She Chose Me

by Tracey Emerson

  ‘She looks so frail.’

  ‘Probably looks worse to you, cos you haven’t seen her much recently.’ A dig I couldn’t resist. I knew what my mother meant though. My grandmother had withered even further. Sunken cheeks and eyes that glinted like hard black stones.

  My comment didn’t appear to register. My mother fetched Vera and the two of them chatted in low voices by the door while I dabbed Oil of Olay cream onto my grandmother’s cheeks and forehead. They discussed something called an advanced directive. Apparently my grandmother only wanted life-sustaining treatments if they would lead to certain recovery.

  ‘She’s maybe had enough, love,’ Vera said. ‘They often stop eating when they’re getting ready to go. It’s the only control they’ve got left.’

  My mother just nodded.

  ‘We’ll keep her fluids up,’ Vera promised, giving my mother a hug, ‘and we’ll keep encouraging her with the food. In the end it’s up to her.’

  No, it’s bloody not, I thought.

  My mother kissed her mother’s forehead and said she needed to go out for some fresh air. Once Grandma and I were alone, I put my face close to hers and made it very clear she wouldn’t be going anywhere soon and that this starving herself nonsense had to stop.

  She shrank back against her pillows. ‘Not hungry,’ she croaked.

  ‘That’s because you’re not eating. It’s a vicious circle.’

  I took out my phone, did an online search for biblical quotes about suicide and then read the best ones aloud to her.

  ‘Do not be too wicked or too foolish either,’ I said, ‘why die before you have to?’

  ‘Ecclesiastes,’ she whispered. She recognised the Corinthians quote too, the one about her being a temple of God and the spirit of God dwelling within her and how God destroys anyone who destroys God’s temple.

  ‘I don’t think God would approve of you willing yourself into an early grave,’ I said, ‘do you?’

  She shook her head. I nipped to the kitchen and brought back a strawberry yoghurt. She managed almost all of it.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ I said. Within minutes she appeared more alert. She even asked me to put the TV on, which proved I must have done the right thing. Yes, I needed her around to keep my mother close, but I also didn’t want her to go yet. We’d had so much time stolen from us, and I didn’t want to lose any more.

  ***

  I left my grandmother’s room, keen to share this feeding success with my mother. I thought she’d gone for a fag in the garden, but instead I spotted her in the corridor with John. He had hold of her elbow and was pushing her along in front of him. He moved with an urgency that signalled either anger or passion. I couldn’t tell which.

  I waited until they disappeared down the back stairwell before following, excited and scared. Their wake reeked of sour alcohol. The door at the bottom of the stairs hit the wall with a thud when John opened it. I got there just in time to see the door to the laundry room bang shut.

  I lurked outside, anxious to hear which way their conversation would go.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ John said, and I knew the repercussions had begun.

  ‘Do what?’ my mother asked. ‘You’re scaring me,’ she said when he didn’t answer.

  ‘These,’ he said. ‘How could you?’

  The photographs. He must have handed them to her because I heard her gasp. He asked if she’d paid someone to take them, and she insisted she’d never seen them before.

  ‘You sent them to my wife,’ he said. He sounded drunk—no volume control and his words losing their shape. ‘You must have put them through the letterbox last night, the envelope was there first thing this morning.’

  ‘That wasn’t—’

  ‘Makes me sick… you creeping round my house like that.’

  ‘This wasn’t me,’ she said, her voice shrill.

  ‘The pictures are bad enough, but the stuff you wrote on the back of them. Jesus.’

  This is your husband and I on my kitchen table. Here we are on the kitchen floor. Here we are having a drink at The Old Street before going up to our room. I’d added dates and times for authenticity, and to give his wife a record she could check his lies against.

  ‘These are just a few of them,’ he said. ‘Debbie’s got the rest.’

  ‘I didn’t send them.’

  ‘You signed them with your name.’

  A mistake, I could see that now. I’d wanted her to take responsibility for her misdemeanours, but what if the Palethorpes involved the police? I’d made sure my messages didn’t contain any explicit threats. My experience with Miss Robertson had taught me the fine line between friendly e-mail and malicious communication.

  ‘Your wife knows who I am?’ my mother said. ‘What if she comes here?’

  ‘She won’t. I told her you live in London. She thinks I met you at a work thing there and that we’ve only seen each other in the city.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I did it for my mother, not for you. I can’t risk Debbie coming here and kicking off.’

  ‘John, I—’

  ‘She’s thrown me out. She won’t let me near her or the kids.’

  ‘Why would I do this?’ my mother asked. ‘It was me who suggested we should break up.’

  They’d already broken up? I considered the awful possibility that my efforts had been unnecessary but reasoned they both deserved some kind of punishment. No chance of them getting back together now either.

  ‘You only wanted us to break up because I wouldn’t leave my wife for you,’ John said.

  ‘What? I never wanted that. I never once asked you to do that.’

  ‘Then why have you been calling my mobile non-stop for the past few days?’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘The calls said number withheld but I knew it was you. Was that you calling the house last night, too?’

  I’d never intended to speak to John. Just to annoy him, as he’d annoyed me.

  My mother denied it all. ‘What if someone who knows you saw us together and followed us?’ she said. A logical explanation and I feared he might go for it, but he insisted any friend of his or his wife’s would have either told her or confronted him.

  ‘How could you do this?’ he said, ‘I thought we had a connection?’

  ‘Could it be someone who doesn’t like you or your wife?’ she said. ‘Is there anyone who’d want to hurt you for some reason?’

  His laughter was harsh and frightening. ‘You’re actually trying to get out of this?’

  ‘What if your wife got suspicious and hired a private detective to follow you?’

  ‘You’re actually suggesting my wife would set this up to get out of her marriage?’

  ‘What if she—?’

  He slapped her then. A sharp, cracking sound. She cried out.

  ‘Shit. Sorry,’ he said. ‘Shit… That was… Sorry.’

  She burst into tears. Scared he might be tempted to console her, I unlocked the door.

  ‘I heard shouting,’ I said, ‘what’s going on?’ I looked at my mother. ‘Are you okay?’

  She nodded, the imprint of his fingers red and clear on her right cheek. He looked appalling—bloodshot eyes and matted hair all over the place. He bent down to pick up the photographs, which lay scattered on the floor.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, as he pushed past me.

  My mother sagged against one of the tumble dryers. ‘Nothing to worry about, Emma,’ she said, in a failed attempt to sound calm. ‘Mr Palethorpe and I had a disagreement.’

  ‘Do you need me to get Kegs?’

  ‘God, no. Thanks. We’ve… it’s all sorted out now.’ She cleared her throat and stood up straight. ‘Thanks for your concern,’ she said, all formal, trying to preserve some dignity. Bit late for that.

  ‘S’all right,’ I said. ‘Do you want a fag or a cup of tea or something?’

  ‘No, no. Don’t let me keep you.’

  I turned to leave. ‘You know where I am, if y
ou need me.’

  ‘Emma,’ she said, as I opened the door, ‘please don’t tell anyone about this.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I replied with a wink, ‘mum’s the word.’

  ***

  The Christmas lights tacked to the wall above the sofa bed flashed on and off, turning the bedsit red then orange then green. I sat on the gritty carpet, gulping back my second can of Strongbow—Emma’s favourite tipple. I’d grown quite fond of it.

  What a day. After finishing at three, I came straight here, filled the bath to the brim and lit the scented candles I’d bought from the pound shop. I soaked in the water for two hours. Despite being so crappy, the bedsit had a brilliant hot water system. Then I’d changed into my Keep Calm dressing gown and my Keep Calm slippers and opened my first cider.

  As my second can disappeared, a blurry calm did come over me. I unpacked the Christmas tree I’d bought from Argos the previous week. A flimsy object with silver branches, small enough to sit on the drop-leaf table by the window. The total opposite of the towering pine tree that Isobel got delivered to the house every year. She and I would decorate it together, with Isobel placing the misshaped decorations I’d made during childhood in prominent positions. None of my clumsy angels or asymmetrical snowflakes fitted in with her tasteful colour schemes, but she never seemed to mind.

  For Emma’s tree, I’d splashed out on a box of ten red-and-gold baubles from the pound shop. Eight found a spot on the tree’s spindly branches, the other two I hung from the Virgin Mary’s outstretched arms. Giving the statue away had felt wrong to me, so when my mother went to the toilet, I’d rescued it from the charity box and hid it in my backpack. My grandmother would be glad the Virgin Mary had found room at the inn with me.

  The cider left me lightheaded. I longed to call my mother, just to hear her voice. She’d dashed away from Birch Grove as soon as she could. Didn’t even come and say goodbye. The thought of John and his wife having those photos made me uneasy. I’d covered my tracks, but dragging other people into this business with my mother was foolish. Maybe I should forget about her? Give up and walk away while I still could.

  Reaching under the sofa bed, I pulled out my black trolley case. As soon as I lifted the lid, my scrapbook glinted back at me, the silver cover reflecting the flashing Christmas lights. It gave me a static shock when I touched it, a warning not to look inside.

  I did anyway. A quick flick through would remind me why I’d started all this. There, stuck onto the first page, was my birth certificate. On the second, my certificate of adoption. Then came the newspaper articles, but I only skimmed them. The headline of the final piece made my stomach leap as always.

  POLICE LAUNCH SEARCH FOR CASSIE’S MOTHER

  42

  Monday, 11 September 1995

  Royal Edinburgh Hospital

  The audition came out of the blue. One morning in late February, as I lay on the sofa engrossed in Good Morning Britain and wreathed in hash smoke, my telephone rang. I answered it to find Tony White, one of my former tutors from NTS, on the line.

  ‘Hello, treacle,’ he said. He’d got my number from the school office. He said he had a great opportunity for me. A former student of his had written and was about to direct a six-part TV series set in the Leeds club scene. Apparently this guy wanted to use new faces and had asked Tony to recommend a few people. Tony said he thought I should have a go.

  Two days later, I found myself back in one of the workshop spaces at the Northern Theatre School, reading for the part of Mel Turton, a posh girl turned drug dealer. Jared, the intense, shaven-headed director, filmed me for thirty minutes and gave me a thumbs up at the end. He declared me perfect for the part but said it might take him a week or two to let me know for certain. He promised to be in touch as soon as he could.

  I floated out of the audition room, the trials of the past month forgotten. I headed to Leeds market and bought loads of fruit and vegetables. When I got home, I threw out all the junk food and flushed my remaining dope down the toilet. No need for that now.

  That night, the dream returned. I woke from it to find the tiny hand resting on my chest, the chubby fingers curling and uncurling. Then I woke for real, screaming and clawing at myself.

  I made a doctor’s appointment the same day. This couldn’t go on. My big career break awaited, and I had to get back on track. The doctor, an uptight woman with coarse, greying hair, listened in silence as I told her about the nightmare and the lying around on the sofa all day and the non-existent, crying baby in the house next door. I also explained about my recent audition and my need to be in tip-top form.

  ‘I’ve read your medical record,’ she said.

  I twiddled my puzzle ring round and round while she explained that the body could take time to recover after ‘a procedure like that’. According to her, pregnancy hormones could linger in the body for quite a while.

  I pointed out that nearly six weeks had passed, but she just shrugged and asked about my periods. I told her my most recent one lasted only two days. Spotting mostly. Tender breasts before and after it. She assured me that my body would settle down eventually.

  I poured out my fears to her. What if it wasn’t just hormones? What if there was something wrong with me? Mentally? The nightmares were so real.

  She insisted my problems would vanish once I started working again and prescribed me a course of anti-anxiety tablets.

  ‘Only as a precaution,’ she said. ‘I’m certain you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

  43

  Monday, 21 December 2015

  I am off axis. As if some silent tectonic shift has taken place beneath my life.

  ‘How about ‘Santa Baby’?’ Theresa says. ‘That would work as a duet.’

  I cannot get the photographs out of my head. Each shot so clear and graphic.

  ‘Shouldn’t be too hard to sing,’ Theresa adds, ‘do you not think?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I’ll do that one with you.’

  Theresa places a tick on the sheet of paper attached to her clipboard. ‘Barney,’ she says, ‘I’m thinking you’re a “Silent Night” kind of guy?’

  Theresa, Max, Barney and I are in the staff room, catching up on admin and getting ready for the Christmas karaoke session at eleven-thirty. They are in a buoyant mood, giddy at the imminent end of term and the prospect of the holidays ahead. Max and Barney wear scarves of silver tinsel and Theresa has belted her grey woollen dress with a length of plastic holly.

  I have a hard knot in my stomach and a small snowman badge pinned to my black jumper. This morning I woke just in time to escape the touch of that tiny hand.

  Max and Theresa are sharing their holiday plans with Barney. Christmas with Max’s family, followed by New Year on their own.

  ‘Then early Feb, we’ll do Chinese New Year with Theresa’s family,’ Max says. Barney launches into his festive itinerary—a chaotic Christmas day with his parents and four siblings, followed by a long run on Boxing Day.

  Who took the photographs? I considered Dan as a suspect but decided he wouldn’t go to that much trouble. He made it very clear he wants nothing to do with me. Nor does John now. My cheek stings at the thought of him. Part of me is livid he hit me, and part of me feels I deserved it. An inevitable punishment.

  ‘Will you be spending Christmas with your mum?’ Barney asks. I nod. ‘How’s she doing by the way?’

  ‘Bit better.’ She’s eating again, according to my last phone call with Vera. That’s something.

  The conversation turns to our afternoon drinking session, with Max insisting Barney take the Tube home instead of cycling, so he can get drunk for once.

  Yesterday, I didn’t leave the house. Whoever took the pictures had spied on me in London and Brentham. How could I feel safe in either location? I thought about the Mother’s Day cards. I opened the cupboard next to the oven and searched inside for the World’s Greatest Mum mug but couldn’t find it. Perhaps I threw it out at the time? The fault line stirred, but I ignor
ed it. No point looking back. Still, I opened the front door and retrieved the fake stone from the rubber plant and brought it inside, relieved to find the key still hidden there. Not taking any chances, I called an emergency locksmith who came and fortified my door with two sturdy new locks and a hefty chain.

  Trish came out of her flat just as the locksmith was leaving and inspected my new additions.

  ‘What they for?’ she asked. ‘You been having some trouble?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Some bloke giving you shit? I got my locks changed the minute I kicked my Brian out.’

  ‘I’m just making the place more secure.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Trish said, ‘better safe than sorry.’

  ***

  ‘Christ,’ whispers Linda, as she claps along to Waleed and Nieve’s attempt at ‘Jingle Bells’, ‘this is purgatory.’

  I summon a smile. ‘The students are enjoying it.’

  Almost thirty of them are crammed into the common room, facing the table with the karaoke machine. Some sit on the floor, some occupy the semicircle of chairs, while others, along with the staff, stay standing. At the back of the room is another table laden with plates of mince pies and jugs of fruit punch.

  ‘Watch your pronunciation,’ Max heckles, ‘it’s slay not slee.’ We all laugh. Nieve and Waleed collapse into giggles, but everyone joins in to help them through the final verse. The moment sweeps me along with it, the playful atmosphere releasing me from the worries of the past few days.

  As the applause fades, the machine belts out the intro to ‘Santa Baby’.

  ‘Ooh,’ Theresa says, ‘we’re up, Grace.’

  The students whoop and cheer as we take the microphones. Already laughing at ourselves, Theresa and I stand back to back, like the women from Abba.

  The common room door opens and Wendy, lurid in a red Christmas jumper covered with green trees, steps inside. Her eyes scan the room and settle on me. She motions me over, a harassed expression on her face. I point at myself, to check she means me. She nods before tapping Linda on the shoulder.