Heart-Shaped Bruise

by Byrne, Tanya

  I feigned annoyance. ‘Fine. Let’s try it one more time.’ I fed him a brown one this time. He did the same thing.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I said. ‘Best of three?’

  This time I actually gave him an orange one. As soon as he tasted it, his eyelids flew open and he looked at me, horrified. ‘It’s orange chocolate!’

  I slapped my leg with my hand. ‘I told you!’

  ‘Give me another one.’

  ‘No,’ I whined. ‘There’s only one left. You can have all the other colours.’

  ‘I climbed a tree for you, Rose Glass. Give me one.’

  ‘You climbed a tree for beer!’

  ‘Please.’ He fluttered his eyelashes and I gave in. He looked suitably smug.

  ‘Happy now?’ I pouted. ‘No more Smarties for me.’

  ‘Here,’ he said, holding up a pink one.

  I almost fell out of the tree recoiling from it. ‘No!’

  ‘Come on, Ro. For me?’

  ‘No. I can’t eat the mum!’

  ‘I climbed a tree for you, Rose Glass!’

  I pointed at him. ‘You only get to use that once!’

  He chuckled to himself then picked out a blue one. ‘Okay,’ he said, holding them up. ‘If you have the pink one and I have the blue one we’ll be friends. Proper friends. Not just friends with Nancy, okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ I closed my eyes and when I felt his thumb touch my bottom lip I pretended to wince, but my heart sang. Sang like a bird in a cage.

  It became a regular thing after that. Every Wednesday afternoon we’d go to the cemetery, get chips, then do something together. We’d bicker about books or fight over band T-shirts in the charity shop. Once we even went into a bookies on the high street and put a bet on the 3.55 at Wetherby. My horse won and I was insufferable for the rest of the day. I think Sid would have gone home and left me if I hadn’t bought us a curry with my winnings.

  One Wednesday he turned to me as we were coming out of the chip shop with the most wicked grin. ‘I know what we can do. Come on.’

  I frowned at him. ‘What?’

  ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’

  We got the tube to Camden and he led me down one of the narrow roads near Camden Lock market to a small shop. I didn’t even get a chance to see what kind of shop it was before he pulled me in by the sleeve of my coat.

  As soon as I stepped inside, I smelt it – wood and old paper – and my heart was hysterical, as though I’d just bumped into an old boyfriend.

  A music shop.

  I stopped and stared at it for a moment. It was nothing like the shop in Soho Dad took me to, to buy my cello, the one with the white walls where the cellos and violins were wooden works of art you had to be invited to touch. The shop Sid took me to was tiny and filled with instruments. Guitars lined the walls and violins hung in rows from the ceiling like bunting.

  Sid charged on ahead of me, stopping to slap a pair of bongos before disappearing behind a cherry-red drum kit.

  ‘Here she is,’ he said with a proud sigh when I found him at the back of the shop.

  My heart pounded then slowed as I looked down to find a guitar at his feet. He sat down on an amp and lifted it into his lap as though he was lifting a newborn baby.

  ‘This is Nancy,’ he said with a sly smile. ‘The original Nancy. Say hello.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Not it,’ he hissed. ‘She, Rose. She.’

  ‘Fine. What is she?’

  ‘A Martin D-one-eight-E acoustic.’

  ‘She’s very pretty.’

  ‘She’s more than pretty.’

  ‘Special, is she?’

  ‘My first love.’

  ‘I see.’ I raised an eyebrow at him. ‘What makes her so special?’

  He began strumming and it took me a second, but when I realised what he was playing, I pointed at him. ‘“The Man who Sold the World”! It’s Kurt Cobain’s guitar.’

  A tiny woman with white-blond hair and bright red lips appeared from behind a double bass. She was scowling, but when she saw Sid, her face softened.

  ‘You can’t have it until you learn how to play the rest of it,’ she told him, crossing her arms. Her skin was laced with tattoos – flowers and feathers – and when she turned towards me, I saw that she had a naked pin-up girl with big eyes and victory rolls on her right arm.

  ‘I’m Deb. Are you Nancy?’ she asked with a wide smile.

  I should have been used to it, but I still felt a stab of humiliation.

  ‘This is Rose,’ Sid said without looking up from the guitar.

  Her face lit up. ‘Oh, Rose! The cellist, right?’

  Heat rushed through me. My cheeks must have been blood red. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I like your hair.’

  I reached a hand up to touch it. ‘It used to be red. I haven’t had time to dye it.’

  ‘Pink’s cool, too.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Come with me,’ she said, turning and disappearing behind the double bass again.

  Sid got up too and when we followed her into the corner of the shop, I stopped and took a step back. Sid yelped as I stepped on his toe.

  ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head when I saw the cello.

  Sid held my elbows so I couldn’t take another step back. It made my heart beat even harder. ‘Come on, Rose. I want to hear you play.’

  ‘No. No. I can’t.’

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I told him, pulling away and crossing my arms. ‘I just can’t.’

  ‘Please, Rose,’ Deb said, nodding at the cello. ‘This has been here almost a year. We don’t get many cellists in here.’

  I looked at the cello, then at Sid. ‘I haven’t played for ages.’

  ‘It’s like riding a bike, Ro.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m so rusty. It’ll sound rubbish.’

  ‘I know the opening riff of “The Man Who Sold the World” and a bit of “Wonderwall”. Who am I to judge?’

  I raised an eyebrow at him. ‘And that gave you calluses?’

  ‘I’m a bit slow,’ he said with a smile that was enough to make me surrender and shuffle over to the cello.

  The muscles in my legs twitched as I sat on the orange plastic chair Deb put in the centre of the small space. I was excited, I realised, my heart trilling as she handed me the cello. I didn’t know what to do with it at first, then I remembered to part my knees and stand it on the floor between my legs. The endpin sunk into the Persian rug and when I cupped the neck in my left hand, it felt strange; heavy and hollow, all at once.

  I could tell by the colour of it – the weight, the tangle of scratches on the back – that it wasn’t as valuable as the cello Dad had bought me, but when I drew the bow across the strings, it still made the most beautiful sound. I had to stop and take a breath.

  When I looked up, Sid was staring at me, his lips parted. It made my heart beat so hard I had to look at the cello. As soon as my fingers pressed against the strings, the calluses on my fingers and the stiffness in my joints made sense again and when I drew the bow across them again, I felt the vibration from my wrist right up to my elbow. I did it again and again, adjusting the tuning pegs each time until the cello began to speak, deep then high, higher until I reached that first, perfect note and I began to play. It wasn’t great – at moments, the cello screeched rather than sang – but I dipped my head and closed my eyes and, just for a moment, I let go of that invisible edge I’d been clinging on to and fell.

  Eventually, my fingers found the right spot on each string and the music began to rise and fall around me. I didn’t realise what I was playing until I heard it, and as soon as I did, I was back at St Jude’s, in the music room, practising and practising and practising for the prom at the Royal Albert Hall. I never got to be that Emily, the Emily who was a cellist for the National Youth Orchestra of Great Britain, but for a few minutes that day I did.

  When I stopped, I looked up and Si
d was still staring at me, his lips parted.

  Then he smiled and when I smiled back, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so happy. It was the cleanest, most pure thing I’d felt in months. I had to look away, I was smiling so much. I was sure that if I tried, I would fly, that if I jumped and thrust my arm up I’d soar into the sky and feel the clouds against my cheeks.

  I know what people say about me, about what I did. I’ve said it myself, that I used Sid to fuck Juliet over, but I didn’t. Not really. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t be here now, in this tiny room with bars on the windows and a smudged line of white chalk on the floor. Because that’s how he made me feel, like I could fly, like I could do anything. That’s all love is, you know, wanting to be the best person you can be for someone. Sometimes I think all of this would go away – I would be cured – if I could just be that girl all of the time.

  The girl I was when I was with him.

  ‘Did you ever consider just being Rose?’ Doctor Gilyard asked me this morning.

  I looked up at her, my heart suddenly in my throat. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did you ever consider leaving Emily behind, like Juliet did, and becoming Rose?’

  I stared at her, incredulous. ‘Rose wasn’t a person, she was a disguise.’

  ‘Was she?’

  I closed my eyes and sighed. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Stop what, Emily?’

  ‘This.’ I waved my hand at her. ‘This, whatever you’re doing.’

  ‘What am I doing, Emily?’

  ‘Can you just say something?’

  ‘Say what, Emily?’

  ‘Anything. Just say something that isn’t a question.’

  We looked at each other for a moment too long, then she nodded.

  ‘Why didn’t you kill Juliet?’

  I flew out of my chair with a roar. A cry. ‘Why won’t you listen to me?’

  She just looked at me, so I kicked my chair over. It landed on its side on the lino with a loud CRACK that brought one of the male nurses sweeping into the room. Doctor Gilyard didn’t take her eyes off me, just held her hand up until he went away.

  ‘Did you like her, Emily? Is that why you didn’t do anything?’

  ‘No, I hated her!’ I spat out, my fists clenched.

  ‘Do you think you could have been friends, if this hadn’t happened?’

  ‘Stop! Please, just stop!’

  My heart was beating so hard I felt dizzy. I snatched at a breath, then another and another until I realised that there was nothing I could do. So I gave into it, let it rip through me, and it was such a relief that I smiled. I love it, you know, the anger. I love it when it’s like that; wild and deep and unreachable. Because when I’m angry, it isn’t me reacting, it’s my body. I can’t stop it. I have to let it run its course, like a fever.

  ‘You obviously have a lot in common, Emily,’ Doctor Gilyard said then and my hands started to twitch. I needed something to knock over, to kick, to break. But there was nothing; no pot of pens on her desk to tip over, no framed wedding photo to hurl across the room. So I went over to the bookcase and began pulling off the textbooks. They landed on the floor at my feet with a succession of loud slaps.

  When the last one hit the top of the pile and slid off, it was over. Passed. I stopped and stood there panting and it felt like I was dying, like I was choking on my own breath. I had to reach out for one of the empty shelves to steady myself.

  After a minute or two, I closed my eyes and slumped against the bookcase. ‘You enjoy this, don’t you?’

  ‘Enjoy what, Emily?’

  ‘Pulling and pulling,’ I said, still panting. ‘Until I unravel.’

  She didn’t say anything for a long time, so I turned to look at her, my heart still throbbing as though someone had kicked it. ‘What’s your name?’

  I’d hoped it would throw her, but I guess patients ask her that all the time, because she didn’t flinch. ‘You know my name, Emily.’

  ‘Doctor Gilyard isn’t a name.’

  ‘It’s what I’d like you to call me, Emily.’

  ‘This isn’t fair.’ I shook my head. ‘I have to tell you everything. Things I don’t want to tell anyone, things I don’t want to say out loud and you won’t even tell me your name.’

  She nodded, but she didn’t say anything. There was no apology. No explanation. Then it was so quiet that I could hear the television murmuring in the TV Room and it made my heart twitch. It’s never that quiet in here; someone is always shouting. Laughing. Crying. Keys jangle against hips. Doors open, then close again. And there are footsteps, always footsteps, back and forth, back and forth.

  ‘You don’t wear a wedding ring,’ I told her, as if she didn’t know.

  She shook her head. I could hear an advert then. Washing powder. Washing liquid, maybe. Something that got 99 per cent of household stains out in a jiffy.

  I tilted my head and looked at her from under my eyelashes. ‘Is that because you’re single, or because you don’t want us to know that you’re married?’

  She nodded, then looked at me. ‘We’re building an intimate relationship here, Emily. There are certain expectations, levels of trust. It’s perfectly natural to want to know—’

  ‘I didn’t ask if it was perfectly natural. I asked why you don’t wear a wedding ring,’ I hissed, crossing my arms. If I was closer to her, I think I might have slapped her.

  ‘Let’s move on, Emily,’ she said tightly.

  How does it feel? I wanted to roar. How does it feel?

  ‘Have you ever been in love?’ I pushed.

  She took off her glasses and looked at me, her eyebrows knotted. ‘I hear you’re not eating much, Emily. And you look worn out; when was the last time you slept?’

  ‘When was the last time you answered a question?’

  ‘Would you like me to prescribe you something to help you sleep?’

  ‘No. I’d like you to answer my question.’ I felt like a toddler in the sweet aisle at the supermarket screaming for a Mars bar and being ignored. ‘Have you ever been in love?’

  ‘Have you, Emily?’

  I turned my face away. ‘No.’

  ‘I thought that you love Sid.’

  I sank to floor, next to the pile of textbooks. ‘That isn’t love,’ I told her, leaning back. The edge of the bookcase dug into my shoulder blades. ‘Loving someone who doesn’t love you back is like throwing a ball against a wall.’

  She didn’t say anything to that and I was surprised. I thought she’d push back, tug on the other end of the rope for a little longer.

  I turned to look at her again. ‘You wear a crucifix.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Why?’

  She pressed her finger to it. ‘Why not, Emily?’

  ‘Because you’re a doctor.’

  ‘Not all doctors are atheists.’

  ‘How does that work? If you can’t save them, pray for them.’ I raised an eyebrow at her. ‘The best of both worlds, I suppose.’

  She nodded, then put her glasses back on. ‘Einstein said that science without religion is lame and religion without science is blind.’

  ‘Einstein?’ I scoffed. ‘What did he know?’

  She smiled at that.

  ‘Do you pray for me?’ I asked. My voice sounded tiny, like when I was little and I had to tell Dad that I’d broken something. The time I broke the Chinese vase in the dining room, I said it so quietly I had to repeat myself.

  When she didn’t respond, I sat forward. ‘When you go to church on a Sunday and you sing your hymns and light your candles, do you pray for me? For poor, mad Emily Koll?’

  ‘No,’ she said, without missing a beat.

  I had to turn away because it hurt, deep, deep in my chest. I wanted to run out of her office, to throw myself on my bed and weep. But I couldn’t move and the longer I sat there, next to that pile of textbooks, I began to think that maybe she doesn’t pray for me because she knows she can fix me, because she meant what she said when she came to my ro
om and drew the line on the floor – I am not beyond repair.

  As soon as I thought it, I felt it, hot and bright in my blood. Hope. Wild, useless, unshakeable hope.

  So I looked at her. ‘Sid won these tickets.’

  ‘Tickets to what?’

  ‘The Beastie Boys. We love them.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Sid, Juliet and me. We were so excited.’

  I sucked in a breath. My lungs rattled. ‘I told them that the last time I saw the Beastie Boys was at Glastonbury and Juliet grabbed my arm. She’d seen them at Glastonbury, too, and lost her phone during Sabotage. She said –’ I stopped for breath again – ‘she said that I could have been standing right next to her.’

  I heard Doctor Gilyard write that down. ‘You could have been.’

  It had never occurred to me until that afternoon by our lockers that Juliet and I might have been friends if none of this had happened, if we’d just bumped into each other at a gig and I told her that I liked her shoes and she told me that she liked my hair. But as soon as I considered it, I felt that wall between us tremble, like a sheet on a washing line. It did that sometimes, when we were in the canteen and she’d buy me a chocolate croissant for no reason, or when she’d laugh at something I’d said so hard that it made me laugh too.

  Maybe we would have been friends, if she really knew me. Not the Emily who wanted to pick her apart, bone by bone. The Emily who went to Glastonbury and wore her wristband until it fell off. She’d never know that Emily, though, and I’d never know the Juliet who went to Glastonbury and lost her phone jumping up and down to Sabotage.

  The Juliet who didn’t stab my father.

  Maybe there’s another world somewhere, another plain, where she and I are friends. Where we’re happy and whole and not the product of our fathers’ decisions. Where we can be ourselves, not these made-up people with made-up names and made-up memories.

  ‘Sid only won two tickets,’ I told Doctor Gilyard, tracing the edge of one of the textbooks with my finger. ‘I thought I couldn’t go, but Juliet wasn’t having any of it. She said I had to go because she’d had no music when she moved to Islington, and I bought her “Licensed to Ill”. She said she’d rather go without Sid than without me.’