Look What You Made Me Do

by Nikki Smith

  ‘Look what you made me do,’ he says, putting his arms round my waist. ‘I don’t like getting cross. I look forward to eating something nice when I get in. I was hoping we could make a bit more of an effort now it’s just the two of us here. And if the meeting with the solicitor goes well, it’ll mean you won’t have to work anymore. I can take care of both of us. I do love you, you know.’ I feel his body tense, waiting for me to respond. He nuzzles his head into the back of my neck as I rinse out the glass, placing it carefully upside down on the draining board, wondering what Adam might be doing at this moment and whether the pain in my stomach is as a result of what I’ve eaten, or because I miss my son. I force myself to relax into Rob’s arms, hoping my softness is infectious, that I can use it to mould him into how he used to be.

  ‘I love you too,’ I say, no longer sure if I’m lying to him or to myself. I still catch the occasional glimpse of the man I married, fleeting moments that I cling on to, folding them away in my head like tissue paper, fragile layers that tear into tiny pieces when I try to remember them. I promised I’d never leave him. Until death do us part. That was the deal.

  You don’t know I’m watching you. Or perhaps you do and you’re just pretending not to notice. Or maybe, to you, I’m simply invisible. One of those people whose name you ask and they reply, but, in the same breath, tell you that you’ve already met. And you nod vigorously, unsure who is most embarrassed, pretending that of course you remember, and at the same time running through the occasion mentioned over and over again in your head. You wonder if I’ve dyed my hair, or had it cut, as you can’t picture me ever being there at all. You can’t remember us ever having had a conversation and want to ask me what it was about; whether we were both part of a larger group and I contributed the odd snippet from the sidelines, in which case you could perhaps understand why my presence is now a blank, or whether we talked for a while, one-on-one. And if it was the latter, you want to know what I said, but even if I repeated it, I suspect the words would slide out as a murky shade of beige, so unremarkable and inoffensive that they’d cancel themselves out, swallowed up by something far more colourful that attracted your attention. I can already tell you’re the kind of person who is always looking to find the next new and exciting thing and I’ve decided that’s going to be me.

  SUNDAY

  Jo

  I ring the bell for the second time but when there’s still no answer I flick through the keys on my keyring, trying to find the one Dad had given me. My mother said she’d be home by now. I find it and open the door, breathing in the unmistakably familiar smell that tells me I’m home, a heady mix of leather and polish and old books. I clear my throat to break the silence that greets me, half expecting to hear the familiar sound of clinking china from Dad making tea – always on a tray with cups and saucers; never a mug.

  I peer into the sitting room, hovering in the entrance, refusing to cross the threshold. His hospital bed has gone, four indentations in the thick green carpet the only evidence it was ever there at all. I turn away, not wanting to remember.

  As I walk down the hall, there’s a rustling noise. I stop and listen, but the house is silent apart from the sound of my breathing, emptier than ever. The dark furniture and thick wooden doors trap the heat that settles in an invisible haze, pressing against me from all sides. The thermometer in the car had said it was twenty-eight degrees today but it feels hotter in here. Despite the years of being away, the sense of claustrophobia never changes whenever I return; I regress to being a teenager the minute I walk inside this house. If it wasn’t for the thought of my mother’s reaction at not finding me here as we’d agreed, I’d walk straight back out of the front door and wouldn’t look back.

  I swallow, forcing myself to breathe slowly as I lift my hair off the back of my neck, wiping the sheen of sweat off my skin, wondering if I should open a window. As I put my hand on the bannister at the bottom of the stairs I hear the noise again. Like scratching. It’s louder this time; coming from behind the closed door of Dad’s study.

  I try to put any thoughts of rats out of my head as I walk towards the door, hesitating before I turn the old metal knob. It creaks ominously as it swings open and I wish I’d brought Buddy with me. That dog wouldn’t hurt a fly, but he runs after anything that moves. I don’t even have anything to throw in case something scuttles out in front of my feet. I peer into the gloom, feeling for the switch on the wall. The heavy velvet curtains covering the windows are still drawn, making it difficult to see anything. As my fingers find what they’re looking for and the room lights up, a figure standing by the desk turns slowly towards me. I recoil, banging my elbow against the door frame.

  ‘Jesus, Caroline,’ I say. ‘Mum said you weren’t coming until twelve. You scared me.’ My voice comes out high-pitched and I feel as if I’m thirteen again, standing in the same room, defending my behaviour, my heart thumping at a ridiculous pace.

  ‘Rob’s meeting got cancelled so he didn’t need me to give him a lift. His car’s in the garage, the brake lights aren’t working. Typical that it goes wrong in the first week after he bought it brand new.’ I tell myself I’m being paranoid at the emphasis she puts on ‘new’, not wanting to start an argument.

  ‘I’m surprised you can see what you’re doing,’ I say. ‘Why haven’t you put the light on?’

  She shrugs. ‘I didn’t need to.’ She doesn’t seem to have cleared anything away. Books and newspapers are stacked in unstable piles on every surface. ‘There’s so much to do, isn’t there?’ she says, looking at her handbag that’s lying on the floor beside her, something blue poking out of the top.

  ‘You didn’t park on the drive?’ I say, pulling back the curtains, wincing as the sunlight streams into the airless room.

  ‘I hate reversing out. It’s easier to leave it on the road.’ We’re back to the conversations I remember of our childhood. Clipped back-and-forth exchanges, like a game of tennis, each more aggressive than the last. I can tell she hasn’t forgiven me after our last argument and realise with a jolt that Dad had still been alive then. It already feels like a lifetime ago. Losing my father has nudged my world off its axis, spinning it in a direction I could never have foreseen. His death should have brought us closer but it’s had the opposite effect; created barriers that neither of us know how to cross. I’ve buried my memories of his last few days somewhere so deep I don’t have to think about them, let alone share them with my sister.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m not having a go at you; you just startled me. I didn’t realise anyone else was here. I’ve brought some dustbin liners,’ I add, reaching into my bag and holding them out as a peace offering. ‘Help yourself.’

  I glance at my father’s desk, the dark wooden piece of furniture covered in a pile of envelopes, many of them unopened. I think of the one I’d stuffed in the pocket of my jacket when it had arrived last Thursday. I’d briefly scanned the contents, knowing deep down what the letter inside was going to say. Seeing the words in black and white had still come as a shock and I hadn’t wanted Paul to read it, telling myself I’d wait for a better time to show him, but I’m beginning to wonder whether I should show him at all.

  ‘There are probably a lot of things that can go to charity,’ I suggest.

  She wrinkles her nose. ‘Possibly. But I think we’ll have to chuck most of it. No one wants this kind of stuff anymore.’ I feel myself bristle, but don’t reply. They’re only things, I tell myself. Just things. The memories will still be there. A few good ones amongst the multitude I’d rather not remember. I notice the packet of playing cards on the shelf that he’d taught Grace to play Patience with and pick them up, putting them in my pocket, not able to bear the thought of them being thrown away.

  ‘Does Mum want us to make a start without her?’ I ask. ‘Or should we wait?’ I notice Caroline’s hair is different. Normally she has it tied off her face in a ponytail, but today she’s wearing it loose and it suits her. The temperature in here clearly doesn’t
bother her in the same way as it does me; she’s still as elegant as ever. She sees me staring and tucks one of the auburn strands behind her ear, self-consciously.

  We both look up as we hear the front door opening.

  ‘Jo?’ I’d recognise my mother’s voice anywhere; her tone slices through my skin like a scalpel, dissecting the flesh beneath, exposing my vulnerabilities.

  ‘I’m in the study, Mum. With Caroline.’

  She walks in and I’m struck all over again by the resemblance to my sister. It’s not just the colour of their hair that everyone comments on, it’s the way they both hold themselves, almost as if they glide across the floor, unaffected by the laws of gravity that govern the rest of us.

  ‘Sorry I’m a bit late.’ She goes to kiss Caroline first, their faces never quite touching. ‘I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to let you both know I’m seeing the solicitor on Tuesday. You don’t have to come.’ She fixes her eyes on me whilst she’s speaking and I glance across at Caroline whose expression doesn’t alter.

  ‘Course we’ll be there,’ Caroline says before I’ve had a chance to think of a response.

  ‘Why do we need . . .?’ I stumble.

  ‘Your father’s will,’ my mother replies icily. ‘It’s only a formality, but his solicitor insists we go.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ I say hastily, knowing it’s the last thing I want to do. My mother stares at me and I flinch under her gaze, shrivelling even more than I am already in this heat. It’s as if she can see exactly what I’m thinking and for a moment I think she knows. I step backwards, putting my hand on his desk to steady myself.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Caroline asks.

  ‘Fine.’ I wipe my sticky palms against my trousers.

  ‘I’ll open a window,’ my mother says. ‘It is a bit stuffy in here. We shut everything to stop your father’s papers being disturbed.’ She unfastens the latch, pushing hard on the glass to get it to budge; the wooden frame has warped slightly. I lean against the sill, not wanting to sit in Dad’s empty chair that she’s moved to stand beside as if he’s still here, joining in the conversation, waiting to divulge my secret. I close my eyes and take deep breaths, repeating the same words in my head that I’ve said over and over again in the past weeks. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

  ‘Before we see the solicitor, I want to let you know that I’ve made a decision to sell the business.’ My mother’s words cut through the fog of heat as if someone has dropped an ice cube down my back. I glance at Caroline but the expression on her face tells me this isn’t a shock. She already knows.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘I’ll own the majority of the shares once your father’s will is settled and I think it’s the best thing to do to ensure our financial security.’

  I clear my throat.

  ‘Shouldn’t we at least discuss it? Dad wouldn’t have wanted this.’ My mother gives me a look that makes me wish I hadn’t spoken.

  ‘It’s not your place to tell me what your father would have wanted, Joanna. I was married to him for over forty years. For some reason you seem to think you knew him better than I did when you’ve only worked with him for the last three. I’m doing what I think is best for all of us.’ Her response is like a slap in the face and I dig my nails into my palm, holding back the words I’m tempted to let tumble out of my mouth, aware there will be no way to put them back. Caroline stays silent, avoiding my gaze.

  ‘Did you know about this?’ I ask. She glances at my mother before shaking her head. She’s lying. ‘And you agree with Mum’s decision, I presume?’

  My mother raises her hand, an attempt to stop me talking. ‘Joanna, it isn’t up to –’

  Caroline interrupts before she can finish her sentence. ‘Dad’s gone, Jo. And we need to do what’s best for all of us. We’re the ones who are still here.’

  She stares at me and for a moment I imagine I see a plea for help in her eyes, the same look she used to give me years ago when she was in trouble and wanted me to cover for her, but then she blinks and it’s gone.

  ‘Caroline’s right.’ My mother breaks the fragile connection, siding with my sister as usual.

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ I retort, watching my mother’s face harden. I have a sudden overwhelming desire for my dad to be here, to feel that I have someone on my side. And then the guilt descends again, a sledge hammer this time, crushing me so hard that I want to curl up on the floor.

  ‘I – I just need a moment.’ I walk out of the room, down the corridor into the cloakroom, where I sit down on top of the closed toilet seat. One of my father’s coats is hanging up on the back of the door, an empty shell on a hanger, his familiar earthy smell the only part of him that still remains. I take a deep breath. He’s gone and I’m not in a position to question my mother’s decision after what I’ve done. I try to swallow the lump in my throat and splash some water on my face, ignoring the face of the fourteen-year-old girl who stares back at me in the mirror. I rub my hand over the sleeve of my father’s jacket, wishing he was still inside it as I unlock the door.

  The whispering stops as my footsteps echo on the wooden floorboards in the hall. I walk back into the study and notice Caroline looking at my father’s desk. The bottom drawer isn’t shut properly; I can see the row upon row of blue cardboard files hanging suspended from metal rails.

  ‘It’s your choice,’ I hear myself say. ‘Do whatever you think is best.’ My mother smiles at me, her red lipstick parting to reveal her immaculate white veneers and I know she’d have done it anyway, with or without my approval.

  ‘I’m so glad that’s sorted.’ She glances at Caroline who smiles and I get the familiar feeling that they’ve had a whole conversation which I haven’t been part of.

  I can’t see any tables in the shade that aren’t already occupied. We should have reserved one outside but I hadn’t realised the pub would be so busy this early. Paul keeps checking his mobile as the girls walk over to the swings and the benches at the bottom of the garden.

  ‘You expecting a call?’ I ask, when his eyes slide away from me for what feels like the fiftieth time.

  ‘Potential new client,’ he replies.

  ‘Can you get some drinks and order food whilst I find us somewhere to sit?’ I ask, irritated at having to fight for his attention. He was the same when I got home from visiting Dad when he’d first been ill; his phone constantly in his hand or next to him on the arm of the sofa, never out of reach. ‘The girls will have burgers and I’ll just have a salad. No dressing.’ I’m the one who wants him to focus more on getting new business, I tell myself as he walks inside towards the bar. I can’t complain if he’s doing what I ask.

  I spot a free table on the edge of the patio where I can keep an eye on the girls and struggle to open the large cream parasol that’s frayed along the edges, the rusty mechanism catching on the pole as I try to push it upwards. I can feel the sun burning the back of my neck before I finally get it to move; the shade expanding and blocking out the heat just as my frustration reaches a peak. A wasp buzzes around my head and I wave it away as I see Anna walking towards me.

  ‘Not easy to open, are they?’ she asks, leaning over to give me a hand.

  ‘No,’ I reply, ‘and I don’t want to sit out here without one. The girls haven’t got any suncream on. Are you here for lunch? Do you want to join us?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Thanks, but we’ve just eaten. The girls spotted Livvi and Grace on the swings so I said they could have five minutes together.’

  ‘Andy not with you?’

  ‘He’s gone to see his sister.’ She sits down opposite me, winding her long blonde hair back off her face into a messy bun. I wish I could do that with mine but it’s too thick and frizzy and I’m conscious it’s making me overheat, hanging over the back of my neck like a blanket.

  ‘Thanks so much again for having the girls for me on Friday,’ I say.

  She smiles. ‘It really wasn’t a problem. You know they’re welco
me anytime.’

  ‘Well, I owe you; I know we were home late. I thought we’d be back by seven.’

  Anna’s forehead creases. ‘I could have sworn I saw your lights go on earlier than that. I thought you needed a bit of time to . . . sort yourselves out.’

  ‘No. I came straight over to get the girls after the taxi dropped us off.’ I frown as I try to think back. ‘Maybe I forgot to switch them off in the kitchen.’

  ‘They were on upstairs. Grace pointed it out,’ she says. ‘She noticed when they were eating tea.’

  ‘One of the girls must have left them on,’ I say, flapping at the wasp that has returned for a second attempt at landing. Anna looks across the grass to where Livvi is pushing Jess on the swings.

  ‘How are the girls coping?’ she asks.

  I swallow. ‘Kids are resilient, aren’t they?’ I reply, trying not to think about how upset Grace has been.

  ‘It’s early days,’ Anna says. ‘At least now the funeral’s over.’

  I nod, knowing she’s trying to be helpful, those milestones in the grieving process you’re supposed to reach and clamber over, a sense of achievement waiting on the other side, the road a little easier to navigate. She has no idea it’s not like that for me; I feel as if I am slowly suffocating; each breath slightly harder to take than the last.

  ‘Paul seems to be making an effort to help with the school runs,’ she says.

  ‘Most of the time he does,’ I reply. ‘But he’s been a bit distant recently. Work’s been tricky.’

  Grace walks up the lawn and sits down beside me. ‘Can I get a drink, Mum?’

  ‘Dad’s just getting them. He’ll be out any minute.’

  ‘We should go,’ Anna says. ‘Let me know when things have settled down a bit, it would be great if you can both come over.’

  I nod. ‘I’ll check dates with Paul and text you.’ I watch as she walks back into the pub before turning around to look at Livvi on the swing, her body silhouetted against the sun as she flies up in the air, again and again, shrieking with laughter.