The Day She Came Back

by Amanda Prowse

  Sarah began to cry, loudly. The sound of her sobbing cracked open the party-themed veneer to reveal a dark inner core that was impossible to ignore. It was evident that a few balloons and bubbles were not enough to erase the awkwardness. Victoria felt horrendously ill at ease as Sarah tried to catch her breath and swallowed what sounded like a lump in her throat, and just like that, the jovial atmosphere and all the joy that had bounced from the walls suddenly evaporated. Sarah quickly blew out the candles and put the cake on the table next to a long silver knife, presumably there to make a ceremonial cut. Jens put the glasses down and handed his wife one of the gold napkins meant for cake with which to blot her tears.

  ‘Th-thank you,’ she stammered. ‘Actually, would you just excuse me for a minute?’ She gave a false smile and left the room, closing the bathroom door behind her. Jens sat in the chair next to Victoria, who felt the hot, swarmy feeling of embarrassment wash over her.

  ‘I didn’t mean to make her cry.’ She swiped her eyes. ‘I was just telling the truth. Sarah said we have to be able to say the hard stuff to move forward, that we should be honest.’ She hated her own note of desperation, wanting to make it right.

  ‘I know, I know.’ He held her gaze and she could tell he was not mad, just sad. ‘And the truth is important, honesty is important. But no matter what she says, it’s hard for her too.’

  Victoria looked towards the closed bathroom door and felt at a loss as to what to do or say next. Her response was slow in forming. There was an awkward beat or two of silence, which no canny words of distraction from Jens could halt.

  ‘I have been dreading my birthday,’ she began, rolling the edge of her paper napkin back and forth between her fingers. ‘My first without Prim, and here I am. And all the things I have ever wished for and dreamed of came true . . . but it doesn’t feel like I thought it would. I am feeling every emotion you can imagine. Sarah should be dead! But she’s not. And it’s amazing and weird to be in her house, but there’s a small part of me that doesn’t know how to stop mourning her. Every time I had to say, “My mum died . . . my mum’s dead . . .”, which I have done more times than I can remember, it erased a little bit of my self-confidence and it stole a little bit of my happiness. I wasn’t like the other girls, who ran into their mum’s arms after school. Yes, I had Prim and she was wonderful, and I can see that she only did what she thought was best, but it wasn’t the same – how could it be? It took the shine off any occasion: birthdays, Christmas, parties, any celebration. “Where’s your mum, is she collecting you? Is your mum coming?” And I’d look at the person asking, knowing that what came next would only make them and me feel like rubbish. “No, my mum’s not collecting me, I don’t have a mum. She died . . .” But all that time it was a lie. She wasn’t dead; she was just hiding from me. How do I get past that?’ She wiped her tears on the napkin she was fiddling with.

  Jens too took his time and, when he did speak, his voice was calming. ‘Sarah wasn’t hiding from you. She was waiting for you, waiting for either the right moment or the sad loss of Prim or something, I don’t know . . .’ He bit down on his tucked-in lips. ‘But I do know that she has waited your whole life, never giving up the idea that one day she would get to make you a birthday cake and start over.’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’ I wish it was . . .

  ‘Of course it’s not that simple!’ He took a deep breath and knitted his fingers. ‘It is a delicate situation, I know. And I cannot begin to imagine what you are going through. There is no right or wrong way to do things, no blueprint for this, there is only what works for the two of you. But I can tell you, hand on heart, that Sarah told me about you on the first day I met her. She was working in a coffee shop in Soho and one of the first things she said was, “I am a mum.” Like it was her proudest achievement, and then she cried and the whole story tumbled out, and not a day has gone by that she hasn’t spoken about you in some way, even if it was just to wish you goodnight through the window before she drew the curtains. “The same moon,” she’d say. “We look at the same moon.”’

  Victoria pictured her doing just that and her tears came afresh.

  ‘And I can tell you, Victoria, that despite what you might think or how hurt you might feel, you are still her proudest achievement. And she has a lot to feel proud about: her legal work, of course, which changes lives, and beating her addiction, which is tougher than you can know, but they pale into insignificance when she talks about you.’

  ‘Thank you for saying that. It means a lot.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’ He held her gaze.

  ‘The trouble is, I have spent my whole life coming to terms with the fact that my mother took drugs and died. Despite me being just a tiny baby who really, really needed her. Have you any idea what that did to my self-esteem? I clung to my gran like a little bookish limpet. I never did anything! Scared the world would reject me, the way my mother had. I found it hard to understand how someone could make the decision to leave her three-month-old baby. I believed that she pushed the contents of a toxic syringe into her veins rather than hang around to see me grow up, and it has taken me my whole life to get it straight in my head and now? Pfft!’ She made her fingers into star shapes. ‘I just have to forget all of that and blow out the candles as if nothing is amiss? And the way you talk about her sounds to me like you are talking about a stranger. I don’t know her! And I can’t help it!’ She cursed her sadness, which now slipped down the back of her throat and nose. ‘And now I have ruined the evening. After such a lovely day and all you have done for me, Jens.’

  ‘No, you haven’t.’ He spoke kindly. ‘There is plenty of evening yet. I’ll go and see if she is okay.’ He stood and smoothed the creases from the thighs of his jeans. ‘I know it’s your birthday, but I am going to tell you of my wishes: I wish one day that things might become clearer for you. I wish that one day you might call my wife Mum and not Sarah; I wish that one day you will refer to her as your mother; and I wish that one day, just once, you might acknowledge the name she gave you. A strong name: Victory. The name she gave her daughter. Because I know that this would all mean the world.’

  ‘That’s a lot of wishes,’ she whispered, feeling the weight of pressure.

  The bathroom door opened and in walked Sarah, her eyes red and puffy. She sat down and folded her hands on the tabletop. Jens squeezed her shoulder in solidarity before sitting back down. Victoria hated that she was the cause of this distress.

  She felt the prickle of her own tears, wishing she had never come to Oslo; like Jens, wishing many things . . .

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Jens tried to calm the tense atmosphere. ‘How about we all just—’

  ‘Actually,’ Sarah cut in, ‘I want to talk to Victoria. Do you mind?’ She smiled at her husband.

  ‘Of course not!’ He leaned over and kissed his wife on the forehead.

  ‘Come on,’ Sarah instructed. ‘Let’s go sit on my bed.’

  Victoria left the table and wiped her eyes before walking into Sarah and Jens’s bedroom, which was as sparse as hers, the furniture and walls white, but with a pretty quilted silk counterpane on the bed, the colour of a summer sky, embroidered in a variety of flowers that lifted the whole space.

  ‘This quilt has always reminded me of the lake at home and the planting around the edge.’ She ran her fingers over the irises and reeds that sat in a neat border.

  ‘I can see why.’ Victoria felt sad that this quilt was as close as Sarah had got in all these years to going home and again pictured her by the side of the lake on the day she first saw her.

  ‘Get comfy. I shan’t be a mo.’

  Victoria sat back on the pillows and thought how many times she might have sat on her mum’s bed if she had grown up with her – countless times, after bad dreams, before going out, Christmas morning . . .

  Sarah came back into the room clutching the bundle of letters.

  ‘We need to figure this out, Victoria. We need to go back to the beginning and figure this o
ut, because I tell you now—’ Sarah kicked off her shoes and climbed on to the bed, coming to rest right next to her, both of them now leaning against the headboard with their toes flexing inside their socks. ‘I have waited too long and missed too much of your life to let you walk away. To not smash down the walls. We are going to figure this out, do you hear me?’ Her tone was sharp and yet wavering as distress plucked her vocal cords.

  ‘Yes.’ Victoria kept her voice low, a new sensation taking root in her gut. This woman was not going to give her up, was not going to reject her again; her words echoed, and she had to agree: they had already missed too much . . .

  ‘Right, I am going to be brave.’ Sarah sniffed and opened the bundle. ‘Give me the next letter you were about to read and I’ll read it aloud.’

  Victoria sorted through the stiff paper and handed her the next sheet. Sarah took it into her hands, drew breath and began to read.

  ‘August 2001

  Sarah Jackson

  Henbury House

  West Sussex

  Yes, yes, you are right.

  You are right and I hate that you are.

  I want to use again, I want the pain to go away.

  I want the world to stop.

  I want Marcus back.’

  Sarah stopped reading and took a moment to gather herself, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve before continuing.

  ‘I want to die.

  I am numb.

  I am broken.

  I am lonely, so lonely, and the only person who can take away my loneliness is Marcus.

  How can I be lonely when I have this little baby curled inside me?

  How can I have a baby? How can I give her what she needs when all I seek is oblivion?

  I don’t trust myself and it’s a scary place to be.

  I am with the counsellor 24/7, because if I could score, or if I could hurt myself, I think I would. That’s a lie. I don’t think I would. I know I would. But please don’t be angry, please, please, please, be proud that I have had the courage to admit this and to say it out loud.

  I am a mess, Mum, but it’s not the real me. It’s the hollow me. The broken me. And how I loved him! I loved him. He was my sun, he was all I could see, and I will mourn the loss of him every single day I get to breathe.

  Don’t reply.

  Because there is nothing you can say.

  Nothing. I am clinging on, but I don’t want to, Mum.

  I don’t want to be, and I know, I know that as soon as I can, baby or not . . . I will find a way to end this fucking pain. I am done.

  Sarah’

  Sarah folded the paper and looked at Victoria, barely able to contain her distress.

  ‘I remember the way it felt, so much pain.’ She faltered. ‘It was like the end of the world. Everything was dark, everything was hopeless, like living in a black hole, and I couldn’t see a way out.’

  ‘Shall I read Prim’s reply?’ Victoria asked tentatively, liking the close proximity of Sarah across the mattress and the fact that she was holding her gran’s words in her palm. Sarah nodded.

  ‘August 2001

  Rosebank

  Epsom

  Surrey

  Please, Sarah, I am begging you. I am begging you not to do anything stupid.

  I came to see you when I received your last letter, but they told me you have asked for no visitors and they wouldn’t let me see you! They wouldn’t let me see you, and I begged them and I sobbed and I would have crawled in the dirt, but it made no difference. Why, my love? Why did you not want me near you? Daddy said it was because you knew I would try and talk you out of doing something stupid, because you think I might nag you, and he is right. I would, I would, I would, because I feel like you are hanging on to life by a thread and I would do anything to try and keep you here.

  Please, my darling girl, please do not listen to those negative voices, please don’t hurt yourself again.

  Please don’t harm that unborn girl who has no part in any of this and no say in how her life unfolds.

  I am at a loss. I feel like I am in free fall, thinking about you and fretting over you every single second, and I can only imagine what this must be like for you.

  This is a very hard thing for me to write, but I need to say what is in my head.

  I know I can’t stop you from taking drugs. I know I can’t choose the path you take, not any more. But I beg you, Sarah, think about the life of that little girl growing inside you. What is best for her? I want you both home. I want you both safe, but if that cannot be, then let me take her. Let me give her the start she might be denied if you go back to using drugs. Don’t take her with you on that journey to hell. I beg you.

  I know this is not an easy thing for you to consider, and it’s not something I wanted to write – it is something I wanted to say to your face, had I been able to see you.

  I would love her, and I would tell her all about her wonderful mother. Because you are wonderful, my Sarah. You are. I can hardly see the page for my tears.

  Mum X

  ‘Oh, Prim!’ Victoria found it hard to read. Her gran was fighting for her, fighting hard, and she began to imagine what her life might have been like had Prim not fought so hard; where might she have ended up? Would she have even lived? It made her shudder. ‘It must have been heartbreaking.’ She raised the letter in her hand.

  ‘It is heartbreaking!’ Sarah managed through her tears.

  ‘Knowing these were written at a time when everything was teetering on the brink, the despair – I can feel that.’

  ‘Yes. I can feel it too,’ Sarah agreed. ‘I have always felt it.’

  Sarah raised the next letter in her hand and cleared her throat.

  ‘September 2001

  Sarah Jackson

  Henbury House

  West Sussex

  I have thought it over.

  I guess you are right, and to write these words takes more strength than I knew I had left.

  Take her.’

  She paused and looked at Victoria, who could only replay the two words in her head: take her . . . take her . . .

  ‘It will be easier in the long run for us all. I know where I am heading and I don’t fear it. I am biding my time, but the truth is I don’t even want to fight it, Mum; I can’t. I am sick and the drug is like my medicine. My whole body is crying out for it, and losing Marcus has taken away the last of my strength to say no.

  You are right, the thought of taking her with me on that journey to hell is more than I can stand and yes, I am using again, Mum. I am doing so in a controlled way, but as soon as I leave here that control goes.

  Who knows what’s around the corner?

  None of us, that’s who. None of us.

  Maybe I’ll make it out of the other side, maybe I can come for her then?

  It’s so hard! I don’t expect you to understand, but it is so very hard.

  I am an addict.

  I will always be an addict.

  I will die an addict.

  I will also always be Victory’s mother, no matter how far away I am or how much time passes.

  Victory: that’s what I will call her. A strong name.’

  Again, Sarah broke her reading to gather herself and try to contain her distress. Victoria wondered if she should hold her hand but didn’t have the courage.

  ‘I shall keep the memory of her inside my head and the pulse of her little heart inside my womb, and I shall mark a calendar to enable me to picture her at every stage of her wonderful life, for however long I live.

  Let her be free, Mum. Please, please, let her be free!

  Don’t try to shape her, just let her be.

  And if she is anything like her daddy, she will be perfect, absolutely perfect.

  Sarah’

  Sarah let her head fall to her chest, overwhelmed by her sadness.

  ‘Poor, poor Marcus,’ Victoria whispered. ‘You really, really loved him . . .’

  ‘I really, really did.’ Sarah smiled with her
eyes closed, sitting so close that it felt like a safe space where they could speak freely.

  ‘And Prim did what you asked. She let me be free, she let me be.’ This an acknowledgment of the care she had received.

  Sarah nodded and ran her fingers over the embroidered flowers of the counterpane.

  ‘How did you get through it?’ Victoria asked softly.

  ‘Because I realised I had no choice,’ Sarah offered dryly. ‘Once I had decided to live, I had no choice but to cope.’

  ‘I guess so.’ She thought for the first time of the bravery of the two women, the two generations who had created her. ‘I’m overwhelmed,’ she admitted. ‘It’s like the two voices are either side of a ravine and both are screaming at the other about the best way to get across, but neither is really listening and therefore both are unaware the rock is crumbling beneath their feet until they have no option but to run in opposite directions.’

  ‘I like that.’ Sarah sniffed. ‘Yes. It was exactly like that.’

  Emotionally drained and physically tired, Victoria felt the pull of sleep and closed her eyes briefly.

  She woke in an unfamiliar bed with the embroidered quilt thrown over her. She stretched and looked at the other side of the bed, which was empty. Gently opening the bedroom door, she peered at the sofa, where Jens slept with Sarah in his arms and the mustard-coloured blanket from the arm of the chair covering them.

  Jens, as if aware of her scrutiny, opened his eyes. ‘Hey, morning!’

  Sarah too sat up. ‘How did you sleep?’

  ‘Better than you two, I’d say.’ She took in their dishevelled hair and creased clothes. ‘You should have kicked me out of your bed.’

  ‘I couldn’t bear to. You sank down on the mattress and spread out like a starfish, and you were so cosy.’