of the story no one knows.

  22

  Only when she’s caught unawares do the cracks show. Jo’s expression when Delphine asks about the school trip to Paris. The pile of bills mounting up, on the side, unopened. A call from a police counselor that leaves her unduly flustered.

  “I’m fine. I just need some space,” she says snippily. “I wish they’d get off my back.”

  All pointing to how vulnerable she feels.

  She makes no mention of money, and I don’t ask. Then, with her work on the house finished, the last wall painted, the last piece of new furniture in its place, her mood of euphoria collapses.

  “It’s beautiful, Jo. You’ve done a great job with it.”

  “Thank you. Better, isn’t it?”

  I look around at the walls, painted a different neutral shade from before, with new curtains hanging, furniture shifted slightly. All that aside, it’s disturbingly reminiscent of how it used to look. Immaculate. Too tidy. It’s the same upstairs, a glamorous interiors photo shoot rather than a family home.

  “I love it,” I tell her. “So now that it’s done, what next?”

  She looks puzzled.

  “I was thinking about the course you started. It was going well, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t know.” She sounds unsure. “After all this business with Neal, I—I can’t think that far ahead.”

  And though she hides it well, I see a change. After that, every time I see her, her world closes in a little more, until it’s shrink-wrapped around her. She shows me new china or the latest high-tech gadget. And then she has absolutely nothing else to say.

  “Jo?” I have to ask her one day, as we sit there, barely speaking. “You’re not yourself. What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, looking at me blankly. “I thought with Neal gone from here, the house decorated, I’d feel good. But I don’t, Kate. I feel terrible. Every day it gets worse. And I don’t know what to do. . . .”

  “You’ve been through so much,” I say, worried she’s on the verge of another breakdown. Under her make-up, her skin is gray, and there are dark circles under her eyes, as though even when she sleeps, she doesn’t rest. “Seriously. Maybe you should talk to someone. A professional, Jo. Don’t you think it might help?”

  For a moment she looks as though she’s tempted, but then she rallies. Laughs a brittle laugh. “There are people far worse off than I am, Kate. Honestly. I’ll be fine.”

  But I know she isn’t, and as I drive home, I’m preoccupied. I know enough to realize that stress can creep up on you and hit you when you least expect it. I’m guessing that’s what’s happening to her again. In which case, she really does need some help. I decide to call her and try to convince her, but when I get home, I’m distracted by another of those envelopes and, when I open it, another note.

  In a world of people, I’m alone.

  ROSIE

  As the next picture unfolds in front of me, it’s monochromic and dark, like through a tinted lens. I see a girl I’ve never seen before. She’s small, her hair a mass of pale curls, her old-fashioned dress tied behind her in a bow. She’s in a garden behind a large house, a dull sun high above the tall trees surrounding it. As she walks across the grass, she stops suddenly, her hair caught white in the sunbeams through the branches as something lands on her hand. A large, patterned butterfly flexing lace wings as the girl holds her breath and doesn’t move.

  Then it flies, fluttering upward out of her reach, and she watches, then flings skinny arms out and runs, leaping across the garden, featherlight, following the path of the butterfly through air that glimmers, with a happiness that soars, too. Until the voice comes out of the sky.

  “Joanna? Joanna? Come inside, child.”

  She’s done nothing, but her world darkens with a fear she can’t explain. Her feet take her inside. They always do. Because if she doesn’t do as they say, bad things ha
ppen.

  The door closes behind her; then the sun starts to sink slowly, then faster, gaining speed in this black-and-white world, until the last rays spike below the horizon and turn it to darkness.

  23

  I leave the note at the police station for Sergeant Beauman, then turn up my music and set off for Bristol, with each passing mile feeling my heart lift as I think about the weekend with Grace.

  As if she knows, when I get there, she’s sitting outside, waiting for me.

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to be here!” It’s true. As well as giving us time together, being miles from home gives me a changed perspective on Jo and her problems.

  Grace’s eyes sparkle at me. “I know, Mum. I’m glad, too. I thought we could go to this Italian tonight, if you like? It isn’t expensive.”

  I notice the nod to her impoverished student status.

  “Don’t worry about that, Grace. My treat! This is great, though,” I add as we walk into her dormitory. “I love what you’ve done with your room.”

  The empty space we abandoned her to all those months back is no more. What’s here reminds me of her room at home, only with unfamiliar pictures on the walls, photos of friends I’ve yet to meet. And flowers. Grace’s cheeks flush pink as she catches me looking at them.

  I raise a questioning eyebrow.

  “Mu-um! Okay.” She rolls her eyes. “They’re from a boy. He’s called Ned, and he’s cool. You’ll really like him.”

  Ned. I haven’t met a Ned before. I wonder if he’s good to her, what he looks like.

  “Here.” She thrusts her phone under my nose. “This is him.”

  A kind, boyish face looks back at me. A little older than Grace, maybe? If he’s important to her, I’m sure I’ll get to meet him.

  “Is he coming out with us?”

  “God, no. I might see him after, though. It depends.”

  Her social life yielding to allow us a few precious hours together before snapping her back into its midst.

  “Party?”

  She nods. “But it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to, Mum.”

  “You go. I’ll be happy with an early night.”

  Grace shows me round the campus, chattering about the clubs she’s joined and the movies she’s seen. Then we drive into town and find the B and B I’ve booked, which is clean and homely, with a soft bed and a rooftop view punctuated by chimney stacks. Then we walk through the streets to the restaurant she’s chosen, with its stripped wood and bare bricks. We eat pasta and drink red wine, and after filling her in about Jo and Neal, suddenly weary, I change the subject. I want to forget about them, everything I’ve left behind, just for a while.

  I’ve booked my room for the weekend, fully aware that Grace will have her own life to lead, but needing the change of scene, glad that there are no visitors, no intrusions. That I can spend time with Grace, or just explore the shops, be lazy, please myself.

  The following morning, on a whim, I book myself in for a manicure with a pretty, very made-up girl called Mollie, who tuts about my hands and says she’s never seen anything like them.

  “Let me guess.” She stares at them. “Horses?”

  I nod, slightly taken aback.

  “And gardening. I know. I’ll put this lovely cream on them. You won’t recognize them when I’ve finished, and it’s got all these cool ingredients, like calendula to soothe the skin and almond oil. . . .”

  I tell her I’ve never had a manicure before, then let her get on, sitting back, half listening to the idle chitchat around me, about holidays and reality TV shows, until one sentence jerks me back to the moment.

  “You know that TV reporter bloke that killed his daughter?” says a gossipy voice. “Well, seems like his wife’s done herself in. . . .”

  “Excuse me?” I spin round, yanking my hand from Mollie’s. “Could you repeat what you just said?”

  “Joanna what’s-her-name. It was on the news, love.”

  I turn back to Mollie, numb. “Sorry. I need to make a call.” Pulling out my phone, searching for Laura’s number, noticing Mollie’s puzzled face. “She’s my friend.”

  The timing is ironic—or is it? Guiltily, I wonder, if I’d been there, if Jo had known I was just a couple of miles down the road, instead of a couple of hours away, would it have happened? And with Neal no longer around, who’s taking care of Delphine?

  I make my excuses to Grace, feeling horribly guilty about that, too, that I’m letting her down. In spite of her assurances that it’s fine, that she understands, that we’d had a lovely evening and now she was free to go to yet another party she’d been invited to without worrying about leaving me alone, the guilt lingers.

  “I could have gone with you,” I tease her, seeing the flicker of alarm in her face before she giggles.

  “You’d hate it, Mum. All that spilt beer and smoking. You hate cigarettes. And drunk teenagers . . .”

  “Yes, but I might have met Ned,” I point out.

  “If you really want to meet him, I’ll bring him home. For Easter. If we’re still together, that is.”

  I think of Easter. Spring. Grace. Maybe now, Ned . . . Vibrant, beautiful things, full of life and hope. Then Jo, tortured and fragile, unconscious but stable, according to the nurse I spoke to. And, of course, in all this, there’s Delphine.

  It’s late afternoon when I reach the hospital, where it seems the entire world has turned out to visit their loved ones. The extortionately priced car park has no spaces, and after being sent on a wild-goose chase through corridors heavy with the cloying scent of disinfectant, I at last find the right floor and the right set of swing doors, only to be confronted by the ward sister.

  “I’m sorry, but Mrs. Anderson’s not allowed visitors.” She says it most imperiously.

  “I don’t think you understand,” I try to explain. “I’m her closest friend—especially since she’s been on her own. I don’t think she’d be pleased if she knew about this.”

  Trying to ignore the fact that I’ve cut short my weekend with my daughter, that I’m hungry, worried. How Jo has no one else who cares enough to be here.

  The sister ignores me, writing something on one of the charts spread in front of her before turning her back on me. I wait, studying the board that tells me exactly where she is, and when the sister strides away out of sight, I slip into Jo’s room.

  ROSIE

  I see the child again, the one with pale hair and my mother’s name. Joanna. With the story that’s stitched into the background of mine. She’s in a house of silence, seated between upright, unsmiling parents lost in the pages of their books.

  A tasseled lampshade hangs center ceiling, throwing a dim light on furniture that’s as dark and heavy as the air they breathe, air that fills her lungs and sticks in her throat, slowly suffocating her. Now and then, glancing from one parent to the other, she shifts in her chair.

  While they carry on reading, ignoring her.

  She crosses her legs, with the same anxious, pleading look I’ve seen so many times.

  “Keep still, child,” says the woman.

  “But please, Mama, I need to be excused,” she says.

  “You must wait,” the woman says abruptly.

  Joanna waits until she can’t wait any longer, then gets up and tiptoes toward the door, hoping she can slip out before someone stops her. As her hand reaches for the door handle, the man slams down his book.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” He’s on his feet, marching toward her, a dark-clothed monster towering over her.

  “To the toilet,” she whispers, looking at him, panic-stricken.

  “You were told to wait.” His voice is hard, hateful, makes her cower. “Go and sit down.”

  The child quivers, then flinches, not taking her eyes off him, eyes that fill with terror as a pool of warm urine trickles down her leg. She’s waited all this time, and it’s too long.

  She freezes while his eyes wander down, as he sees what she’s done. Waits for th
e angry cuff across her face, before he grabs her wrist too tightly and drags her through the door and up the stairs, into the special room that has no window and no light.

  I know before she gets there, from the fetid blanket of fear that stops her breathing, from her eyes. This is what happens. He pushes her in and locks the door. Inside, in the darkness, I hear her whimper, watch her fall on the floor in her sodden clothes, clasp her arms, rocking back and forth, before the screams start.

  They go on for hours, long after darkness falls, while I slip through to be with her, to fold my arms around my mother, try to comfort her, tell her that this isn’t her fault, that her mother’s cruel and her father’s evil. That she’s a child. She deserves soft words, strong arms to hold her, and love, so much love. The love that I have inside me, if she’d ever looked.

  But I haven’t been born, and she can’t hear me.

  24

  I slip into the little room that Jo has to herself, then crouch beside the bed, trying to stay out of sight.

  “Jo? Jo? Can you hear me?”

  I look at her, a small gray doll on the starched sheets, threaded with plastic tubes that link her to drips and screens. The air rings with electronic noise that no one should be able to sleep through, but she doesn’t stir.

  Glancing through the door, checking that no one’s in earshot, I whisper her name again.

  “Jo?”

  Then I watch as she stirs, the slight movement of her head turning, then her lashes, a flutter, as if she’s dreaming.

  “Jo? It’s okay. You’re not well. You’re in hospital.”

  Briefly her eyelids flicker open, then close again as I hear footsteps behind me.

  Then my heart sinks, because it’s the same ward sister, just as uncompromising as before. “Kindly leave. I made it very clear you weren’t to come in here.”

  “And as I said to you earlier, I’m her closest friend. And quite possibly the only visitor she’ll get. She opened her eyes just now. While I was talking to her.”