Look What You Made Me Do

by Nikki Smith

  ‘We can talk some more when I get back,’ I say. ‘But I’ve got to go and see Grandma now. Dad’s here if you need him.’

  ‘Why do you have to go?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ve got to sort out some things about Grandpa’s will.’

  ‘Is Grandma OK?’ she asks.

  ‘She’s fine,’ I say, tightly.

  ‘Will she be coming over for Livvi’s birthday?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m not sure yet. Probably.’

  ‘What about Auntie Caroline and Uncle Rob?’ she asks, sniffing.

  ‘You’re going to have to see them at some point, Grace. I know Auntie Caroline wants to apologise to you. She only said those things because she was very upset. Can you maybe try and forgive her for it?’ I ask. ‘We all make mistakes.’

  She doesn’t look at me as she answers. ‘I’ll try,’ she says quietly. I give her a hug before I walk downstairs, wondering why I still feel like I’ve missed the point of what she was trying to tell me.

  The journey to Mum’s isn’t far. Fifteen minutes at the most. The house is at the end of a short cul-de-sac, the entrance to the gravel drive partially obscured by thick laurel bushes. Large beech trees line the pavement on either side, dating back to when the houses had been built in the 1920s, planted to give an air of authenticity to the name of the road; Beech Avenue. They’ve grown over twenty metres tall since then and form a thick canopy that almost meets in the middle, tiny slivers of blue visible through the green as I drive beneath them. Caroline used to tell me to hold my breath until we got past them or it would be bad luck and I feel myself doing it now, the pressure a burning pain in my chest as I speed up to reach the open patch of sunlight, letting out my breath in a gasp as I pull onto the gravel.

  I park on the drive in a way that doesn’t leave any room for my sister to get her car in next to mine, experiencing a perverse sense of satisfaction that I’ve managed to get here ahead of her. My mother opens the front door before I reach it and I wonder if she’s been watching out of the window, waiting for us to arrive. I remember her doing that when Caroline had been a teenager; sitting up in her dressing gown in the dark with the sitting-room curtains pulled back, refusing to go to bed until she’d got home. I don’t remember her doing it for me. It was always Dad who’d stayed up on the rare occasion when I’d been well enough to go out.

  ‘Joanna.’ I walk into the hallway and my mother shuts the door behind me, glancing outside one last time for any sign of my sister. ‘Come through. I’ve made us some lunch.’

  ‘You didn’t need to do that, Mum,’ I reply.

  ‘It’s only something light. Caroline said you hadn’t eaten.’ Something slithers between her seemingly innocuous words, a reference to old habits and a hint to conversations that have taken place without me.

  ‘You’ve spoken to her already?’

  ‘Yes. She called me to say she might be running a bit late.’ My mother pours out a perfectly chilled glass of Sauvignon and hands it to me. ‘She works too hard.’

  I swallow a large mouthful. ‘Are you saying I don’t?’

  My mother sighs. ‘It’s not a competition. Help yourself to cheese and crackers and there’s salad if you want it. Your favourite.’ I sit down at the dining table, the room too warm despite the fact she’s lowered the blinds in an attempt to block out the sun, something that just increases the sense of claustrophobia. I dig into the wilted leaves of lettuce, lifting them out onto my plate.

  ‘I know how close you were to your father, Joanna,’ she says, passing me a bottle of dressing which I take but don’t open, her change of subject making me reach for my wine glass again. ‘And I know how grateful he was to you for your help with the business when he needed it.’

  ‘Help?’ I say, struggling to keep my voice level. ‘I uprooted my entire family and moved across the country, changed the girls’ schools and Paul’s job because Dad begged me to. Telling me he’d lose the business if I didn’t. And now you want to sell it?’

  She hesitates. ‘The company is doing very well at the moment partly due to your efforts, but also due to the amount of business that your father generated through his personal contacts. With him no longer here, I know those contacts are going to go elsewhere. We need to sell it whilst we have the chance. Someone I know has made a decent offer –’

  I interrupt her. ‘You’ve told people it’s for sale?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. The subject came up in conversation.’

  I screw up my toes in my shoes under the table. ‘You have absolutely no right to do that,’ I tell her. ‘I own the business. Dad left it to me.’ My knife rattles against my plate.

  ‘Joanna, you need to calm down.’

  I stare at her. ‘Dad trusted me with it, not you.’

  My mother’s face is pale. I want to stab my words into her, for them to pierce through her apparent lack of emotion, to spill out whatever’s inside all over her perfectly set table.

  ‘Despite what you might think, your father and I had a very close relationship,’ she says quietly.

  I finish the last mouthful of wine in my glass and pour myself another. ‘Really?’ I ask, my bitterness echoing more loudly than I expect. I think of all the times over the last few weeks she’d insisted on carrying out pointless tasks; changing the sheets in the spare bedroom that no one had slept in, clearing out cupboards to pack up unwanted items into boxes to take to the charity shop. Anything, it had seemed, to avoid spending time by the side of that bed.

  She doesn’t answer, but I can see from her pursed lips that she knows exactly what I’m accusing her of. She’s giving me the chance to leave the conversation where it is, to move on like we normally do, burying any awkwardness so we can’t see it, leaving it to grow like seeds and reappear later. But sometimes I don’t know when to stop.

  ‘If you were that close, why didn’t you want to be with him at the end?’ A tear slides down my face, more anger than grief. ‘You left me with him.’

  My mother doesn’t move, focusing her gaze on the salad. Her apparent composure lights something inside me, a blast of heat that makes me blurt out what I want to say; desperate to provoke her into a response.

  ‘He asked me to help him, when it should have been you.’ Guilt seeps out through my pores and I wish she could see it; I want her to know what I’ve done so I don’t have to hide it anymore.

  She smiles sadly at me, her white veneers brighter than ever.

  ‘Oh, Joanna. He might have asked you but we both know you aren’t capable of finishing a job properly.’

  I look at her in confusion, her words not making any sense. I wonder if she’s actually understood what I’m trying to say.

  ‘He begged me to help him,’ I say. ‘He said he didn’t want to carry on anymore and so I did what he asked. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mum? I murdered him.’

  She looks at me, her face expressionless.

  ‘I went back into his room that morning after you ran out,’ she says as if I haven’t spoken. ‘Your father was most definitely still alive, so I finished what you’d started. Just like I sorted out so many other messes you left me with when you were a teenager.’

  I stare at her, as she spears a piece of lettuce with her fork. ‘You didn’t kill him, Joanna, so you can drop the self-pity. I did.’

  SATURDAY

  Caroline

  I hear Rob’s car pull into the driveway. He’s back later than usual from work. He hasn’t spoken to me today, coming home last night from work bringing with him an atmosphere so charged with frustration I’d almost been able to touch it, like static electricity on a balloon. I’d watched as he’d paced around the kitchen, keeping my distance by taking my time to lay the table; a grotesque dance that I choreographed in a similar way each night.

  I hadn’t thought it was possible to be so invisible, to be looked through, rather than at, as if my skin and internal organs were wholly transparent. Ever since I’d had Adam, he’d avoided looking at me directly, as if h
e couldn’t quite fathom what I’d become. He’d watched me breastfeeding when we’d first got home from the hospital and had gone out shortly after, returning with dozens of cartons of formula milk. I’d known, without him saying, that he couldn’t bear the bond he’d seen between us, as if love was a finite thing that had to be shared and he’d known he’d end up with less than he had before.

  Before we’d had Adam, I’d recognised when he’d been stressed before he’d even spoken by the way he came through the door. I’d been able to make him laugh as I’d wrapped my arms around him and he’d kissed my hair, feeling our closeness as a single heartbeat.

  Last night he’d come downstairs and had poured himself a large whisky, dropping the ice cubes into the dark liquid with such force, it had splashed over the side of the glass onto the granite surface of the counter. I’d been careful not to look at him whilst he was doing it, not wanting to give him an excuse to find somewhere to direct his exasperation. Sometimes I delude myself into thinking my avoidance tactics work, that I’ve found a way to make myself invisible, a way of neutralising his potential attack. But I know that’s not true. There isn’t a strategy that works. His unpredictability makes him lethal.

  I’d been late to meet him on our fourth date as my train had been delayed. He’d punched a wall in front of me and then had apologised, telling me he’d thought I’d decided not to come. I’d told him he didn’t need to worry. That I wouldn’t leave him. That it would be OK. And I was arrogant enough to believe it would. That I could fix him. As if he was a piece of machinery where a part was missing, and I just needed to find a spare which I could slot in and then he’d function in the same way as everyone else. I hadn’t realised it was an impossible task. That a whole system of wiring and connections had somehow got tangled up and whether it had been his parents’ divorce, or the fact that he hadn’t fitted in at school, I hadn’t been able to work out how to put him back together.

  If I think about it when he’s not here, I’m overwhelmed with sadness for what we’ve lost. Part of me believes he can still change. And then he comes home, and I’m forced to recognise the gap between my expectations and reality; like a nightmare Groundhog Day that I repeat over and over again, hope running through my fingers like water, impossible to hold onto.

  The car engine goes silent and I glance around the kitchen. I don’t think I’ve left anything out of place. The card that had arrived in the post this morning has been put away upstairs with the one that’s already under the mattress in the spare room. I’d hidden it in the kitchen drawer until he’d gone out so he hadn’t seen it. I try not to let the warmth that floods through my stomach show on my face when I think about it. I’d read the words as if Adam had been standing beside me, picturing him lying on a sun-drenched beach, wondering what it would feel like to start a new life.

  Dear Mum & Dad,

  I think Seminyak’s awesome. Lovely, magnificent ocean, seen twelve turtles incubating many eggs. Baby elephants randomly emerged at dusk yesterday.

  Love, Adam

  Even if I had a passport, I couldn’t have gone with him. I know my husband. He’d told me if I ever left, he wouldn’t stop looking until he found me. And if he discovered me with Adam, I don’t like to think about what he’d do. It would be worse for both of us than me being here, dying slowly.

  I wait until I hear his key turn in the lock before I lift the clean cutlery basket out of the dishwasher where I’d left it earlier, taking it over to the kitchen drawer to unload it. The constant need to get the timing exactly right on every single thing I do to ensure I look busy, but still available, is exhausting. Sometimes I feel as if I’m living the reality of a giant flowchart, with endless possibilities of yes and no options, varying my decisions again and again, wondering whether one day I’ll be able to get it right.

  I hear him walk towards the study, then stop and turn around, his footsteps getting louder as he comes back towards the kitchen. Oh God. The tiny bubble of hope that has risen in my chest bursts as I realise he’s not going to switch on his computer. I should have known better. He never changes his routine. I feel a twinge in my bladder and wish I’d been to the toilet before he got back. He pushes open the door and I grab a handful of knives and forks, the metal still warm, fixing a smile onto my face.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ he asks.

  ‘Fish and chips,’ I reply. ‘How was your day?’ He doesn’t answer as he walks over to me, staring at my face. ‘What the hell have you got on?’ he asks. I look down at my clothes, confused, and he puts his hand under my chin, pushing it upwards so I’m looking directly into his eyes. ‘Not your outfit. This.’ He presses his finger onto my lips and drags it across my face before pulling it away and holding it out for me to look at. ‘What are you wearing that for?’ I stare at the raspberry-pink colour on his skin and run my tongue over my lips in an effort to remove the rest.

  ‘I – I put it on earlier,’ I stutter.

  ‘I can see that,’ he says, almost wearily, like he’s talking to a child. It’s the same voice he used to use when Adam was still here, the one that told him to ‘Put your hands in your lap when you’ve finished eating.’ He’d demanded obedience at all times. I’m surprised Adam hadn’t rebelled earlier.

  ‘I remember you saying how much you liked the colour,’ I say, deciding it’s something he won’t expect to hear. He doesn’t realise how long I’ve had to watch and learn from him and that I can change too when he’s least expecting it. And I’m getting better at it. Not much longer and I’ll be almost perfect. His eyes flicker, a sign his brain is processing the implications of what I’ve just said and he’s unsure how to deal with it.

  ‘Wipe the rest of it off your cheek,’ he says. ‘It’s smudged.’

  We eat our fish and chips in silence, the acid of the vinegar stinging the graze on my lip where I’d rubbed the lipstick off. I’d forgotten I still had it on. I’d found it in my make-up bag earlier, the cellophane wrapping around the small tube still intact. I’d torn it off and opened it up, hearing that satisfying noise as I’d pulled the lid off, the same sound as when you press your lips together and pull them apart after you put it on. I hadn’t heard it for years. The stick of colour had been smooth and untouched and had smelt faintly of vanilla. I hadn’t been able to resist it, applying it to see what it looked like, pouting in front of the mirror like a teenager, imagining I was somewhere hot, sucking up the ice-cold liquid of a frozen margarita in the heat of the sun, leaving behind a raspberry-coloured mark on a white straw. It had been stupid. I never should have done it. I can’t get carried away. It only leads to disappointment.

  Last night I’d been in the kitchen when I’d heard him storm out of his study, slamming the door, his footsteps thudding all the way upstairs. I’d stood by the sink, washing up the saucepan, every one of my senses alert, trying to anticipate what he’d do next. I’d dried my hands on the tea towel and had walked into the hall, listening to the sound of the tap running upstairs, presuming he’d been running a bath.

  I’d pressed down the handle of the door very slowly, careful not to make a sound. His laptop had been open on the desk; the screen blank. I had bent down in front of it and jiggled the mouse, but nothing had happened. I’d lifted up his headphones, still plugged into the laptop, and had put them over my ears, pressing the volume button on the keyboard, watching as a small line of white dots had appeared, but I hadn’t been able to hear anything apart from a barely detectable low humming noise.

  I’d felt a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’

  I’d whirled around, the cable from the headphones tangling round my neck as he’d tried to pull them off. I’d backed away from him, dragging the laptop with me off the desk where it had landed with a crash on the floor. ‘You fucking stupid idiot,’ he’d shouted, picking up the machine and ripping out the headphone lead, leaving me to unwind it from round myself. He hadn’t looked at me as he’d sat down in front of the screen, reboot
ing the computer, double clicking the mouse to enter his password.

  I’d watched, praying it would start, anxiety scratching at the bottom of my stomach with sharp claws. I’d learned to fold up my fear and bury it inside me, but sometimes, like at that moment, I’d seen the look on his face and hadn’t been able to stop it escaping. I’d had a sudden urge to empty my bladder, a feeling of lightness that I’d wished would envelop me so I’d disappear. The machine had whirred back into life. I’d let out a deep breath. I hadn’t broken it. He’d snatched the headphones back, the look on his face letting me know I’d pay for it later. And I had. Another scar to add to his collection.

  ‘All those conversations and they don’t even mention the bloody boxes,’ he says, his fork halfway to his lips, a blob of ketchup expanding as it gathers on the edge of a chip, ready to drip. ‘Five bloody hours I’ve sat through, and nothing. You’re going to have to go round there again.’

  I watch as the drop of ketchup falls through the air, missing the plate, disappearing onto his lap. He doesn’t notice, he’s too busy eating and I wince at the noise of his teeth scraping along the prongs of the fork as he pulls off his next mouthful.

  ‘I don’t know where else to look,’ I say. ‘For all we know she’s emptied out the boxes and put everything away. What are you so desperate to find?’

  He ignores my question, scraping up the last few pieces of fish off his plate. The moisture oozes out from the whiteness of the flesh, glinting under the kitchen spotlights and I put my cutlery down on my plate, my own dinner untouched. He wipes the side of his mouth with a piece of kitchen roll, the ketchup smearing across the white tissue like blood.

  ‘So, you’ll go?’ he asks, but I know it isn’t a question.

  ‘What about Buddy? He’ll bark if he sees me and if Paul’s in his office, he’ll hear him.’

  ‘I’ve thought about that,’ he says. ‘And I’ve bought something which will sort out that problem.’