Look What You Made Me Do

by Nikki Smith

  I wonder how long he’ll be able to keep up this pretence. He’s managed it for a couple of months now, ever since Dad had taken a turn for the worse; starting his final journey down a road that had got gradually steeper until it had become a descent from which we knew he’d never return. My husband had begun popping over to their house more often, offering to send over a builder from one of his sites to fix a leak in their bathroom, coiling himself around my mother like a snake, an inch at a time, so slowly she didn’t even realise it was happening.

  Despite all that effort, despite all those hours of conversations where I know he’s had to swallow his frustration until it’s almost choked him, he’s still having to sit at a table with my mother, pretending to be interested in how long this heatwave is expected to last. His knife shakes with the effort of maintaining his self-control as he digs it into a piece of lamb, conscious that what he really wants is moving ever further away. I can feel his desperation oozing from every pore.

  Jo hadn’t liked him when I’d first brought him home. I remember the way she’d moved when he’d sat down on the sofa, uncurling her skinny legs beneath her, all bones and angles, standing up awkwardly, like a baby giraffe, before walking out of the room. I’d warned him she was a difficult teenager, but I could see by his face he hadn’t expected her to ignore him. And there’d been something else in his eyes too – a look of piqued interest at not being able to capture her attention. I’d slammed the door after her, a small part of me in awe that she seemed to care so little about his impression of her. Even though we lived in the same house, I’d been the one to inherit my mother’s traits, her teachings so deep-rooted I wouldn’t have been able to erase them, even if I’d wanted to.

  ‘Did you speak to the solicitor, Cynthia?’ Rob asks. My mother nods, her mouth still full. I grip my hands together under the table. ‘Did she say there was a way we could challenge the will?’

  My mother swallows as she looks at him. ‘Apparently, that’s not going to be possible.’ She seems almost embarrassed to admit it, as if it’s her fault.

  Rob turns his head to look at me, his knuckles white as he grips his cutlery. ‘Can you open a window, Caroline. It’s rather hot in here.’

  I push my chair away from the table and it squeaks in protest. Rob frowns and shuts his eyes briefly, forcing himself not to say anything. I press the small button on the window handle to turn it, pushing the casement outwards. There’s no rush of cool air to ease the temperature. If anything, it’s hotter outside than it is in here. I take a deep breath, trying to get rid of the greasy smell of roast lamb. Something else Rob insisted on having despite me suggesting a salad might be more suitable.

  I press my back against the sill, watching my mother look at Rob. It’s the same way she used to look at Dad. As if he can provide her with the answers she’s searching for. She doesn’t see the flaws that he hides so well, she never looks below the surface where the shadows lurk, those horrors reserved just for me.

  I’d tried to tell her once, a few years ago, before Dad had got ill. Rob had been out for the afternoon and she’d come around to see Adam, not realising he wasn’t home. She’d chatted whilst I’d made her a cup of tea, but I hadn’t heard anything she’d said, my head too full of everything else I had to remember. What we were having for dinner, whether I’d cleaned the bedroom thoroughly and how I could tell without going to the doctor if a rib was really broken or just cracked. She’d stared at me, holding out her cup, surprised that I’d forgotten to put in her sweeteners. I hadn’t been able to hide the tear that had slid down my cheek as I’d reached for the tub in the cupboard, clicking to release a couple of tiny tablets that disappeared into the hot liquid. She’d put her arm around my shoulders but I’d flinched, and she’d pulled back, misunderstanding, fiddling with the strap of her handbag that lay on the counter. I’d tried to catch her eye again as she’d carefully pulled out a single pristine tissue, still folded, from a cellophane packet and had handed it to me, staring at something over my shoulder, chattering incessantly, terrified of what would materialise if she left any opportunity for me to speak. Her fluttery hand movements betrayed her desperation to maintain the status quo, physically waving away any possibility of me saying anything that might change that. Once I’d wiped my eyes, screwing her tissue up into a small ball to throw in the bin along with the courage I’d gathered together, she’d paused, mid-sentence, before attempting to impart her knowledge based on experience.

  ‘All marriages go through bad patches, Caroline.’ I hadn’t answered. I didn’t have the words to bridge the gap between what her idea of a bad patch was and the reality of what I faced on a daily basis. ‘Your dad and I . . . we had . . .’ I’d put my arm on her shoulder, the physical contact making her go stiff, her body unconsciously repelling my attempt at reassurance.

  ‘You don’t need to explain,’ I’d said, feeling her rigidity soften, as though I’d removed an obstacle she’d thought she’d have to face. I’d smiled, knowing the opportunity to say something had passed, wondering if it had ever been there at all. She’d chosen to look the other way, not because she didn’t care, but because she couldn’t bear to think about what had happened to her in the past. She’d presumed Paul was having an affair, her assumption based on her own life, the only time I’d ever seen her cry. She’d stayed with Dad after he’d confessed, the alternative too impossible to face, and they’d moved on, the incident shrinking to a tiny square in the patchwork quilt of their marriage. And I hadn’t told a soul about the day before my eighth birthday when I’d found her in the garden, eyes red and puffy, pretending she’d had an allergic reaction to picking tomatoes, an early lesson in how perfection is only an illusion that hides something much darker beneath its surface. I might even have believed her if I hadn’t heard her creeping across the landing into the spare room each night for months afterwards, the slight creases in the usually immaculate duvet cover each morning the only sign she’d ever been there.

  ‘Aren’t you going to sit down?’ Rob raises his eyebrows and I detach myself from the windowsill to walk back to the table.

  ‘Sorry, I was just getting some air.’

  He sighs as he leans down to switch on the fan next to the table, the sharp blades whirring into action, the hot air in the room now moving around in warm gusts, more uncomfortable than before. The buzzing in my head gets louder and I’m not sure whether it’s the fan, or me, or both.

  ‘Should we speak to Jo?’ my mother asks, looking at him.

  ‘I’m not sure what we can say,’ he says slowly.

  ‘Well, if you had a word with her, you could make her see that selling would be the best thing for all of us. Her included.’ She smiles as if this is an obvious solution.

  He nods slowly. ‘What do you think, Caroline?’ He turns towards me, and I have to wipe my palms on my skirt to get rid of the perspiration, worried my fork will slip through my fingers.

  ‘We could,’ I say. ‘Maybe we should ask her if we can look through the boxes she took home from the office to see if we can find the other will.’

  ‘What other will?’ Rob’s voice is quiet and I can see my mother frown, straining to hear what he’s saying, not wanting to have to ask him to repeat it.

  ‘The one that you said –’

  He reaches over the table and covers my hand with his own, squeezing it so hard that I kick out under the table, catching his shin. He’s been lying to me. He never believed there was another will at all. He’s had me searching for something he knows doesn’t exist. He loosens his grip and looks at me, watching as this realisation sinks in. I swallow the words I was about to say, half wishing they’d already escaped.

  I dig my fork into a piece of lamb, slicing it into ever smaller pieces to try and get rid of the fat and gristle attached to one side but it’s threaded through the meat like veins; impossible to cut out. I put it into my mouth and chew, watching Rob who is watching me, trying to work out what he’s so desperate to find in my father’s bel
ongings and wondering if in fact I already know.

  You can tell a lot about someone from their habits. I’ve been trying to work out what yours are but they’re not easy to see. We all have them – little things that give away something about ourselves without us meaning to, like a trail of breadcrumbs that you can follow back to find out what makes someone tick. You like things to be arranged in a specific order on your desk. I’ve seen you adjust your keyboard, making sure it aligns with the bottom of your PC, your notepad neatly beside it. It’s important to care about the little details. Mine is making bets with myself. If I reach a particular point on the pavement before a car passes me, I’ll have a great day. Harmless. Until I start making the point further and further away and have to run faster to reach it. So fast that I think my heart might burst out of my chest. Or until my brain bets me to do something without me wanting it to. The other day it gave me ten seconds to get outside the front door or I’d die. I was in the bathroom at the time and had to run all the way down the stairs to get out, slipping on the last step, stumbling to get over the threshold, arguing with myself before I’d even got there that getting one foot outside meant I’d done it. Nine point eight seconds. A success until I realised I couldn’t be sure exactly when I’d started timing, curling myself into a ball, overwhelmed by the desire to scrape out the inside of my head to stop myself thinking at all. It’s like I’m trying to sabotage my own life. And if I can do that to mine, I wonder what I could do to yours.

  MONDAY

  Jo

  The sun is already filtering through the curtains when I open my eyes, creating shadows that dance across our duvet cover in a rhythm that matches the flutters in my stomach at the thought of having to get up for work. I realise Paul’s not beside me. The sheet is cold when I reach across and run my hand over the permanent indent his body has formed in the mattress, the edges of the shape once as familiar as my own, now undefined. I look at his pillow, still creased from where his head has been and shiver, turning over to press the button on my alarm clock. The digits light up; six-ten. I can’t hear him walking around or the low hum from our bathroom fan that starts up when anyone switches on the light.

  He’d slid into bed late last night in the darkness and had put his arms around me, burying his face in the back of my neck. I hadn’t turned around but he’d threaded his fingers through my own, linking us together, an attempt to restore a bond I wasn’t sure still existed. I’d almost told him then, my face hidden, tempted to say I’d made a terrible mistake, that I’d done another pregnancy test and it had come out negative and then I’d remembered the way Anna had looked at the phone charger on our counter when she’d come into the kitchen; I’d been convinced I’d seen a flicker of recognition in her eyes, and I’d stayed silent instead, squeezing my guilt into a small hole in my chest where it had pressed tightly against my lungs. Anna had denied it was hers, but I’d caught the glance Paul had given her when I’d asked the question, and had felt like I’d done at school when I’d walked into a classroom at break time and everyone had stopped talking.

  I get out of bed and pull on my dressing gown, walking past our empty bathroom and down the stairs, treading carefully so as not to wake the girls.

  Paul is sitting at the kitchen table staring into space.

  ‘Can’t sleep?’ I ask. He shrugs. I run through conversation topics in my head, like flicking through the pages of a book, trying to find one that isn’t controversial. I’m conscious the silence between us is stretched tight with expectation, like an over-inflated balloon, ready to burst at any second. Putting my arm round his shoulders, I kiss the top of his head, but he feels different; the Paul I knew a few months ago would have responded, pulling me in for a kiss, but today he feels rigid, his hands remain firmly by his side and I recoil, feeling like I’m touching a stranger.

  ‘Grace was up in the night,’ I say. ‘She had a nightmare. She thought someone was in her room.’

  The colour drains from his face as he looks at me.

  ‘It wasn’t a big deal,’ I reassure him. ‘She was fine once I’d calmed her down.’

  ‘Why would she think that?’ he asks.

  I shrug. ‘She’s finding Dad’s death really difficult to deal with.’

  He hesitates and reaches for my hand. ‘I don’t want you to worry,’ he says.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About – about the baby,’ he says.

  I pull away, desperate for him to retract the word he’s said out loud. A lie that can’t possibly develop into flesh and blood and one that I can’t take back. I lean over the edge and dry retch, my body’s attempt to cover up for me. He doesn’t know it’s because I haven’t eaten. I should tell him the truth, but the look of concern on his face makes me put it off for a bit longer.

  ‘Where’s the charger?’ I say, noticing the empty gap on the counter where it had been last night.

  ‘I binned it,’ he replies. ‘It’s useless without a lead. Can I get you a cup of . . .?’

  ‘I’m fine. Honestly. We need to get the girls up for school,’ I say, turning to go upstairs.

  ‘I do love you, Jo,’ he says, the words cutting across the silence in the kitchen but instead of bringing us together they push me further away and I leave the room without replying. I don’t deserve his affection when I haven’t told him the truth. But I’m convinced he’s hiding something from me too.

  I push open Grace’s bedroom door a fraction and peer in. Buddy’s sprawled out along her whole length, snuggling up to her like a hot-water bottle. I lean over her, a lump in my throat when I see how peaceful she looks when she’s asleep, overwhelmed by a feeling of nostalgia, a sense that time is slipping away without me noticing. I creep out again, deciding to give her ten more minutes.

  I walk back into my room where Livvi has already tucked herself under my duvet, her copy of Rooftoppers spread open in front of her as she tells me about Sophie and Charles in the bell tower of Notre Dame. I snuggle up to her, breathing in the smell of shampoo on her hair. She looks up at me, her brown eyes wide.

  ‘Are you taking us to school?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll drop you on my way to the office.’

  ‘And Dad will collect us?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Same as usual.’ I wonder if her need for reassurance is part of the grieving process too.

  ‘Not Anna?’

  I frown at her, my brain fumbling to fit together the pieces of conversation.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Dad will.’

  ‘He didn’t last week,’ she says. ‘Not on Wednesday, Thursday or Friday. I told you, Mummy. And I don’t mind going home with Jess because they have DVD screens in the back of the seats in their car, but sometimes her mum drives really fast and I feel a bit sick.’ Paul hadn’t told me Anna had collected the girls at all, let alone three days in a row. I try to think back to what he’d said when I’d come home from work. Had he actually lied, or just omitted to tell me? And if he’s got fewer clients and less work on, why did he ask Anna to collect them at all?

  ‘I’m going to take Grace to Paris,’ Livvi continues.

  ‘Are you?’ I say. ‘That would be lovely, wouldn’t it?’ My voice sounds unfamiliar, hoarse. I can’t let her see me cry. I throw back the duvet as I clear my throat. ‘Come on, you need to get ready for school.’

  ‘The man in her room won’t be able to follow us there,’ she says, ‘and Grace won’t be sad anymore.’

  ‘There wasn’t anyone in Grace’s room, sweetheart.’

  ‘But I heard –’

  ‘Grace was talking in her sleep because she had a bad dream. She’s still very sad that Grandpa died. There wasn’t actually anyone there.’ I smile, an effort to convince myself as much as her.

  Livvi’s eyes narrow and I can see she doesn’t believe me. She shuts her book, clasping it tightly as she squirms away from me, across to Paul’s side of the bed where she buries her head in the pillow. I flinch, shutting my eyes to block out the memory that rises u
p in my head before I can stop it. She murmurs something I can’t make out before sliding off and walking to the door, her ankles visible beneath her Disney pyjama bottoms, the Cinderella design so faded I can barely see it. She’s grown. It’s not until she’s left the room that I realise what she’s said. Two words of mumbled defiance that on top of her other revelation make my stomach contract into a hard knot. ‘There was.’

  As I walk into work after I’ve dropped the girls at school, I find Caroline already in my office, standing by my desk. I put my handbag down on the floor, unsure what to say to her.

  ‘Have you got a minute?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m a bit busy.’ My voice comes out harsher than I expected; an unconscious attempt to keep her at arm’s length now she’s shown that she doesn’t trust me.

  I dig my nails into my palm, trying to block out the memory of the girls waiting in the car before we’d left for school whilst I’d sifted through our kitchen bin, perspiration running in a stream down my chest, no sign of what I was searching for beneath the discarded yoghurt pots and plastic packaging. I’d resorted to taking everything out, one item at a time, putting it all into a new bag, desperate to believe that I hadn’t looked properly. But I’d just ended up with another bag full of rubbish and no phone charger. I’d felt something break in my head, a small crack at first but as the realisation that Paul had lied to me sunk in, it had widened, spreading through my body like fine lines across a piece of china, fracturing my life into tiny pieces.

  Caroline bites her lip, reminding me of how she used to look whenever Dad had told her off. ‘We really need to talk.’

  ‘What about?’ I switch my computer on, as she pulls out a chair, the machine humming quietly into life.