The Day She Came Back

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’ He laughed.

  She shook her head and ran her fingers through his greasy curls. ‘No. I’m not trying to get rid of you.’

  Quite the opposite, I don’t want to be alone . . .

  ‘Good.’ Again that kiss, and again she felt her concerns slip from her mind as her body yielded to all the good things this contact promised. To lose herself physically in his embrace was like flicking a switch that dulled her sadness, filling her instead with things she did not associate with grief: lust, happiness and the flood of joy she felt at being desired. It was validation of sorts. Prim had lied to her. Sarah had, to all intents and purposes, abandoned her, but Flynn McNamara wanted her, and he wanted her right now, in the worst state she had ever found herself.

  Warts and all . . .

  Flynn kissed the base of her throat again, and she was lost to him. The feel of his skin against hers, the way he held her . . . it was as close to intoxication as she could get without drinking or smoking one of Flynn’s dodgy cigarettes. Yes, in the midst of the murky waters of grief, this glorious physical experience was not only all-consuming but wonderfully life-affirming. At a time when her world had been mired in death, it felt good to be reminded of something that was so good about being alive!

  Flynn reached down and she heard the snap of his waistband and then, in an instant, he was naked. It was at this point, when things were about to go further than she had planned and far more quickly than she had considered, that she decided to take the plunge. After all, who was going to stop her or advise differently? This thought was fleeting, as what happened next came so naturally.

  She wriggled low on the mattress and watched him in the half-light, knowing she was setting a course from which there could be no return, but she did so willingly, wanting to be wanted. This was how she would show everyone who had lied to her that she was moving on: a new, adult version of the Victoria they had duped, and one who would care less. With her eyes now closed, she felt the weight of him pinning her. It was both thrilling and reassuring, and she placed her lips on his bony, tanned shoulder. The anticipation made her head swim and her heart beat fast. He held her hair, and the two strangers found a rhythm that united them, briefly taking her away from that place of emptiness where her every thought was wrapped in sadness and doubt . . .

  Propped up on her elbow, Victoria now watched Flynn snoring, with his arms above his head. The tea-coloured lace edging of Prim’s pillow framed his young face. She had, of course, discussed sex with Daksha, seen movie sex and read about it a fair bit too, but actual sex had been nothing like it, nothing like it at all. Turning on to her side, she reached out and carefully laid the photo of her youthful grandpa in all his dashing glory face down. She had expected to feel differently, to feel . . . something, hoping at some level that the act might be a bit like shaking off an old skin, leaving her fresh and new and a whole lot more confident, happier. But, in truth, the overriding sensation was one of disappointment with the gnawing gripe of loss still acute in her gut. It wasn’t that she had expected violins, roses, sweet words of sentiment and a moving soundtrack, but she had thought maybe there might be some discussion, a cerebral connection of sorts. Instead, her sex with Flynn was noisy, a bit awkward, slightly painful even. To say it was unpleasant would be a step too far, but there were certainly no fireworks, not even a crappy sparkler, and still the thoughts she’d hoped the act might help erase whirred louder than ever. And now Flynn was in the deepest sleep, snoring, while she stared at the ceiling. No, this had been nothing like movie sex. If movie sex was diving into a deep, warm bubble bath where scented candles flickered on a shelf and a wide, soft towel awaited her when eventually she rose from the depths of the tub, this sex was a quick wipe down with a cold flannel.

  Flynn shifted position and his snores roared. She wondered how sleep could be so instant and consuming when, for her, this big thing that had happened needed to come to rest in her thoughts. So that was it, virginity lost on the same day she had smoked a joint. Quietly, she pulled back the duvet and, retrieving them from the floor, she pulled on her T-shirt and pants, thinking how crazy life could be and how you never knew what might happen when you opened your eyes to greet a new day . . . Instantly, she thought of Sarah and saw her standing at the side of the lake.

  ‘This is going to be hard for you to hear . . .’

  Fuck you, Sarah! Her imagined response.

  Victoria crept to her own room, where she retrieved her laptop and slipped under her covers. She opened the next couple of emails and read two more of the letters.

  March 2001

  Rosebank

  Epsom

  Surrey

  You are pregnant? Sarah! You are truly? I have read and reread your letter so many times I know it by heart. A baby! A baby, Sarah! Daddy and I are beside ourselves! Life’s greatest gift, and one we ourselves had to wait decades to receive. But, oh, the joy when we did! You were and are our whole life – our whole life.

  I cannot stop crying.

  I never, ever imagined in a million years that the day you told me I was going to be a granny it would be via letter from a rehabilitation centre with your life so wildly off track. I have laughed and cried and paced the rooms into the early hours, trying to order my thoughts and feelings.

  Is the baby okay? Are you okay? How does it work, now that you are pregnant? Does your treatment stay the same? I have so many questions. How are you feeling? What do you need? What can we do?

  I am hoping that this baby is the incentive you need to see sense and when this is over, come home . . . please, please, please, I am begging you to come home. Just you and the baby. We can make it work. We can make anything work. We have the space. It will be wonderful. Please, please, please, Sarah, think about it, and think about what will be best in the long run.

  I noticed in your letter you have started going by the name Sarah Jackson. I haven’t told Daddy yet. I think that will hurt him more than I can say. Is it something you have decided to do on the spur of the moment, as some kind of protest, or did you actually get married? I write that with a nervous laugh and a shake to my hand. I pray to God you have not, but in all honesty, Sarah? Nothing would surprise me.

  A baby . . . A baby! It is all my hopes and dreams come true, yet because of the situation you are in, my worst nightmare too.

  What a terrible mess it all is.

  How far pregnant are you, darling?

  I ask again, is there anything you need?

  Anything we can do?

  A baby, Sarah! A little baby . . .

  With love, with all the love in the world.

  Mum x

  Victoria waited a beat before reading Sarah’s response. It didn’t feel good to learn that Prim thought the whole situation was ‘a terrible mess’.

  ‘But you had a plan, didn’t you, Prim? You knew how to fix the mess?’ She spoke into the ether as her teeth ground together.

  April 2001

  Sarah Jackson

  Henbury House

  West Sussex

  I got your letter. Thanks.

  In answer to your questions: yes, I have started using the name Jackson; I am married to him in the truest sense of the word, I feel married to him, so why not?

  And as for your second question: I am four months pregnant.

  I know you won’t want to hear this, but I was nearly clean when I got pregnant and I am clean right now. I am.

  I don’t think you will ever have any concept, Mum, of what a big deal this is.

  It’s not like sticking to a diet or going without for Lent.

  It’s like going against the thing that every cell in your body is screaming for you to do. And I can’t recall how many cells there are in your body, but I do remember it’s a lot.

  Give each cell a loud voice and that is what I hear in my head every single second of every single day.

  It’s deafening.

  It’s a madness.

  But I am trying.


  I am really, really trying.

  Marcus is doing well on methadone and yes, I know you didn’t ask, would never ask. But that’s too bad because, along with fighting this addiction, the only other thing I think about is him.

  I love him. I love him! Like you love Daddy. It really is that simple. You don’t seem to get it, Mum, but if I came home, he would come too – can you imagine if I said now you have to live away from Dad? You’d think I was mad. We are no different. We need and want to be together when I get out of here.

  Actually, there is something else I think about – my baby.

  I have a baby book and look at pictures of how she is developing, yes, she . . . a little girl . . . I saw the scan and they told me it’s a girl.

  Right now, she is about the size of a small orange.

  A miracle.

  The thought of her keeps me strong. She keeps me going through the toughest of times. I picture her wonderful life and all the things I can show her, teach her. I love her already. I do. I think she will be the most amazing thing I have ever done or could ever do.

  Marcus had a supervised visit and he heard her heartbeat. It was . . . it was wonderful. He was so happy and I am so proud of us all.

  We have agreed to give her a strong name, a name that will carry her through the best and worst of times, a name that will define her, a name that she will always know we chose with great care because we love her. We love her as much as we love each other and that is how we will all get through this: with love.

  I guess that’s all for now.

  S

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Jesus, Marcus!’ His voice made her jump. She placed her hand on her chest, lost in the letters; having momentarily forgotten Flynn was there. She was glad he had seen fit to put his underwear on before roaming around the house.

  ‘Who the fuck is Marcus?’ he asked with mock offence.

  Victoria threw her head back and laughed as she sat up straight and closed the laptop.

  ‘No one! Is that what I said? He was my . . . my friend’s boyfriend. Old boyfriend. He’s dead,’ she babbled.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ He looked more than a little nonplussed, his eyes half closed, as if adjusting to being awake. ‘Why are you crying?’

  ‘Oh!’ She touched her fingertips to her cheeks. ‘I didn’t realise I was.’

  ‘Are you feeling upset about . . . about what just happened? That was so not the plan; it’s supposed to make you feel good.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘I wouldn’t ever want to be the reason you cried.’ His words were as sweet as they were reassuring and carried the faint echo of promise.

  ‘It did make me happy, Flynn. But my head’s a mess. Like, a proper mess. I just . . . I can’t . . . I don’t . . . I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I know that it’s a lot and sometimes it’s more than I can cope with.’ She shook her head, aware that she didn’t know Flynn well enough to put into words all the reasons that her life was spiralling out of control. It was in this moment that she realised the boy she had given her virginity to was someone she barely knew. Not that there was a darn thing she could to about that. A sob built in her chest.

  ‘S’okay,’ he mumbled. ‘You can cry, Victoria, just let it out.’

  She was grateful that he simply sunk down on the mattress, extended his arm across her pillow and patted the space, which she then filled, lying on her side with her head resting on his shoulder. And this was how they slept, comfortably.

  EIGHT

  The atmosphere in Rosebank the next morning could best be described as charged. Victoria could not deny that to lie with Flynn in a double bed, lost in the moment, had been a glorious awakening. And yet in the cold light of day, the sight of his head on her pillow, his body taking up a lot of mattress space, had been enough to evoke something close to irritation. It was only the second morning that he had been here, but looking at him right then she felt as if he’d been there for an age. It felt intense, too intense, and she wanted a chance to gather her thoughts and ponder the letters without interruption.

  ‘Flynn!’ she had shouted, jumping from the bed. ‘You have to get up! I’ve got stuff to do!’

  ‘What stuff?’ he had asked, one eye closed, his head half lifted from the pillow and with the faint outline of dried drool on his chin.

  ‘Just stuff!’ She wanted nothing more than to take a long, hot bath, alone. He chuckled and laid his head back on the pillow, as if what she wanted was of no consequence.

  ‘Stuff can wait. It’d be a shame to waste the morning.’ He reached for her, taking her by the hand. ‘Come back to bed, just for a little while.’

  The sight of his beautifully formed, semi-naked body was enough to melt her resolve. His skin and the novelty of sexual contact was a magnet. With the pull of her arm, she felt her body slide back on to the mattress. After some intoxicating, hypnotic kissing, the rush of blood to her head and the feel of his hands on her skin – her body overruled her decision to get up and start the day. The question for her was: would sex be any better the second time around? Maybe it was like anything else, only going to improve with practice?

  And she supposed it was a little better, but still a whole world away from fireworks.

  Flynn showered as she loped around the kitchen, pouring the last of the orange juice into two glasses and rattling the empty carton before lobbing it on the floor next to the bin and filling the kettle with water. She did her best to ignore the rubbish that had accumulated in such a short space of time: egg boxes, empty plastic milk bottles and biscuit wrappers, not to mention the sink piled high with used tea-stained cups, dirty coffee mugs and plates with crumbs and indeterminate smears clinging to their edges.

  Flynn filed into the kitchen eventually, his hair flopping over one eye and his lids heavy, but dressed and with his backpack in his hand, seemingly ready to go. The sight of him preparing to leave made her stomach flip with dread. Instantly she regretted her earlier thoughts of wanting to be alone.

  ‘What time is it?’ He propped his head on his hand on the table and looked like he might nod off again.

  ‘Latish. More brunchtime than breakfast.’

  ‘Cheers!’ He raised a glass of orange juice in her direction, and it made her laugh. She liked the way he did and said things. She liked him.

  ‘So, Victoria, are we, like . . .’

  ‘Are we what?’ She spoke over her shoulder as she peered into the empty bread bin, as if staring long and hard enough might make some bread appear. She wanted to feed Tommy, and herself.

  ‘Are we good . . . after last night and this morning?’ he asked, with an uncharacteristic hint of nerves, a slight tremor to his voice and a leg that jumped, his foot beating time on the kitchen floor.

  She put the lid back on the bread bin before taking up her place opposite him at the table. ‘Do we talk about it? I am a bit out of practice at this whole . . .’ She struggled to find the appropriate word – relationship thing? No, God no. Hook-up? Yuck!

  He took another sip. ‘It was your first time, right?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And I guess a bit weird because we only really started hanging out, like, a few days ago.’

  ‘Mm, I guess.’ Two days ago, to be precise. She nodded, a little embarrassed by her seemingly rash actions and yet more than a little thrilled by them too.

  ‘I just wanted to check that we’re cool?’

  ‘Am I not going to see you again?’ His words sounded like a coded goodbye and the thought shocked her. Not only did she want more of him, but the thought of him disappearing now sent a quiver of regret along her spine. Was he too going to abandon her, reject her?

  ‘What?’ He laughed. ‘Of course you’re going to see me again! Like, today and every day till I leave for Newcastle.’

  She felt her shoulders relax, thankful for this.

  ‘Good.’ She made the tea. ‘I like spending time with you, Flynn. It means a lot to me right now, when everything feels a bit
. . .’ She looked up, again trying to find the word. Her grief had done this, left large holes in her vocabulary and her thought process.

  ‘A bit shit?’ he offered.

  ‘Yes.’ That’ll do. ‘A bit shit. And, I mean, I know that we’re not . . . I understand that . . .’ What exactly are you trying to say?

  ‘It’s okay.’ He jumped in. ‘I get it, and I’m not offended if you don’t think we have any future. I get that we’re casual, if that’s what you’re worried about. I mean, that makes sense, with me heading off to uni.’ His tone was soft and conciliatory.

  ‘Well, no.’ She paused, trying to think how best to explain her mindset, that, and how he had no right to be offended or unoffended; it was her body, her life and her decision to make.

  The two now locked eyes over the tabletop, sipping at their orange juice.

  ‘It should have been a big deal for me.’ She swallowed. ‘I always thought it would be, but at the end of the day, it’s just sex, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think so.’ He nodded, as if listening to an unheard beat. ‘Just sex.’

  It was her turn to nod. ‘I really like you, Flynn, always have, really.’ She swallowed.

  ‘I really like you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She smiled a little shyly, in part at his admission, but also at the rather pedestrian exchange. ‘I guess what I’m trying to say is, I have a lot going on right now. My head really is a mess.’

  ‘Of course it is. Your nan just died.’

  ‘Yes, and I have some other stuff going on.’ She paused; did she want to tell him about Sarah? In truth, she knew she would welcome someone to talk to about it in the absence of Daksha.

  ‘What other stuff?’ He slurped noisily.

  ‘It’s about my mum.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he cut in. ‘You don’t have to tell me. I know she died too; everyone knows it. I’m guessing it was the drug thing you mentioned? We used to talk about it a bit in school, how it must have been rough for you, having to live with your nan.’