I feel so grateful – that she’s acknowledging that it’s difficult for me too, even though she doesn’t know the whole truth of why I stayed away.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘I should warn you, Skye,’ she adds. ‘Emily’s going through an awkward pre-teen stage, as I’m sure you noticed. I hope she doesn’t… you know… talk out of turn and upset anyone. She seems very interested in knowing more about Ginny.’
‘She did mention her.’ In a way, I’m glad that Fiona’s acknowledged the elephant in the room.
‘Right… um… sorry.’
‘It’s fine. I’m happy to talk about anything she likes.’ I lean in towards her. ‘It’s just kind of weird that my bedroom is the same after all these years.’
Fiona nods. Clearly, she knows what I’m talking about.
‘There’s an extra bed in the cottage if you want to stay with us,’ Fiona says.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘But I think it’s best if I stay put for now. I don’t want to upset the apple cart.’
‘What’s that?’ Bill comes back into the room.
Fiona gives him a look. ‘We were talking about Skye’s room,’ she says, her voice still lowered.
‘Oh… that.’ He sucks a breath in through his teeth.
‘I was thinking that I might clear some things out,’ I say. ‘Doing up the rest of the house seems to have done Mum a world of good.’
‘Maybe…’ Bill sounds unconvinced. I understand that he’s worried about Mum’s mental state, but clearly he must see that enough is enough.
‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘We’ll see.’
The boys run out of the kitchen with chocolate smeared on their faces. Mum follows behind them, surprisingly quick with her cane. Emily lags behind. Clearly ‘family time’ is already taking its toll on her.
‘I thought I might take the boys to the beach,’ Bill says to me. ‘Do you want to come along?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Sounds good.’ I’m not sure I’m up to the walk, but I need to get Bill on his own. For once, I feel like he’s the one who has the explaining and apologising to do.
‘Come on, Emily,’ Fiona says. ‘Let’s go find the jigsaw puzzle. We can set it up here.’
‘And we can decorate the tree later,’ Mum says. She looks a little lost, like she’s not quite sure why everyone is leaving when they just arrived. Fiona notices it too.
‘We’ll be right back, Mary.’
‘Yes…’ Mum leans against the sofa, her hand quivering on the handle of her cane. ‘Yes, please come home.’
Fiona exchanges a look with Bill. ‘Why don’t you get the jigsaw?’ she says to Emily. ‘I… might stay here.’
I liked Fiona before. Now, I feel like hugging her.
‘Come on,’ I say to my two rowdy nephews. ‘Let’s get going.’
20
Walking is harder than I expected. My chest is tight and my lungs feel like they’re still weighted down by water. The boys run on ahead. I ask Bill a few questions about the kids and his work, while I consider how to broach meatier topics. When we pass Skybird, I think of the enigmatic Nick Hamilton, my ‘rescuer’. But there’s no sign of him or Kafka and the car is gone.
We begin the steep climb up to the lochan. I decide it’s best just to cut to the chase. ‘You lied to me, Bill,’ I say. ‘Mum didn’t ask for me. She doesn’t even seem to want me here.’
‘I didn’t lie… exactly.’ Bill sighs. ‘She did ask for you – in a roundabout way. I came up to see her immediately after the fall when she was still in hospital. She asked when you were coming home.’ He takes a breath. ‘You… and Ginny.’
‘Christ,’ I say. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it. ‘How long has she been like this?’
Bill slows up. He kicks a large stone from the path.
‘About six months. That’s when they think she had the stroke.’
‘The… stroke?’
‘I didn’t want to tell you by email or over the phone,’ he says. ‘I just needed you to be here.’
‘What stroke?’ I say icily.
‘Apparently it was very mild. More like a seizure. She doesn’t have the usual symptoms of slurred speech or facial paralysis. But she does have coordination problems. And the occasional break with reality.’
‘God.’ I put my hands over my face. Six months – around the same time that she heard the rumours that the ‘rogue wave’ story was a fabrication. It’s all too much to take in. I feel so… terrible. For Mum, and for all those years that we’ve lost.
‘She might get better over time,’ Bill says. ‘The brain does have a remarkable capacity for healing itself. But long-term it could get worse again. It’s “complicated” – that’s the word the doctor used.’ He stops walking and turns to me. ‘The main thing we can do is help her stay calm. Keep her blood pressure under control and avoid upsetting her.’
I give a weak laugh. ‘And you thought me being here would help?’
‘Well, at least you can be another hand on deck.’
‘Great,’ I say, thinking how useless I’ve been so far.
He gives me a sideways glance. ‘I mean, don’t you think it’s about time you – what is it they say in America? – stepped up to the plate?’
I keep my anger in check. Bill doesn’t know the reason I left, or why I stayed away. I’ll tell him – at some point – but having just heard about Mum, it’s obviously not the right time.
‘I guess it is,’ I say.
He nods, and I’m glad that he seems content to leave it there.
When we reach the cove, there’s no trace whatsoever of my ‘incident’ from the previous day. The sun is peeking out from the clouds and casting an orange sheen on the dark grey water. The sea is much calmer today, almost placid, the waves lapping against the rocks like playful puppies. The two boys run ahead, pushing each other and getting their trainers wet trying to outrun the foaming water at the tideline. Bill joins in the race. I try to take in what he’s said about Mum – actually it explains a lot. But out here, the tension I feel when I’m in the house seems remote and distant. When the race is over and Bill returns, I tell him that for Mum’s sake, I hope we can make some new memories – good ones – now that we’re all here together. I mean it in a positive way, but it doesn’t quite come out as I intend.
‘It must be hard for you being back,’ he says. ‘Reliving everything after so long.’
‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘Pretty much everything reminds me of her.’
‘I’m sure,’ Bill says. ‘I guess my memories of Ginny are a lot different than yours. Mine are mostly good. Like her running down the beach trying to fly.’
Maybe it’s the breeze whipping my hair, or just the cold, but a tear streams from my eyes. ‘My memories are mostly good too,’ I say. ‘Why wouldn’t they be?’
‘I don’t know.’ Bill hesitates. ‘It’s just that you were twins, and sort of… I don’t know… rivals for everything. That’s how it is with Robbie and Jamie. They’re so close, and yet, they’re trying so hard to be individuals. Sometimes, I think they must have duffed each other up in the womb. I’m surprised they both came out.’
‘Do you think I was jealous of her?’ I say. ‘Because I don’t remember that. I mean sure, occasionally. I was jealous when she was the Queen of the Fleet, and I guess I wished I had her voice. But I loved her so much. She was half of who I was. The better half.’
‘I was going to say more the other way around,’ Bill says, after a pause. ‘I think she was jealous of you.’
‘No. I don’t think so…’
I frown. Between what Byron said, and now Bill, I’m beginning to realise that not everyone has the same shiny memories that I do of my sister. Is that because they don’t want to hurt me by reminding me of the good times that can never be again? Or because I’ve chosen to block out the negatives? Perhaps it’s me who’s keeping a shrine to her in my mind, just like Mum has in our room.
Robbie pushes Jamie into the surf
and he falls down. Bill walks quickly down the beach in their direction. Jamie starts to cry; he’s soaking wet. Bill herds them off to practice skipping stones.
I’ll have to tell Bill about the pub gossip and the suspicions that have been growing in Mum’s mind. Maybe he knows already, but if not, it will be good to have him on side so that together we can put her mind at rest. But when eventually the boys get tired and we start walking back, I can’t quite bring myself to do it. Mum’s words continue to echo in my head. People lied about that night. I don’t know anything… not any more. Ugly words that I want to forget, banish them from lurking in the shadows of my mind. Words that aren’t true.
They just can’t be.
21
It’s almost dark by the time we get back. Bill takes the boys to their cottage, and I return to Mum’s house. Everyone is in the kitchen: Mum and Fiona are sitting at the table chopping vegetables, and Emily is flipping through a magazine with her headphones on. I eat a mince pie that’s fresh out of the oven and go up to have a bath. It’s a relief to sink into the warm water, but once again my mind strays: Mum’s book, her suspicions, her stroke. I know Bill said not to upset her – and I agree – but is keeping silent about Ginny the answer? Maybe if we talked about the happy memories, then that would help put her mind at rest. Accept that her daughter’s death was a terrible accident, and move on.
I get out of the bath, dry off, and get dressed. When I’m back in the room, I pace back and forth, determined to use Ginny’s ‘presence’ there to conjure up some good memories. Ginny dancing around the room in her dress before the Queen of the Fleet ceremony. Ginny lying on the floor laughing as two of the barn cat’s calico kittens licked her face. Ginny playing her harp, singing ‘She Moved Through the Fair’ at a fundraiser for a local care home. My shining sister – a happy girl, an extrovert. A girl who never in a million years would have taken her own life.
A tear trickles down my cheek, blindsiding me. Maybe Bill is right after all. Maybe it’s best not to try and remember. Maybe I’m lucky that I’ll never know for sure what happened that night.
When I woke up in hospital after the accident, I had no idea how I’d got there. I’d been in my room… I’d rowed with Ginny. She’d left. Mum had asked me to bring her home. And then, there was nothing. I was scared and in pain. I’d asked for Mum, was told that she’d been to see me and gone home to wait for news. Of my sister. I was given the barest of details. There’d been an incident out at the lighthouse. I was told to expect the worst. That was when I’d felt it. The strange, horrible emptiness; the sensation of a glowing electrical thread inside of me that had been snuffed out. Half of myself… gone.
I remained there under observation for three days, groggy on painkillers. When I was lucid, I wanted to crawl out of my skin. The anguish was unbearable. As was the gaping hole where the memories should have been. The doctors said that I had a concussion and head trauma. A brain injury – another thing I now have in common with Mum. And just like with her and her stroke, the prognosis for my recovery was ‘complicated’. I was told that, most likely, the brain connections that held my memories of that night had ceased to function, the memories snuffed out, just like the part of me that was linked to Ginny. However, it was also possible that under the right stimulus, some or all of the memories might return. Over the years I’ve had occasional ‘flashes’: faces in the firelight, the sickly taste of whiskey and Coke. Something thrown at my face. A flashing light. To me the so-called memory flashes are a jumble and I don’t know if they’re real or not.
I sit down on my bed and close my eyes for a moment listening to the sound of my own breathing. The most powerful ‘flash’ of memory I’ve had of that night isn’t even a memory at all. I imagine that I see my sister out on the rocks. Arms outstretched, her hair lashed by the wind. And with the vision comes an overriding feeling of fear. Because I know I’m going to have to go out and rescue her, pull her to safety. ‘Protect her’ because that’s what Mum asked me to do.
The reality is that I didn’t see Ginny that night out at the lighthouse. The witnesses all said the same thing. I arrived at the party and Ginny wasn’t there. People were coming and going all night long, and when I arrived she’d gone off with James. I’d been annoyed, angry that she wasn’t there. I had a few drinks. I was tired and cold, I wanted to go home. I thought that James could be relied on to take her home. He was her boyfriend, after all.
I left the party. A mile or so down the treacherous single-track road, I hit a huge boulder. The road zigged, I zagged. I woke up, my memories gone.
And Mum… she has no first-hand knowledge of what happened, because she wasn’t there. Maybe to her it makes more sense that Ginny chose her own destiny, rather than having been the victim of a terrible accident. I don’t know. But is not talking about it really the right answer—?
‘Aunt Skye?’
There’s a knock at the door. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Sure,’ I say, grateful for the distraction.
When Emily walks into the room, it’s almost like I’ve gone back in time. To a world where my sister is alive and we both had our lives and dreams ahead of us. I know that it’s not the truth, and in fact, while there is a resemblance between Emily and Ginny, it’s not as strong as I initially thought. Emily is taller and more substantial, built more like a volleyball player than a ballerina. Her jaw is squarer, her eyes set closer together. She has Fiona’s nose. But most of all, her eyes lack that ethereal light.
‘Hi,’ I say. My throat is parched and my voice sounds raspy. ‘You OK?’
‘It’s time for supper.’ Emily glances around her, obviously curious about this room.
She goes over to the Celtic harp in the corner and runs her fingers over the strings. The sound makes me shiver.
‘Is this yours?’ she says.
‘No,’ I say. ‘It was my sister’s. Someone was getting rid of it, and Ginny asked if she could have it. She learned to play a little bit.’
‘What was she like?’ Emily asks. ‘Ginny.’
I don’t answer right away. Whatever I tell her won’t be the whole truth, or even close to it. How do you explain what a person was ‘like’? To me, Ginny was a living, breathing person made of light, shadows, memories and emotions. She may be dead, but she’s with me always. But I feel an obligation to Ginny – and Emily – to find an answer to the question.
‘My sister was unlike anyone else,’ I say. ‘She was funny, and beautiful, and full of energy. She had a very special voice. Everyone loved her – me most of all.’
I hone in on the good memories. ‘When we were kids, we used to snuggle in one bed on the coldest nights. We’d burrow under the covers with a torch smuggled in from Dad’s shed. We’d read, or else just talk for hours. About total rubbish.’ I give a little laugh. ‘What man we were going to marry, how many kids we’d have. What we wanted to be when we grew up. Ginny wanted to be Princess Leia. I wanted to be the lead singer from Abba. The blonde one, not the brunette.’
I swallow hard and turn back. Emily’s picking at her nail polish: purple with silver sparkles. ‘Do you miss her?’ she says.
If Bill knew she was asking me these questions, he’d probably put a stop to it. But Emily is twelve years old. She’s never experienced death and I hope that it’s a long, long time before she does. It’s natural that she’s curious.
‘Of course I do,’ I say. ‘She was my twin.’
‘Yeah,’ Emily says disdainfully. ‘I’m sure it’s a lot harder with a twin.’
I go over to the small window between the beds and stare out at the grey sky above the trees. ‘There’s a book I read once about a captain of a whaling ship,’ I say. ‘He becomes obsessed with hunting down the white whale that bit off his leg.’
‘I don’t think whales eat people’s legs,’ Emily says.
‘This one did. And when the captain lay awake at night, he could feel his leg. A kind of phantom pain. That’s what it’s like to lose a limb.’ I sigh.
‘And a twin.’
Emily frowns. ‘It’s like she’s there but not there?’ she says.
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘It’s as if she might walk into the room at any moment. And if she did, I know that we would hug each other and talk, and probably fight, and get angry. And then make up again. Because that’s what people do who love each other.’ I feel the familiar ache inside. ‘But that’s not going to happen, so I feel pain. Does that make sense?’
‘I guess so,’ she says.
Maybe it does make sense to her on some level. A twelve-year-old girl is less likely to filter her emotions through a grid of orderly thoughts. Stages of grief, and all that. I’ve been through the stages of grief. But I still feel pain.
‘Anyway…’ I force myself to look at her and smile. ‘Let’s talk about something more pleasant. Like supper. I’m starving. Let’s go downstairs.’
‘Yeah, OK.’ She goes back over to the harp, looking at it wistfully.
‘You can have the harp if you want,’ I say. ‘I’ll tune it for you.’
‘Really?’
‘Ask your mum if it’s OK, but it’s fine with me.’
‘Gosh, thanks.’ Emily brushes the strings with her fingers. She glances down at Ginny’s bed where I’ve put my suitcase and Dad’s guitar case.
‘Will you play for us after supper?’ she says, pointing to the guitar. ‘Nan wants to decorate the tree. But the boys can do that.’ She glances at the floor, looking a little shy. ‘Maybe we could sing together.’
‘Sounds good.’ I take out Dad’s guitar and begin tuning it. It’s been almost twenty years since it’s been played, and it is out of tune, but the pegs move easily and the strings all seem sturdy. I strum a few chords, then move on to arpeggios and riffs. The sound is dark and pure and the instrument feels almost warm in my hands. Dad is dead, but his guitar is alive once again. He would have appreciated that.
In the end I do take the guitar with me when Emily and I go downstairs. Dinner is a loud affair, with the boys laughing and squabbling, Bill talking with Mum about the cottages, and Fiona and me talking about the best time of year to go to L.A. Emily sits mostly in silence, pushing the vegetables around on her plate and picking at the salmon. I find her attitude a bit irritating.
My Mother's Silence (ARC) Page 12
