Tomas’s phone rang three times. ‘Hello.’ The voice was female, Catherine.
‘Hi Cathy, it’s Crow.’
The line was silent for a moment. ‘Oh hi, how are you? I’m afraid Tomas isn’t here,’
Catherine’s voice sounded saccharine. When I tried to visualise her I saw a smile forcibly held on her face. ‘Giz ...’
‘Crow.’ My grip on the telephone tightened.
‘Sorry, yeah Crow.’
‘What, Cathy. Is something wrong?’
‘It’s just ... no it doesn’t matter ...’
‘Please, what? Tell me.’
‘He isn’t jealous.’
I shuddered, unable to understand her words. ‘Why is he so angry with me?’ I asked. The phone shook in my hand, my knuckles tense and white.
‘He’s trying to protect your mum. It's what he does. He doesn’t mean to hurt everyone else around him. It's just the way it works out.’
I gulped. realising I hadn't considered how Catherine was affected by all this. Did she feel jealous too? I wondered whether I should ask her, but it felt too intrusive. Safer to stay on the subject of Vivienne. ‘Protect her? Protect her from what, from me, from the past? Cathy I don’t understand. I want to understand.’
‘Yeah. Well it is what it is. Look, forget I said anything. We’ll see you tomorrow - Wednesday, right?’ That smile again, I could hear it stretching across Catherine’s cheeks.
‘Of course. Hey is it Tom’s birthday?’
Catherine laughed. ‘Yes it is. We’re making a cake. Oh, does your friend want to come too?’
‘No, she’s heading back to London. You want me to bring anything?’
‘Don’t go to any bother,’ Catherine said. ‘Just bring a smile and leave the drama behind.’
I gulped, feeling insulted: the drama? The phone clicked dead and I walked back to the bedroom in a daze. Chrissie looked up. I smiled to show all was well and joined her on the bed. Leave the drama behind – the words kept echoing through my mind. ‘Cathy just told me to “leave the drama behind”,’ I said, not really speaking to Chrissie, but sounding the words out to see how they felt.
‘The cheek of her,’ Chrissie said. ‘I hope you swore at her.’
‘I didn’t. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say.’
‘Ignore her, Crow. You’re not dramatic. You’re perfectly well balanced and charming and, and, and completely normal.’ She grinned.
I returned her smile. As we stared at each other, the tension started to slip away.
‘I’m glad you’re going to see Mitch,’ I said.
Chrissie nodded. She opened her mouth to say something then seemed to think better of it.
I raised my eyebrows and she blushed under my scrutiny. ‘My relationship with Mitch has gone to shit so I guess I’ve been trying to take care of you instead. Except, well you know how that worked out.’ Her eyes looked haunted.
‘Come down to the kitchen. Let me roll you a cigarette. It’ll all be okay, I promise.’
‘It’s okay, I kinda, I think I wanna be alone for a while.’
I stood up. My face must have reflected my concern and Chrissie waved her hand, dismissively. ‘No I’m not going to do anything stupid. It’s a relief, to be honest. Yes a relief. I’ll be okay.’
I watched as Chrissie shuffled about under the quilt. The boundless energy she had brought with her, just a few days before, seemed like a half-forgotten dream. It was the house. It had to be. The bricks were a black hole that swallowed happiness and left its occupants empty and afraid.
I wandered downstairs, wondering what to give Tomas for his birthday. I decided I’d do what I did best, paint a picture for him, but of what?
29
Footsteps fell heavily on carpeted treads. The darkness of my room swallowed me as the sounds came closer. The door creaked and the padding of leather approached my bed. A hand stroked my hair, a big hand with rough fingers. I pushed my face deeper into my pillow, pretending to be asleep. Cold breath tickled my neck and my nostrils recoiled from a scent that reminded me of cleaning fluid. I tensed as fingers coiled in my hair. No longer feigning slumber, I struggled to free myself. The grip on my hair strengthened and tugged at my scalp. The pain made me cry.
‘Shush little petal,’ rasped a familiar voice. A man, someone I knew. ‘Don’t fuss, it’s our little secret.’
Gritting my teeth, I pulled harder against my captor.
His fingers clung to my hair, willing me to stay. What hair? I had been shaving my head for over five years. Was I dreaming or was this another ghost? This wasn’t real, the pain was a phantom, like the aching of a severed limb - severed time. No one held me back, no one except myself and yet the fingers kept tugging. I felt my roots tearing from my follicles.
I slapped the palm of my hand against my crown. The pressure vanished and my hair was as short as ever. I turned to check, but there was no-one behind me. Perhaps my captor fled as I freed myself from his greedy grasp?
My heart pounded and I pulled the covers over my head. It isn't real. No one can hurt me, not anymore. Deep inside me I realised how wrong I was. The pain was always there, waiting to be acknowledged. Running away didn't make me free and pretending didn't make me forget. What had happened to me as a child remained in my marrow. I might not recall the details, but I understood the powerlessness and the overwhelming fear all too well.
As I pushed myself up from the bed Chrissie opened my bedroom door. She held her bag in her hand and was smiling. I saw no trace of fear or indecision in her eyes.
‘When do you leave?’ I asked, rubbing the back of my head.
‘Will you be okay?’ It looked as though Chrissie was trying to straighten her lips, to a more sympathetic expression rather than the happiness, relief and sense of purpose she obviously felt.
‘Of course.’
‘Then today, right now, before I lose the nerve. Wish me luck.’
I gave her all my best wishes although I felt she wouldn’t need them. She just needed to put some distance between herself and this toxic house. It was a relief to say goodbye. The thought of nights spent worrying about the suicidal thoughts of another was too much to bear. I fled that demon, years before. Chrissie kissed me goodbye. I waved until I could no longer see her blonde dreads. The house seemed unnaturally quiet and the diaries in my drawer beckoned to me. As I opened my door a blast of cold air pushed me back. I shook my head and retreated, conceding the battle temporarily. The diaries would wait. I had no desire for a round two with the ghosts. Instead I gathered what I needed, checked the bus timetable and headed towards the hospital and Vivienne.
30
The ward was quiet. Perhaps, the inmates weren't expecting company? The television seemed hushed and the faces gazing intently at its shadow-play were silent. I tiptoed past beds, not wishing to disturb the serenity and sat next to Vivienne. My mother was fast asleep, snoring softly as her chest rose and fell with each breath. It seemed unreal to me, almost impossible to believe this was her. She looked twice her age. Her once poisonous, lips now quivered with shallow breaths and those powerful, defiant eyes were shrouded by tissue-thin skin that looked as though it might tear with the slightest force. Watching her, my feelings of animosity for this old nemesis became confused with feelings of pity and a soft, but heavy weight in my stomach. My hardened heart felt tender and I wondered, is this love?
The warm air in the ward soothed me and made me feel sleepy too. I closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them again Vivienne was watching me. The older woman smiled warmly.
‘Giselle, you came,’ Vivienne said, holding her hands out towards me.
I hesitated, unable to remember my lines. This show of motherly affection was alien to me. Vivienne frowned, confused, then smiled again, but a softer, less eager smile. She patted the bed. ‘Please come and sit next to me.’
I did as I was asked and remembered how it had always been that way. ‘How are you feeling?’
�
��Good, good. I’m so glad you’re here.’
‘I came before. Don’t you remember?’
Confusion darkened Vivienne’s face and I wished I hadn’t asked the question. She looked towards the doorway.
‘Are they with you?’ she asked.
‘Who?’
‘Tomas, Cathy, the baby.’
I turned and followed my mother’s gaze towards the door. The phantom of my absent brother mocked me from the shadows.
‘No.’
‘Good,’ Vivienne said.
I stared at her face, trying to figure out whether I'd heard her correctly.
‘Cathy and I don’t get on,’ Vivienne explained. ‘She’s probably pissed off I’m not dead. Watch out for that one. She's all smiles until she bites.’
‘It’s Tommy’s birthday today,’ I said, changing the subject.
Vivienne’s wrinkled face looked at the withered hands in her lap. She silently rubbed her knuckles for a moment. ‘Are you staying with them?’
‘No, I’m at the house.’
‘You are?’ Vivienne looked surprised. I nodded. ‘Watch out for the ghosts. Sometimes ...’
‘I know,’ I replied quickly, looking around the room, hoping no one heard. I leaned towards her and spoke in a low voice. ‘One tried to ... drown me.’ I sat back, anticipating Vivienne’s scornful laugh.
‘No, that was me,’ she answered without a trace of humour. ‘She tried to drown me.’ Her clear grey eyes started to cloud and she shook her head as if trying to clear her mind. ‘She never believed me. Never forgave me.’
‘Why? Who?’
‘Filthy,’ Vivienne hissed, a chillingly accurate reproduction of the voice in the bathroom.
‘Who said that to you, Mum? I heard it too. Were you pregnant?’
Vivienne didn’t seem to hear. She stared at her hands again, grasping the knuckles, squeezing and twisting them between thumb and forefinger. ‘Filthy ... secrets.’
‘Shhh, Mum, it’s okay’ I looked around the room, but no-one had noticed her distress. ‘Mum it’s okay.’
I tried to pull her hands apart. As I touched her cold, thin fingers the narrow, almost skeletal face looked up at me again. Its grey eyes bore holes in my own and I felt her unspoken accusation.
‘Mum, it’s okay. It’s me.’
‘Giselle?’
I sighed and nodded. Two steps forward, one step back.
‘I thought you were her. I made her hate me, but what else could I do? Too young. Too vulnerable. You understand, don’t you?'
I nodded and squeezed her hand gently, afraid to break anything.
'Have you read the diaries?’ she asked.
‘Diaries? No.’
‘In the attic. Read them and please ... tell Tomas I’m sorry.’
‘Tommy loves you, Mum.’
‘He might not ... when you tell him.’ Her fingers worked frantically again, squeezing and twisting with such force I heard bones grind against each other.
‘Tell him what?’ I felt cold in spite of the ferocious heat of the ward.
Vivienne shook her head, eyes wet with tears. ‘I wanted to see you, Giselle. I thought you wouldn’t come. I know I hurt you. I never meant to ...’
Her hand felt insubstantial within my fingers. ‘Mum, don’t ... it’s okay ... Look my life is great now. I’m living in London. I changed my name. It’s Crow. I’m free see, like a crow. I don’t hurt anymore.’
‘Please, Crow ... my sweet, darling child. You always took care of me and I never told you ... I never said it. Please, let me finish. I need to say it now. I ... I just ... I hurt so bad, but I wanted ... better ... better for you, but ... in the end. I hurt you too. It’s my fault. I’m so sorry. Please ... forgive me.’
‘I forgive you, Mum.’
Vivienne smiled and pressed so gently it felt like a butterfly brushed against the back of my hand. ‘Watch out for ghosts. My babies ... my beautiful babies.’ She closed her eyes and a fat tear rolled down her sallow cheek. ‘Don’t go there ... dead ... killed them ... couldn’t cope ... not again ... too many ... needed to ... car ... dead ... ghosts wouldn’t let me ... Scott’s stronger ... not like him ... rope ... lost ... mountains ... dancing ... dancing in the mountains. Ricky’s there ... dancing ... no home, no family, only him, only us.’
I shuddered and let Vivienne’s hand fall from my grasp. ‘Mum? Mum, is Ricky my father? Who is he? Mountains? The stories Nanny told me - the ballerina, the revolutionary, are they true? Who is Ricky?’
Vivienne’s chin drooped onto her chest, her vision unfocused or else she was looking at something I couldn’t see. She didn’t answer my questions. My desperate pleas went unheard. Perhaps it didn’t matter; maybe I wasn’t supposed to know. Two steps forward, one step back. I just wanted to understand whether my life, Tomas’ life, Mother's life had simply been a web of lies.
‘I’m so tired. Tell Tomas I’m sorry. Tell him Happy Birthday. Read the diaries ...’
‘Bitch!’ The yell echoed around the room followed by a cracking sound.
Plimsolls squeaked as a nurse sprinted towards a bed behind me. I turned around and saw a woman, not much older than myself, staggering around holding her face, her fingers red with blood. The door opened and more nurses, male and female hurried to the scene.
I looked at my mother. Her expression hadn’t changed. It was as though the violence hadn’t phased her at all, either that or her mind was somewhere else entirely.
‘Mum.’ I said. There was no response. I wiped a tear from Vivienne’s cheek. ‘Tell me about my father. Tell me about my sister.' If she heard me, she chose to ignore the questions. 'It's her birthday too, isn't it? Does Tommy know?' She closed her paper thin eyelids. The movements of her eyes, beneath mottled skin, suggested she was already dreaming. I held her hand, knowing she was far away from me. 'I’ll come back, Mum. I’ll read the diaries and I’ll come back soon.’
It was late when I returned to the house. Shadows clawed at me as I walked towards the kitchen. I checked the clock, twenty minutes before Tomas was due to arrive. I placed his present on the kitchen table and looked at it. The charcoal drawing showed the three of us: Tomas, Vivienne and me, shoulder to shoulder. Tomas and Vivienne in the bloom of youth and me looking worried and tired, head shaven, genderless, just as I appeared in the mirror; although I looked taller in the drawing, my face on the same level as Vivienne’s and only slightly lower than my brother’s. In the image it seemed as though I was the parent and they were my children. Would he like it? Maybe I should’ve hunted around the house for an alcoholic gift instead? No, he had always appreciated my art; he would like it. I wondered whether I should take the birth certificates as well and give him the second gift of a twin. No, Cathy had said ‘No drama.’ I solemnly promised not to mention any of my discoveries tonight unless asked.
Time raced past and Tomas arrived after only one coffee and cigarette. I greeted him with a smile, which he returned. My relief was palpable and I flung my arms around his neck and reached up to plant a kiss on his cheek in a motion so naturally affectionate it surprised me as much as it did him.
‘Happy Birthday, Bro.’
His smile was warm and open. I held it in my mind and studied it, turning it this way and that. My artist’s eye saw love in the smile and was satisfied. I held up my forefinger to ask him to wait a moment then rushed back to the kitchen for his present. Holding it out to him, face down, I shivered. What if he hated it? But he didn’t hate it. He took the drawing and studied it. His smile returned and his eyes looked moist. He nodded.
‘It’s beautiful, Giz ... Sorry, I mean, Crow. Thank you. You know it isn’t fair to just change your name and expect others to remember, don’t you?’ He embraced me, squeezing so hard I struggled for breath for the few seconds before he set me free.
I felt like I should apologise, but I wasn’t certain why. Was I unfair expecting others to change how they saw me? I didn’t think so, but maybe he was right. Maybe to him I would always be
Giselle, his little sister. I wondered whether I could accept that and decided to try. I loved feeling like we were family again, close and loving, sharing his joy. Two steps forward, one step back. My thoughts flitted across to the withered blossom of his anger before, but I pushed the memory away, placing it with other memories I preferred not to study. I rationalised it was a perfectly reasonable change in mood and his anger had been legitimate; I had provoked it and now I had been forgiven again.
Cathy was all smiles when we arrived. She embodied the perfect hostess and the dinner party was her domain. Even so, her smiles seemed thin and fragile like a cracked mask and her make-up too carefully applied - war paint.
‘Food won’t be long,’ she said.
The evening was different from the last meal we had eaten together and I struggled to plot my coordinates with any certainty. Cathy seemed angry and hardly communicated while Tomas seemed nervous, talking so quickly I was barely able to keep up. I ate the roasted vegetables and the salted potatoes, but left the steak Cathy had, giving her the benefit of my doubt, absent-mindedly placed on my plate. The blood from the partially-cooked meat created a wall of inedible food, but I chose not to complain – no drama, right?
After the plates were cleared Cathy returned with a huge chocolate cake. Light from the twenty-three candles danced in front of her face. She wasn’t beautiful like Vivienne had been, but there was something magnificent about her, an ease of movement and a gracefulness that Tomas obviously adored. He looked towards her and I imagined his thoughts before shying away.
After devouring a huge slice of cake Tomas rubbed his stomach and moved towards the armchair. I followed him. The plates and dishes were cleared away by Cathy. My desire to share the task of cleaning up was outweighed by my wish to speak to my brother alone. I leaned towards him from my place on the sofa in what might have looked like a conspiratorial stance to the casual observer, but no one was watching us and when Tomas looked at me even he seemed unfocused, hardly present.
‘I saw Mum today,’ I told him.
His interest was spiked and he leaned towards me. His face flushed, he held his stomach and grimaced.
The Ballerina and the Revolutionary Page 11
