Guilt

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  “No,” I admonish, shaking my head, “not at all. You have a good heart.”

  “So… we can stay?”

  “You don’t even have to ask. You know I love having you here. You’ve helped me so much, maybe now it’s my turn to help you.”

  She turns her face away, masking her emotion. “Thanks, sis.”

  While she goes back to her parenting book, I remain standing where I am, staring out at nature. My mind’s eye travels back a few years and I fondly remember being a teenager, sharing a classroom with Hetty. Everyone was scared shitless of her. She wasn’t only taller than most people, she was more fearless too. I was an awkward teenager, constantly trying to hide my chest beneath baggy clothes, my shoulders always slumped. I also hated my frizzy hair (this was before decent straighteners came on the market for an affordable price). I didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin yet, but it always seemed like Hetty couldn’t give a shit what anyone thought. That was before I got to know her better. Once I became teacher’s pet, she was consigned to second best and I vividly remember the day Hetty pushed me up against a wall outside our classroom. Her demeanour and stance screamed I was in danger, but there were tiny flashes in her eyes of sadness and despair – and I read what was behind that menacing persona. She never hurt me beyond a bit of pushing and shoving, not really. I don’t think she could have ever laid a hand on me, not only because she wasn’t really a violent person, but also because I never took my eyes off her. I held her gaze so that she knew I wasn’t really scared of her. I could see beyond the façade and she knew it. She liked to threaten me, oh she did – warning me she’d put chewing gum in my hair, or steal my uniform during PE – if I didn’t shut my mouth during English class. Jules Jones (Jules Simonovich then) was the best teacher in the school and everyone knew it, but there were other reasons why Hetty so craved Jules’ attention – and I guessed why. Jules and Hetty shared some unspoken similarity – an orphaning of sorts. Hetty always saw something in Jules she could relate to and she was just desperate to find someone to talk to – someone who would ask the questions nobody else wanted to ask.

  By fluke, it was eventually Warrick Jones who asked Hetty what was really going on. I’d tried many times, but my asking only made Hetty angrier – so angry that she once smashed her fist against a brick wall and caused several cuts to her own knuckles. While I feel like Hetty and Jules are somewhat soul sisters, I know I have a lot in common with Warrick. I never knew what I really was until one day, Hetty told me. She said, “You’re one of those rare personalities… an empath.” I stared at her incredulously, disbelieving, and yet her words have never left me. I may be an empath, but because of her abused upbringing, Hetty judges people astutely on a literal level.

  Since she labelled me an empath, whenever I have come across empaths in literature or in real life, I see something I can relate to – and as the years pass, my empathic abilities seem more and more evident. I feel that Warrick is an empath too and I suspect we share this horrible burden of finding it impossible to shut off your mind to the pain of the world. It becomes our pain, too. We adopt it. I feel like, maybe, for years I adopted whatever pain Gage was carrying around. Maybe that made it impossible for me to see clearly. Maybe I am finally seeing clearly now he’s absent, and perhaps I’ve had a recent overload of my own thoughts rather than just his. I feel reluctant to throw myself into something new, and yet I cannot stop thinking about Sam. He’s probably going out of his mind. I haven’t responded to any of his texts or emails lately and I’ve been such a bad friend.

  But then as I look up and see Hetty again, I remember I’m not that bad a friend. Once it all came out about the cigarette burns and everything, she needed somewhere to stay and I begged my mother to give Hetty a chance. Hetty was uncharacteristically quiet and shy when my parents first fostered her, but I’ll never forget the day my mother baked Hetty a birthday cake. Hetty went upstairs and wept after she realised we’d prepared a little tea party for her. When she came back down and cut into her own cake, I saw her hand trembling as she held the knife, she was so overwhelmed. It took a lot of hard work to get Hetty to trust us, but she softened and settled in. She’s the most intelligent woman I’ve ever known and also the funniest and most tragic, but I love her. I saved one soul at least, right? I can’t say I was totally unselfish, though. I’d spent much of my childhood alone in a flat while my mother and father fried fish downstairs. I’d buried myself in books. I’d hidden. I wanted Hetty in my life because I’d yet to meet anyone like her and I finally had a friend with a sensibility matching mine. Hetty and I bounce off one another because we’re different in many ways, but somehow we share the same passions.

  I leave Hetty where she’s still standing in the kitchen, pulling my phone out of my robe pocket. Switching it on, I discover I have twenty per cent battery left, so maybe just enough.

  I take the couch in the living room and press call.

  “Hi… hey… Liza?” he asks.

  “It’s me.”

  There’s a pause. It makes me nervous. Then he says, “I’m so glad you’ve called.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah… yep.” There’s an edge to his tone, and I realise what it is… worry.

  “I’m sorry, Sam. I’ve not been good. I wanted to call. I’m sorry.” I realise as I lift my hand, it’s shaking. I’m shivering.

  “No, it’s okay. I understand. It hasn’t been easy, but I understand.”

  “Thank you.”

  There’s another painful silence, then he asks, “Do you want to meet up?”

  Bile rises in my throat at just the thought of going outside. I clear my throat and suggest, “Why don’t you pop round?”

  “What, now?”

  “No… I mean… maybe. I don’t know. Tomorrow? Or… maybe… yeah. Now?”

  Today, I had a wash for the first time in weeks, so perhaps I should learn to walk again before I can run, but maybe that doesn’t really matter. Maybe I just need to check he’s alive, in the flesh… and maybe he needs the same.

  “I’m grabbing my keys,” he says, a tone of urgency in his voice.

  “Okay… err… yeah.”

  “See you in about twenty minutes?”

  “Okay.”

  He hangs up.

  I guess that’s that.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A FEW MINUTES LATER, HETTY swans into my living room and casually asks, “Who was that then?”

  Actually, there’s nothing casual about her words, which are loaded with innuendo.

  “He’s popping round to check on me. Could you make yourself scarce?”

  She stares down her nose at me. “Not on your nelly.”

  So, she intends to make this as uncomfortable as possible for me…

  Well, she hasn’t met Sam yet. Not even Hetty will be able to resist Sam’s charm. She’ll see. She’ll begin to understand once she’s met him.

  When the doorbell chimes, she’s first out of her seat, eyes wide with expectation. “Can’t have the lady of the manor answering her own door, the help must go, must they not?”

  I try to summon a retort but she’s gone from the room before I can complain.

  Waiting in the living room on my own, all I hear is silence. Is she telling him to get lost? Is he having second thoughts? Are they having a showdown? My heart starts pounding and my head hurts. I walk to the window to see if I can get a look outside, to see what’s going on.

  Before I know it, I hear his voice, projecting from behind me. For some stupid reason I can’t find the strength to turn around. Maybe I don’t want him to know I’ve been seeking him, maybe I can’t take the way he makes me feel when I look at him. For these few seconds, I’ll just be glad he’s here at all.

  “Hello, Liza,” he says, his London accent always thrilling.

  “Hello.”

  “He’s brought you flowers, shall I get a vase?” Hetty asks, butting in. There’s something restrained about her now.

  “Yes, if you l
ike,” I whisper.

  When she’s gone from the room, I suddenly become aware of my appearance. My hair’s down because after Hetty brushed it earlier, she left it like this and I didn’t think to tie it up or plait it. I’m also wearing plaid pyjamas and fluffy socks and my most horrible grey cardigan with a million bobbly bits which just happens to be the warmest thing I own.

  “How have you been?” he asks, his voice cracking.

  “I only got out of bed today,” I confess.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” And yet I still haven’t turned to face him.

  Hetty returns to the room, her footsteps announcing her before her voice. “There, don’t they look beautiful, Liz? Hmm?” She plants the vase on my glass coffee table, where she knows I can’t have flowers. The kids are likely to cause not only the vase damage, but themselves. I quickly spin round and make a grab for the vase, lifting it onto the mantelpiece.

  “It’s out of reach up here.” I primp and preen the bouquet, which is just a simple white arrangement of inoffensive English flowers.

  I spend longer than necessary rearranging them.

  “Do you want a drink, Sam?” she asks, with a slight edge of amusement. “Tea? Coffee? Vodka? Some horrific protein crap my boyfriend lives on? Or Liza’s most abused poison, Horlicks?”

  I have to bite my lip to stop myself smiling.

  He manages a small laugh. “I’ll have a cup of tea.”

  “Liza?”

  “Same,” I respond.

  She bustles off again.

  My legs take me towards the large sofa and without being invited, he takes a seat a couple of cushions away from me.

  “I did warn you about her.” I stare down at my lap, pulling at the bobbles on my cardi.

  “She’s exactly how you described.”

  “Larger than life?”

  “That… and scary.”

  “Oh, yes. I agree.” I take a deep breath and add, “Thanks for the flowers, by the way. They’re beautiful.”

  “You’re welcome. I just never know what else to pick up in these situations.”

  “That’s okay. I didn’t expect anything. I don’t expect anything. I’m just glad you’re here at all.”

  There’s silence and it forces me to look up and into his eyes.

  “Do you mean that, Liz?”

  “Mean what?” He appears hurt and confused, scared and wary. Where did his easy charm disappear to? When did it all become so serious? For so long, it’s only ever been a laugh and a joke between us – nothing too alarming. All this is very different. We’re no longer just friends.

  “You’re glad I’m here.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m glad every day you’re breathing, Sam.”

  He swallows and when he does, his Adam’s apple shifts in his long, elegant throat. “You’ve not been in touch.”

  “I’ve been in hell.”

  “I have, too. I’ve wanted to be here for you, but I’ve not known how; whether I even have permission or if you think it was all a mistake, or if…”

  I begin to see we’re both feeling and looking rather foolish right now.

  “I don’t remember the funeral,” I begin explaining. “Hetty wasn’t there, but she heard from other people that I did some things. Apparently, I accused my mother of having an affair and me being the result of that affair.”

  “Oh, bloody hell, Liza.”

  “I think I got home after that and shut down. That’s the only way I can explain it. The shock, the entirety of the whole situation… all the stuff I’ve been harbouring for so long… it’s all taken me down and that’s why I’ve been like this. It has nothing to do with you.”

  He gradually makes his way closer, edging across the sofa towards me. He covers my hand with his and whispers, “Okay. Okay. Well, now I’m here, what do you need?”

  What do I need? I ask myself. What is it I really need?

  Hetty breaks the moment with a spirited, flamboyant entrance, carrying a tray of stuff including my entire tea service.

  She drops to the floor by the coffee table and kneels, stirring a teaspoon around a big pot of tea.

  “Joe texted; they won two-nil. I think they needed a win. I don’t think he will stay long with Hull, you know.”

  “Oh, why not?” I enquire.

  “He wants to spread his wings. He trained with them as a sprog, remember?”

  “You mean, you might move away?” I question her.

  “Potentially. I’ve felt it in my bones a while. It probably will happen. I guess it’s a matter of time.”

  I suppose this is really why she’s selling her house without immediately looking for someplace else to buy – because she knows a move is on the horizon, but she doesn’t know where yet.

  Hetty passes around a packet of biscuits while Sam keeps his hand fastened around mine.

  “Everything’s changing,” I mutter.

  “If you ask me, all for the better,” she exclaims, while staring right at Sam.

  She makes no bones about it – clearly, she never favoured Gage. No love loss there.

  “What about your dresses?”

  She glances at me warily as she passes me a cup and saucer, already having added milk for me.

  “What about my dresses?” she says, sounding affronted.

  “We said we were—”

  She gives me a small smile. “I don’t need rescuing anymore, Liz. You already did that. Let me worry about my dresses and how I’ll get them out into the world.”

  I glance at Sam who’s quietly observing our exchanges, working out our dynamics and power play.

  “But…” I lose my train of thought, instead sounding only disappointed.

  “It’s only the past few days I’ve picked up on vibes from Joe; he won’t be allowed to say anything yet, but I think I know a transfer is on the horizon. Things change, Liz. Like all the time. It’s the one thing we can be sure of. Well-laid plans diversify. Paths separate or converge.”

  “You’ve become far too fucking grown up, Hetty,” I accuse, making them both chuckle.

  “Yeah, well…” She shrugs, sipping her tea.

  Hetty pours herself another cup and rises to her feet, cradling her book underarm.

  “I’m off to bed,” she announces loudly. “Joe will tiptoe in when he gets back late tonight. I can’t guarantee silence, though. Elizabeth recognises when her father is back home and tends to need booby after that. Anyway, make of that what you will. I bid you goodnight.” She whistles for Cece the dog and the grumpy little staffy waddles after Hetty, following her upstairs to bed.

  I don’t miss the wink she shoots me, nor the way she wafts her face when she’s out of Sam’s eyeline but still in mine. She still has no shame, it seems. Some things never do change.

  After she’s upstairs and in the spare bedroom, Sam speaks: “We were talking before. You were going to tell me what it is you need…”

  “Yeah, yeah… I was.” Just what is it that I need exactly? I’m not sure. I take a breath and blow it out. Then I whisper, “I just need one peaceful night’s sleep.”

  He takes both of my hands in his, staring at the way his dwarf mine. “Since our night together, there hasn’t been a day when I haven’t thought about you. In fact, I think it’s been this way for quite a while… when things just remind me of you… and I want to speak to you about it. I think about you all the time.”

  Tears well in the corners of my eyes. “Me too. The same. On all counts.”

  “I’m not going to pressure you, but I just want you to know how I feel.” There’s that crackly quality to his voice again – perhaps nerves or uncertainty, I don’t know.

  I tighten my fingers around his. “I feel exactly the same way. I guess I just… I denied it. For so long.”

  “It’s always been there… but it’s always been…”

  “…to much of a comfort,” I finish for him. “Just always… present. Taken for granted.
”

  “Yes, yes…” He continues staring at our joined hands while I stare at his throat and body in a t-shirt and jeans.

  I’ve never felt like this about anyone. It’s like I woke up this morning contained by this horrific fog of depression, but now that he’s here, I can see the sun again. It’s like I’ve been starving myself of him, but now I’ve got him back, I feel marginally happy again.

  It’s as I’m feeling this high of happiness that I begin to recall what made me so miserable in the first place. Anxiety threatens to turn my stomach upside down again and he notices a change in me, moving closer to pull me into his arms. With his touch, I feel instantly better and I take some deep breaths, my eyes closed while I absorb his warmth and affection. Perhaps this is all I really need.

  I leave my seat and turn off the gas fire, holding out my hand for him. He takes it and follows my lead. We head out of the room and up the stairs.

  Once we’re in the master, I shut the door and head for the bed, taking off my woolly cardi before I dive in.

  “It’s not the one he died in,” I remind Sam. “He’s gone, anyway. His spirit left me a few weeks ago. I can’t feel him anymore. He’s out of sight now.”

  I curl up in my pyjamas, pulling a big teddy into my embrace. It’s one of Emily’s but she’s letting me borrow it. She still has her comforter in the form of a care bear with Gage’s picture safety-pinned on the belly.

  “Do you want me to stay? I’m not sure…”

  I lift my head and catch sight of him looking so unsure of himself… so unlike Sam.

  “Please… stay. I’d love for you to. If you want to.”

  He toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks before dropping his jeans. He climbs into bed with me, spooning up behind me. He’s so lean and tall, his body defined and angular, and yet he fits nicely around me, even if I’ve recently lost so much weight.

  He rests his head on top of my hair and wraps his arms tight around me and the teddy bear. Within a few minutes, I notice him shaking violently. It frightens me so I don’t turn to question him. Instead, I eventually whisper, “Are you okay?”