The suffering follows me around, into sleep and down into my dreams. I don’t have any mementos of my time with Daryl, and I don’t want to remember, but the endless nightmares make it impossible to forget. I find myself longing to fill the memories of our relationship with the things of sentimental value from my childhood.
I miss the few items I left behind on that fateful night. The keepsakes of my youth seemed unimportant at the time and certainly not worth the risk, but I bitterly regret not taking them now. The few precious treasures that reminded me I had existed before Daryl came along.
But reminders of my past with him are everywhere I look, like ghosts. When I close my eyes, they are there with me. Those kinds of scars don’t disappear. I suppose that’s what happens when you carry shit around.
I don’t need pieces of my life with Daryl to remind me of our time together, he’s in my head whether I like it or not.
I wipe the steamy condensation from the mirror and see nothing new reflected back at me. The same old curls tighter than my finger can get into. The same tired face. I tell myself I'm beautiful, worthy of love. I tell myself the new truths I want to believe, but it will take an undefined time before I can truly hear them and believe them.
I'm standing in my own apartment, mine. I like the sound of it on my tongue, mine, and what’s more, I have a new car. Sure, I’ve no idea where the money is going to come from for the rest of the year but for tonight, tonight I am going to live like a queen. Tonight, if I'm going to pretend to be whole, I'll do it in style.
I pull on my baggy pyjamas, the ones with the slightly crazed rabbit on the front, and ignore the fact they’re a little tighter than the last time I put them on. Not that putting on weight is a bad thing, in fact I needed it. The last few months have taken their toll. Besides, a few slices of pizza won’t make much of a difference now. Horse, bolted.
Rooting behind the microwave in the kitchen, which looks like a 1970s retrofit, I hunt down the takeaway menus. I have a mobile but it’s just a basic model, no internet or ‘smartness.’ Part of me likes to do things the old way, pick up the phone and talk to someone. It’s nice to have a bit of human contact. The other part of me is trying to be sensible. I have to cut costs somewhere. My Hawaiian pizza ordered, I turn my attention to the chilled wine in the fridge. There is a serious lack of anything remotely healthy, the only greenery to be found is new, unidentified life forms growing in the back. This isn’t a bad thing, far from it. It’s nice to be able to choose my own dietary requirements again and for a while, however long I choose, I am going to eat junk and put weight on. I’ll be fat if I want to, I’ll break out in spots if I choose. The joy is in the choice.
Large glass in hand, I flip through the channels looking for something to watch, when I notice they are showing Bridget Jones. Smiling, I try to forget the obvious similarities between our situations and settle down. I shudder a little and pull the crochet blanket my Mum gave me years ago over my legs. I steadfastly refuse to pay money for heating in spring but the nights are cool. Something I’ll have to get used to, I suppose. Cold nights with no one to warm my bones.
Jumping, I spring up from my chair as an unfamiliar noise breaks my momentary lapse into nodding off. It comes again and then I realise it’s the doorbell. For a moment, I can’t catch my breath. I look around and can’t place where I am, it’s as if my brain has stopped. The only familiar sensation is the unpleasant somersault in my stomach. That’s when I remember, it’s the pizza!
Chapter Two
What is it? What do you want? No don’t, please. I’m sorry. We’ll make this right. Tell me what to do and I’ll do better.
Sometime later I wake up again, only this time there is a god-awful shriek and I am lying in a cold wet pool. The covers hang limply half on the bed and half on the floor, as if afraid of the noise. Shivering, I recall something from a dream I’d been having, then realise the agonising screaming I’d heard is mine. The pool of water is my sweat.
I vaguely recall there was a figure in the distance, a girl with dark hair. She reminded me of someone. There was something about the car and Daryl. I touch my face and find it's wet, I’ve been crying. I try desperately to focus, to will my memories to surface. I imagine whispers and feel my heart beat faster in dread, and push through the fear. I'm used to that.
No matter how hard I try though, I cannot give colour to the hazy details and, unlike most of my nightmares of recent nights that usually hang around me like eerie shadows, the dream drifts away. I can’t quite latch on to what it had all been about, but it feels important, different. I close my eyes; usually this brings me back to the nightmare with a snap, Daryl’s face large and looming, angry with me and something I’d done. Instead, the wine bottle rolls to the floor with a clunk and I sit up, knowing sleep is gone. Whatever it had been was only a dream, and it too has gone. All that is left is an eerie sense of foreboding.
About a week later, an unknown number flashes up on my mobile. It’s a wet afternoon. I'm in the shop with Jeannie, the same as every day, when momentarily I freeze again. Freaked out. I wonder if he is phoning from some other phone. I look at the screen and inwardly panic it might be Daryl on the other end of the line. Jeannie pipes up with her usual wisdom, “Are you OK? Worried it might be him?”
I nod.
“Want me to answer it.”
“No thanks, Jeannie. It’s not like he doesn’t know where I am, is it? Besides, if I go down that road and give in, I don’t think I’ll find a way back.”
She stands by my side as I pick it up and tentatively hold the phone to my ear. Afraid that Daryl might reach through the ether and attack me. The caller on the other end says,
“Hi Katie, erm, Miss Hawcroft, it’s Dan from Altos Motors. How are you?”
“Oh, hi Dan.” Jeannie knows the whole sorry saga of my new car breaking down and I’ve filled her in on the important details, so of course, she knows all about Dan.
Seeing my smile, she giggles, “Is it him?”
Talking a bit too loudly for my liking, Jeannie elbows me in the rib. Swatting her away with my hand, I turn my back on her but Jeannie doesn’t give up easily. She hangs around to hear what he has to say.
“Yes, I’m OK, thank you. Everything OK with you?”
I try my best to hide the contagious giggly tone from my voice as Jeannie pipes up again, “He likes you.”
I turn to see her head bobbing up and down in a somewhat comical fashion and see her lips turn into a wide grin. I can’t help but notice how the years seem to drop away from her carved face, with a genuine look of joy in her eyes.
“Oh, everything is fine, it’s just, I was wondering?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“I notice you haven’t booked the Toyota in yet. Would you like to do that now?”
The ground feels like ice under my feet as the wind is knocked out of me. Why I'm disappointed I don’t know. “Of course, the service. It must have slipped my mind.” Even Jeannie’s smile droops a little as she overhears my end of the conversation.
Jeannie and I have a friendship that has been brought about by circumstance but is no less special because of it. There’s just the two of us against the world and even though we shouldn’t have anything in common, everything about us being totally different, we remain firm friends. She’d been there when Daryl and I first got together and she's still here for me now.
I will never be able to tell her how much that means but there's a small piece of me—a part I’ve never shown her—that is angry at her. For not understanding what it's like to love Daryl. She interpreted every bruise as an act of violence, born from the hands of a monster, but he wasn’t all bad. He was caring and loving, at least he had been in the beginning. Our love was stronger than others could dare to dream. Intense, passionate. Jeannie doesn’t get it, at all. She only saw what she wanted to see and the bruises I’d tried so hard to cover with make-up. But I know she cares about me, she worries. That’s what friends are for. I suppose i
f we didn’t work together, we’d probably never have even spoken to one another. But we are friends and we don’t always see eye to eye.
“Would you like to book it in now?” Dan asks again.
I arrange the date and pop a reminder in my diary. With things the way they are in my life, I’m liable to forget my own head if I don’t make a mental note to bring it with me. We end the call wishing each other a good day, and I can’t help thinking it would be a better if I could see him again sooner rather than later. Next Saturday can’t come around soon enough.
“Shall I put the kettle on? It’s gone quiet,” Jeannie asks. I nod as I perch on the stool behind me. Glancing around the shop, I think it’s probably time to change the window display, ready for the Easter weekend. With a bit of creativity and some of the decorations stored in the backroom from last year, we can make it dazzle for the kids. Get the kids interested and the parents will follow.
Jeannie reappears with two steaming mugs and some biscuits. The anger I felt earlier has vanished into the day and I think about the next part of my life. When life hands you lemons, you can either choose to make the best of it, and make a cool refreshing mixer for your alcoholic beverage, or you can throw in the towel. I planned the former, a large one.
“Heard from him lately?” Jeannie asks. She’s always had a sixth sense about inquiring into my affairs. She instinctively knows when I’ve let my guard down, which isn’t very often. Although it doesn’t take a genius to work out I am entirely more approachable with a steaming brew in my hand. “No, not a peep.”
“Good. And you’re managing Ok in the flat? Anything you need?”
“Oh no, I’ve got everything I need, thank you. You’ve been so kind, Jeannie. Really, you’ve done more than enough.” I try hard to measure my tone, hoping she will believe me.
“You’re not on your own, love, you know that.” Placing her cup on the counter in front of her, she reaches out and puts her warm hand on mine.
“Thanks,” I reply. I can’t help thinking, unless I want to be.
She continues chatting away merrily as the clouds began to settle heavily in the sky. Bloody spring weather, I think, cursing myself for being so optimistic and not bringing along my umbrella. Her words begin to drift into the background as I start to think about Daryl. It’s a little like watching an edited movie of my life play out inside my mind. All the pain and mistakes cut into one long slow-mo trailer of regrets. But I don’t want you to misunderstand me, Daryl isn’t the villain of this piece, he’s not evil or anything. He has a temper and a need to control those around him. His behaviour was bad but you see, it wasn’t all his fault. I was partly to blame; for one thing, I let him control me, for another, I pushed him because I wanted him to be different. I had an idea of love that was romantic and ridiculous. I was young and naive, and when he didn’t give me what I wanted, or I didn’t behave in a way he needed me to, he had to punish me. I went too far.
Even now, after everything, I can’t blame him. We loved each other in our own way and I know he was always sorry afterwards. Until there were no more words that could make it better. That had been the beginning of the end until finally, there was only the illness inside him and the Daryl I loved was gone. But if the illness inside him drove him to that, to be that twisted, I suppose all I can do is feel sorry for him. Well, for both of us. I have to blame someone for his behaviour, so I secretly choose to blame her. The girl who drove him to this madness. She had created this monster, she had cheated on him, and he cheated on me.
If I have one thing to be thankful for, it's the fact that we didn’t have kids. There is only me, it makes it easier. Well, not easier exactly, he almost killed me. If it weren’t for Jeannie… no leaving is never easy, but I thank myself that things aren’t more complicated.
From the first time he’d come into the shop and looked at me with those crisp blue eyes, looking like they held a whole new day inside them, he’d been able to get under my skin. Underneath and into my soul. He figured out what made me tick so quickly, it was like it was meant to be. The fact he was so easy on the eye was more than an added bonus; I went with my heart instead of my head. I confess I was younger back then and couldn’t quite compute how someone as gorgeous as him could even bear to look at me, but I wasn’t going to turn down a gift horse. Not when it was staring at me with what could only be described as lust. I was flattered. I still am.
So, even now a part of me wishes I hadn’t left him. That I should have been able to fix him, but that’s just the romantic in me talking. The one who believes in flowers and pretty mountains and that a kiss solves everything.
Somehow though, it’s as if my life so far has been written by someone else. It’s the actions of those around me who have always controlled it. Him, Jeannie, my mother. I am just reacting, it isn’t me in control of the plot. I know I'm a little bit wicked for feeling angry at Jeannie. If she hadn’t come when she did, I wouldn’t be here, and after all she’s done for me, here I am resenting her for some reason I don’t quite understand. She made it clear when I went to her for help that I either get away from Daryl, or she would report him. That’s the way she is, caring and friendly. If you looked at her you might mistake her for an old and innocuous dear, but make no mistake she is solid to the core. Strong and takes no messing around. No, I can’t have Daryl in jail. The guy has enough to deal with, enough issues already, without me ratting him out. Perhaps that’s why I’m upset with her, just a little.
I hear on the grapevine he’s getting help now, so perhaps some good has come from this mess. It makes me feel glad. It makes the difficulty of getting over him just a little bit easier. I won’t lie and say I haven’t thought there might be a chance for some kind of a reconciliation, but it's good to know he’s OK and it feels nice to have choices of my own again. Freedom.
As Jeannie collects up the dishes, I shout through to her, “I’ll make a start on this window.”
“You’re very thoughtful today, love. You’re not really with me, are you?” Jeannie asks, noticing that I’m distracted.
“Oh, I’m sorry Jeannie, I’m day-dreaming again aren’t I?” Realising I’ve been caught lost in my thoughts, there’s no point denying it.
“Well spill then! Don’t leave me here in suspense, unless you’re thinking about him. You’re not, are you?”
I know well enough to stay away from the topic of the day, Daryl. Besides, what more is there to say on the subject, it’s over. “No, I’m thinking about Mum, actually. I’ve been thinking about her more and more lately, wondering if, with everything, I’m turning out exactly like her. I can’t help thinking about what she’s up to now. If she’s changed, if she misses me, if she even cares.”
The day I left Mum’s had been in many ways the same as leaving Daryl, but without the violence. I came to a point where there was no more I could take and so I left in a thunderous quiet. Now two people had hurt me. I can’t help but notice the coincidental factor in both situations: me. Am I the cause? Am I unlovable?
When I was a kid, the booze she drank, the men and the endless parties, was normal for me, maybe I was too young to know different. By the time I started working for Jeannie, I realised it wasn’t right and living in a house with a husk instead of a mother wasn’t normal. The person walking around at home spoke with Mum’s voice, and looked like her, but Mum was hollow, gone. I guess she was lonely, trapped in a world of her own. She didn’t mean to be cruel but there was only enough room for one; anyone else’s problems, even her own daughter’s, were just too much. She couldn’t handle it, there wasn’t space inside her head. So one day I left. I packed up my things and walked out. Looking back, I realise I wanted to know if she would come after me. I guess it was a little like a kid throwing a tantrum and looking to see if anyone would notice. The impact was deafeningly silent. I left a phone number and a note, she knew where I was, but not once had she come, not once had she cared enough to find me. For all my leg stamping and arm flinging, the ripple had g
one unnoticed.
Now, like my mum, I’ve started to drink. I'm lonely and self-absorbed and, as Jeannie is fond of telling me, I keep drifting off to planet Katie. Everywhere I look, the world seems too large, too noisy and too scary. I am terrified of becoming like her.
Realising that none of what I’ve been thinking has come out of my mouth, in fact I’ve been staring at the same spot on the rail in front of me for a good ten minutes, I glance up and catch the look of sadness on Jeannie’s face.
“You’ve got me darlin’, you’ll always have me,” she says and gives me one of the rarest gifts— she reaches out and hugs me.
“And that’s all I need,” I reply, holding her tight. Unlocking from her embrace, the intensity of the moment is too much for me to bear. To be loved is something I can’t handle, so I quickly change the subject. “Do you know what? That bloody car is on the fritz again!”
“Huh? Oh no, why?” Jeannie asks.
“Well, when I was driving home last night, up near Crannock Heath, it kept indicating left. It was so weird. Like the car wanted me to go left or something.”
“Why don’t you give Dan a ring? That’ll take your mind off these other things. Don’t tell me you don’t want to see him again? I saw the sparkle in your eye,” she says, grinning.
She's Not Gone Page 8
