by Nikki Smith
WEDNESDAY
Jo
The letter in the pocket of my jacket rustles as I move the hanger along the rail of my wardrobe to reach a pair of trousers. I wonder if it’s just me who hears the noise and glance round, looking at Paul, but he’s still asleep, one hand stretched out over the duvet, his wedding ring visible; the metal band a symbol that’s held us together for twelve years. I want to get rid of the sheet of paper, to throw away the whole envelope, but I’m too scared to take it out in case he opens his eyes and asks what I’m doing.
I slip on my trousers, the crepe fabric cool against my skin, noticing the gap between the waistband and my skin is wider than ever. I’ll have to safety-pin it when I get downstairs or they’ll gape. Three months ago, that would have made me happy, but now it just feels like the secrets I’m carrying around are eating me up from the inside, like Dad’s cancer, punishing me for what I’ve done. I couldn’t face dinner last night; Paul thinks it’s because I’ve got morning sickness. He’s expecting me to grow outwards, not inwards, and I’m going to have to tell him it’s not going to happen. Not now, not ever.
I try to mute the voice inside my head that makes excuses for the lies I’ve told him as I go downstairs to make breakfast for the girls. I look at him lying in bed before I leave the bedroom, attempting to keep faith in the part of me that refuses to accept he would betray me, or the girls, a tiny life raft in an ocean of doubt. But we’ve been together for so many years that I know when he’s hiding something and, as much as I try to persuade myself otherwise, a hard ball sits inside my chest, rolling from one side to the other, every movement telling me differently. I’d convinced myself when Dad was dying that he’d just been distracted as he’d had to look after the girls more, but since then things have got worse, not better.
I glance at the various photos in the frames hanging on the wall above the mantelpiece as I fish around for a safety pin in the drawer of our hall console, the early morning sun bleaching the colour out of the pictures, turning them a sepia colour, images captured in a different era. A montage of our family through the years. One of Grace and Livvi in their swimming costumes in the garden, screaming with laughter as they’d squirted each other with the hose. I can’t remember the last time I saw Grace laugh like that – her eyes showing her utterly caught in the moment, the joy spilling out of her. Recently, every move she makes seems heavy, weighed down with an unhappiness that seems more than just part of the grieving process.
Another one from a couple of years ago with Anna and her family, all of us standing in front of a giant bell tent after we’d been camping for a long weekend. Livvi and Jess look so tiny. Andy is holding Maddie on his shoulders and Paul has one arm around Anna and the other around Grace. Everyone’s smiling. I’m not in that one. I must have been taking the shot.
I push the safety-pin through the waistband of my trousers, the sharp point difficult to get through the thick layer of material until it suddenly finds a way out the other side and the sharp tip pricks my skin. I flinch, fastening it up, the small drop of blood sinking into the pale material, wondering if it’s an omen of what is to come.
As I pull up outside the school gates, Grace leans down to grab her bag before she gets out and I notice she’s bitten her nails down so far that the white tips are no longer visible. I’d hoped, since she hadn’t woken up last night, that things might be getting better.
We’d been to the doctor’s after school yesterday, the GP smiling as he’d ushered us into his office. Grace had responded to his questions by squirming in her seat, eyeing me nervously before finally mumbling a response. She didn’t know I’d phoned him beforehand, my voice catching as I’d told him what I’d found on her iPad, reassuring me it was probably part of the grieving process. He’d advised us that if things didn’t improve, we could discuss the possibility of her seeing someone. I’m not sure if it was the suggestion of professional intervention, or the kindness in his manner that had caused a tear to slide down my face. Grace had stared down at her hands when he’d pushed the box of tissues across his desk. I’d wondered if he thought I was making the whole thing up. Pretending Grace had an issue when in fact it was me who wasn’t coping. He knew my medical history and what was written in the letter still stuffed in my jacket pocket. Grace had looked out of the car window all the way home. She hadn’t mentioned the messages she’d been writing to Thomas. Neither had I.
Anna pulls up behind me, Maddie in the seat beside her. She raises her hand and waves at me as she gets out of the car and walks over. I press the button to wind down my window, stopping after a few inches, just enough of a gap for her to speak through. I’m wary and our usually relaxed communication feels tight, like pulling on a sweater that’s got too small.
‘Everything OK?’ she asks.
I nod. ‘Fine. You?’
She smiles. ‘Not bad. Jess has got a sore throat so I’ve kept her at home today.’
‘Hope she feels better.’ I look at Maddie. ‘Grace has just gone in, if you want to catch her up?’
Maddie stares at the pavement, not moving and Anna flushes. I wish I could take back the comment, a motherly instinct to protect my daughter. She hasn’t mentioned anything to me about them falling out, but Maddie’s reluctance to see Grace is obvious.
‘We’re going in to see Maddie’s teacher about the form trip next week.’ Anna’s reply is too quick. I smile to hide my confusion.
‘Well, I’m sure you’ll catch up with her in class. I’d better go, got to get to work.’ Anna pulls a sympathetic face.
I put my window up, wanting to get away, and watch through the glass as Maddie bends down, scrabbling about by her feet for a few seconds before standing up and handing something to her mother. Anna wipes it on her sleeve, then reaches one hand up to her ear, holding the object in the other as she pushes it through the tiny hole before turning away and crossing the road.
I decide to go the back route to work, delaying the inevitable, hoping my sister will decide not to come in at all. I turn off the main road into town, almost subconsciously, driving for a mile or so, the summer foliage making the familiar lane appear narrower than usual, pulling into the small car park at the edge of the green that overlooks the playground where Mum used to take Caroline and me when we were little. It’s changed from how I remember it – the metal climbing frame, witches’ hat and spinning barrels have been replaced by a wooden fort, swings and a slide. A layer of black rubber now covers the grass surface that used to stain the knees of our jeans.
When I was eight, Caroline had dared me to climb up to the top of the climbing frame where she was already standing; her twelve-year-old legs able to scramble up that high so much more easily than mine. The wooden bench where my mother had sat watching us has long since disappeared, bare metal visible underneath the peeling red paint. I’d been desperate to get up to the same place as her, wanting to prove to my mother that I was as capable as my sister. That I could do something she’d be proud of.
I’d almost made it; feeling the final rung beneath my fingertips as I’d stood on one foot, stretching out so far, I’d thought I might snap. But then Caroline had clapped, her feet firmly wedged against the bars to keep her stable, and the sudden burst of applause had startled me. I remember my fingers brushing the metal as I’d desperately scrabbled to hold on, before I’d fallen, my sister’s red hair tumbling across the grey steel as she’d leaned forward to see me hit the grass below.
Caroline had screamed. A proper scream, not just the girly shrieks I’d been used to hearing at home when she wanted attention. I’d been too winded to utter a sound. I don’t know whether it had been the shock, but my mother had seemed to move in slow motion, getting up off the bench and walking towards the climbing frame as if she couldn’t quite believe what had happened. Other adults had run over, their footsteps vibrating through the earth, violent explosions inside my concussed head. And I remember, as my mother had come towards me, it hadn’t been me she’d been looking at. Her e
yes had been fixed on my sister, still standing at the top of the bars, her red hair whipping round her face in the wind like flames.
The office is already busy when I walk in to start my day. Alice is on the phone in reception and Caroline is sitting at her desk talking to a client, her voice the one I recognise above the low humming of computers and the noise of the photocopier. I wonder if years of conditioning means I’m attuned to her distinctive tones, responding like one of Pavlov’s dogs, my chest tightening in anticipation.
I open up Xero to finish off the accounts, pausing after a few minutes, aware I’m waiting for something before realising with a crushing sense of disappointment that I won’t ever hear Dad’s footsteps again on his regular morning visit to my office. He’d always appeared with an excuse to go through the budget or to look at the latest cash flow forecast, but our interactions had ended up being so much more than that. Small spaces of time that had allowed us to get to know each other in a way I’d never have had the opportunity to do otherwise. As his illness had progressed, his visits had become more infrequent, interspersed with hospital visits and days at home, but losing him still has the ability to hit me when I least expect it. Especially as I know it’s my fault.
I look up to see Caroline standing in my doorway, her client meeting finished.
‘Morning.’
‘Morning.’ We’re being cautiously polite, but I know it’s only a matter of time before she brings up the subject of Dad’s will again. Her words from Monday have stayed with me, her questions spinning around in my head.
‘How’s Grace?’ she says.
‘Fine.’ I’m pleased she’s asked, but I wait, convinced she’s just delaying what she really wants to say. Getting to know my sister involves peeling away multiple layers, and I’m not sure I’ve ever really found her centre. She opens her mouth to say something else, but there’s a tremendous crash that halts her words in their tracks. Caroline cowers instinctively, her body frozen in response to the sound of splintering glass that echoes around us followed by a horrible silence. Alice appears in the doorway, eyes wide, as I push my chair back and turn around.
The window in my office that faces out onto the pavement is smashed, an ugly hole in the centre of the pane surrounded by a myriad of cracks that spiral outwards, like a deranged spider’s web. A piece of brick sits on the floor, a dark trail behind where it landed.
‘Christ.’ My voice quavers.
‘Don’t touch it.’ Alice’s voice echoes from the doorway. I walk over towards the window, standing on tiptoe to look out through the hole to the street outside, not sure what I’m expecting to see. People continue to walk past and there’s no one standing looking back at me.
‘It’ll be kids messing around. I’ll call the police.’ Alice walks away and Caroline comes to stand next to me, staring at the brick as if it’s still dangerous.
‘Why would someone do that?’ she asks. Her hands are trembling.
‘God knows,’ I say. ‘Look, it’s only a window. We can get it replaced.’
‘But why us?’ Her voice is shaky.
‘I don’t think it was personal.’ Her eyes well up and I wonder if she’s going to cry.
‘It could have hurt you,’ Caroline stutters.
I put my hands on her shoulders. ‘But it didn’t, did it? I’m absolutely fine.’
She steps away from me, rubbing the back of her neck.
‘Can you ask Paul if he’ll fix it until we can get a glazier out?’
I stare at her. I can see it’s really bothered her, but I don’t want to call Paul. Not until I’ve decided what I’m going to say to him about the charger.
‘Wouldn’t it be better to ask Rob?’ I ask. ‘He could send round a builder off one of his sites?’
Caroline shakes her head. ‘He hates me disturbing him at work. Can you ask Paul? Please?’
‘I’ll try a glazier first. You go and find a dustpan and brush to clear up the glass.’
Paul arrives shortly after the police have left. I’d tried five glaziers but none could get here until tomorrow at the earliest. I watch as he struggles through reception with a couple of large pieces of plywood that he leans up against the wall before walking into my office.
‘What did the police say?’ he asks, breathless with the effort.
‘They’ve taken the brick away and they’re going to see if there’s anything on CCTV, but it doesn’t sound like they’re holding out a lot of hope,’ I reply flatly.
‘That’s no bloody good, is it?’ he says angrily. ‘What if this guy comes back, what if . . .?’
‘Calm down, Paul. As they said, it’s probably just kids, messing around.’ He walks over to me and takes my face in his hands.
‘I’m worried about you,’ he says. ‘What if it had hit you? What about the –’
I cut him off, pushing his hands away. ‘But it didn’t, did it?’
My sister emerges from her office and stands in the doorway, smiling at him. ‘Thanks for doing this,’ Caroline says to him. ‘I would have asked Rob, but I know he’s busy on site today.’
Paul and I exchange glances.
‘I’ve cleared up the worst of it,’ I say, staring at my carpet which is still covered in small pieces of glass.
‘I’ll put the panel over the hole and the glazier can deal with the rest,’ Paul says. ‘Have you got a hoover? I’ll go over the floor when I’m done.’
I shake my head. ‘The cleaning company does all of that. I’ll give them a call to let them know what to expect when they come in tonight.’ I walk into reception where Paul has left his wallet and phone on Alice’s desk. I can hear him shuffling around in my office. Alice is typing, absorbed with something on her screen, her headset on. I pick up Paul’s mobile, turning my back to her, tapping the screen which lights up, a photo of both the girls at the beach in Devon last year. A lifetime ago.
Paul starts hammering, the sound reverberating in my head, my heart beat speeding up as I realise what I’m about to do. I type his passcode into his phone, half expecting to find that he’s changed it, but he hasn’t. It’s still the four digits of his birthday, without the year. I take a deep breath, double checking that the hammering hasn’t stopped as I scroll down his messages, stopping a few from the top. Anna’s name is there. My heart thumps faster and I hesitate before I click on it to open the thread, asking myself whether I really want to do this.
The thread unravels as I press the screen. I scan down the texts, my mouth dry, forcing myself to read slowly, anxious to absorb the contents as the words blur in front of my eyes. They’re not what I expected. There’s nothing salacious here, no suggestion Paul is having an affair. Just offers and acceptances of school pick-ups. I click out of the thread and back to the main screen where there’s a number in the list of messages that I don’t recognise amongst all the familiar names, underneath which is written:
Tuesday 19th. 1 p.m.
Next Tuesday. I’m about to click on it to open up the thread when the hammering stops. I swipe the screen shut and slide his phone back upside down onto Alice’s desk whilst she’s busy searching through her filing cabinet. It’s probably a meeting with a potential client. But why hasn’t he mentioned it? I remind myself we haven’t had the opportunity to talk much recently, perhaps he just hasn’t had a chance. Or maybe he doesn’t want to get my hopes up. I hear Paul’s voice coming from my office and walk over; Caroline is talking to him whilst he holds the bottom of the piece of plywood, preparing to hammer in another set of nails.
As I watch him, the implications of what I’ve just done suddenly hit me. I don’t know who to trust anymore. I can’t even trust myself.
‘You OK?’ Caroline turns to look at me as I lean against the wall, trying to stop the buzzing noise in my brain that seems to be getting louder, like an advancing swarm of bees. ‘Sit down for a minute, you look awful.’ She pulls out a chair and I lower myself into it, her voice getting fainter, and I feel someone pushing my head down between my knees
as the volume in the room slowly turns itself up again.
‘Here.’ Caroline hands me a glass of water. ‘Have you eaten anything today?’
I don’t answer. I know she recognises the all-too-familiar signs from when I was a teenager. Paul is kneeling on the floor beside me, his hand holding mine.
‘You need to take more care of yourself,’ he says.
‘I’m fine,’ I say weakly.
‘You clearly aren’t. You’re doing too much. You –’ His voice is too loud and I see Caroline look at him, her forehead creasing at his reaction. I take a sip of water.
‘Better?’ he asks. I nod as I go to stand up but am overwhelmed by a wave of nausea and have to sit back down again.
‘Oh my God,’ I hear my sister say, ‘are you pregnant?’ I start to shake my head, but it’s too late, she’s looking at Paul who’s already smiling at her.
‘It’s early days,’ he says. ‘And we haven’t told anyone yet, including the girls, but I want you to keep an eye on her. She needs to take things more slowly.’
Caroline nods, but I notice her hesitate before she offers her congratulations, kneeling down to kiss me on the cheeks. She doesn’t take her eyes off me as she gives Paul a hug and I can tell by the look on her face she doesn’t believe the news he’s just told her.
THURSDAY
Caroline
I dip the tip of my toe into the water. It’s hot. So hot it actually feels cold for a couple of seconds before the heat burns through, making me wince. I never know how far I can raise the temperature before there’s visible damage. I look down at the top of my foot which is now a bright pink colour, checking for any blisters. There are no tell-tale lumps in my skin. I hang my dressing gown over the hook on the door and take a deep breath. Putting one hand on the side of the bath, I lower one leg into the thick layer of bubbles so it disappears slowly, an inch at a time. I breathe in and out, little panting breaths, like they taught me to do when I gave birth to Adam to manage the pain. The steam coming off the water brushes against my face, making me blink. Then I put the other leg in. I’ve learned that if I do it one at a time there are fewer ripples which stops the heat from moving about. I slide the rest of my body into the bath until I’m sitting in the water which comes up high enough to cover my waist. My body is on fire but I welcome it. I need it to burn to feel clean again. Taking a deep breath, I submerge myself completely, feeling the bottom of the bath hard beneath my head. I keep quite still, listening to the roar in my ears, the flames now inside my chest as well as on my skin, consuming me from the inside as I count off the seconds, each one representing a year that I’ve been here.
