Her Perfect Lies

by Lana Newton

  ‘You are in shock. That’s understandable. I can recommend a doctor. A psychologist.’ Kelly sounded like she was reciting a poem she knew by heart. How many times a week did she deliver the same speech to different families, Claire wondered.

  ‘I’m not in shock. What you’ve found … It’s not my mother.’ She thought of her mother’s upbeat voice on the phone, of excitement of only a moment ago. ‘It must be some mistake. I just spoke to her. She said she was coming home. She’s going to be here next week.’

  The visitors were watching her in silence. Paul squeezed her shoulder. ‘My wife has been through a lot. Her memory is affected. Sometimes she gets confused.’

  ‘I’m not confused,’ cried Claire but by the look on their faces she knew they were not taking her seriously.

  ‘Did Angela have any enemies? Did anyone hate her enough to …’ PC Stanley stammered, glanced at Claire, shaking in Paul’s arms, at Tony, crying on his bed, and stopped talking.

  ‘She was the sweetest person in the world. Who could hate her? Who would do this?’ Tony sounded like a wounded animal, barely able to produce croaky sounds through his constricted throat.

  ‘It could be a stranger. An intruder. There was no sign of forced entry in the house but maybe she opened the door to someone.’

  ‘You found her in the house?’ asked Claire, her heart in her throat, thinking of her recent trip to her parents’ place when she had peered through the curtains, trying to catch a glimpse of what was inside.

  ‘My Angela, my love. My beautiful angel,’ cried Tony.

  ‘We need someone to identify the body,’ PC Kamenski said uncertainly.

  ‘I can do it,’ said Paul. Claire watched him carefully for any sign of emotion but his face remained expressionless.

  ‘No, it should be me,’ said Tony. ‘I’m her husband.’ He broke down again, collapsing on the pillows.

  ‘I want to be there too,’ said Claire.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ exclaimed Paul and Tony together.

  ‘I know it’s not her,’ said Claire. ‘It can’t be her.’

  But no one was listening to her. When the police officers finally left and it was just Claire and Tony in the room, he took her hand and lay still and silent, his eyes unfocused.

  ‘Dad, it’s not her. It can’t be her. I just spoke to her,’ said Claire, squeezing his fingers hard to make sure he was listening.

  He didn’t seem to hear her. ‘I remember the day we met. It was the happiest day of my life.’ As if in a trance, Tony kept talking. When he met Angela, he was reversing in his truck without looking. He was in a rush and distracted, as always running late, and suddenly he heard a soft whimper. Did he just hit someone? Someone’s pet perhaps? Shaking, he jumped out of the truck and came face to face with a young girl, small like a bird, with the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. Her eyes like saucers, she was standing in the middle of the road. Dressed in a yellow dress, her hair in pigtails, she made him think of sunflower fields and bright summer days. She looked about 15. Thankfully, he hadn’t run her over but he had come close and she was scared. He felt like the most despicable human being. Suddenly he wanted to take her in his arms and cover her breathtaking face with kisses. And never ever hurt her again.

  When he dropped her off at her parents’ place, he didn’t want to say goodbye. He wanted to take her out for dinner, to make up for what had happened, wanted to hold her and make her smile. She reminded him of his mother – delicate, blonde, blue eyes wide and vulnerable.

  She’d never reproached him for almost running her over. In all the years they’d been married, she’d never reproached him for anything. She loved him just like his mother had loved him – unconditionally.

  They started dating and Tony treated his girl like a queen. He couldn’t afford expensive presents but he gave her all his time, which was enough for her. Before they had Claire, while still in the spring of their love, Angela and Tony took up ballroom dancing. They weren’t particularly good at it. Nor were they serious about it. But it was something they had enjoyed, something they had shared as a couple. Every Friday evening they would head to the local church hall dressed in their dancing best. Tony could still see her, he said to Claire, twirling in front of him, laughing and giddy, her skirt like a parachute around her small hips, her hair wild and eyes happy. He loved the feel of her in his arms, the way she fit in his embrace, like she was meant just for him, like he was meant just for her. They learnt the foxtrot and waltz and the elaborate tango. The samba was designed to torture him as he tried hard not to step on her feet, but what a sensual dance it was! It was the happiest time of his life. If only he had known it then, he would have cherished every moment, every embrace and every smile.

  Faster and faster Tony spoke, like he was struggling with a particularly challenging tongue twister, eager to share his happiest moments with Claire. His face was pale, his lips trembling. He would have looked unemotional if it wasn’t for the tears streaming down his cheeks. These silent tears affected Claire more than sobbing and lamenting would have done. There was a raw desperation in them, a quiet despair.

  She could swear she had forgotten how to breathe as she listened to her father. Perched on the edge of his bed, she was quiet like a mouse, too afraid to move in case he stopped talking. Wiping her own tears away, she reached for his hand and squeezed hard, letting him know she was there for him.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad. The woman the police have found … it’s not her. I know that for a fact.’

  ‘They said she was stabbed. That she let someone into the house and this person stabbed her …’ His voice broke. ‘And now she’s gone. My poor love. My darling Angela. How scared she must have been. If only I’d been there. It’s all my fault. I should have been there.’

  ‘Dad, listen to me.’

  Gently Claire shook his hand until he looked at her. He fell quiet, and for a moment she didn’t speak. She held him like she would hold an innocent child she loved more than anything in the world, rocking him and herself, lulling them both away from the fear, towards the light. But he saw no light, she knew it by the way his face was twisted in pain. ‘It can’t possibly be her,’ said Claire emphatically, trying to convince herself as much as him.

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t understand what’s happening. But I just spoke to Mum. She’s coming home. She already booked her ticket.’

  ‘She did?’ He blinked, his eyes glistening.

  ‘She’ll be here next week.’

  ‘She called you? When?’

  ‘A moment ago. Aunt Judy is better. Mum is on her way.’

  ‘Thank God,’ whispered Tony. ‘It’s a miracle. It’s a God’s miracle.’ He cried in her arms, his lips moving in silent prayer. ‘I will do anything. Anything at all to hold her in my arms again. I don’t care if I never walk again, as long as she’s with us.’

  ‘This time next week, she will be.’

  Claire thought of her mother and felt for her, trying to imagine her as a young girl, carefree and in love. In her mind, she saw her twirling in her yellow summer dress with flowers in her hair, her arms around the man she loved. How beautiful she was and how alive. Soon they would be reunited and this nightmare would be behind them.

  * * *

  When Tony and Paul were whisked away in a police car to view the body, Claire sat by the window, waiting for them to return, hoping for good news but fearing the bad. Who was this woman found stabbed at her parents’ house? A friend, perhaps, or a relative. Someone who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Claire felt terrible for her and her loved ones. The crime in London was out of control. No one was safe anymore. But she wasn’t going to think about it now. All she could think about was Angela.

  Her mother was alive. It wasn’t her the police had found at the house and that was all that mattered. When she was back, Claire would find all the answers she so desperately searched for. All the jigsaw puzzle pieces of her life would finally fal
l into place. And who knew, maybe seeing Angela was exactly what she needed to start healing. The doctor said it would take a powerful trigger to unlock her hidden memories. What could be more powerful than finally seeing the woman who gave birth to her?

  Claire couldn’t wait to lay her eyes on Angela. In her mind she constructed conversations and experiences the two of them would share, meals they would have together, shops and museums they would visit. She couldn’t wait.

  And then she saw the car pull up. Paul helped her father out and into his wheelchair. Claire tried to read the expression on their faces but couldn’t quite see. She ran downstairs and flung the door open.

  ‘How did it …’ she started saying and stopped. The look on her father’s face shocked her into silence.

  Tony was slumped in his wheelchair, lifeless and glum. Only his lips were moving. ‘It’s her. It’s her,’ he repeated again and again like an incantation. Paul stood behind him, looking years older with his shoulders stooped and his eyes dark.

  Claire would never forget her father’s face as he whispered to himself like a man possessed. She would never forget how the light fell on his withered frame, how his fingers trembled. But if someone asked her how she had spent the next twenty-four hours, she wouldn’t be able to say. She waded through darkness, without aim and without hope. She walked from room to room … looking for what? She didn’t know. She sat with her father, who couldn’t talk or sleep or eat. She knew how he felt. She couldn’t do any of those things either. All she could do was hold him and weep.

  ‘He’s in shock. The police told us it happened on the same day as the accident. Your father blames himself for not being there when it happened. For not being there to protect her,’ said Paul, administering a strong sedative. Finally, Tony slept.

  ‘Can I have some of that?’ asked Claire. She wanted not to feel, not to think, not to long for the impossible.

  ‘She’s gone,’ cried Tony when he woke up. ‘She’s gone.’

  How was it that she couldn’t live without someone she couldn’t even remember? And yet, Claire felt like all the sunshine in her life was forever gone. Only the clouds remained. She would never know Angela. She would never meet her, hold her in her arms, touch her forehead with her lips. Never, what a cruel word it was. What an unforgiving, unfathomable word.

  Through waves of grief, Claire wondered who had been calling her all this time pretending to be her mother if Angela was gone. Was it someone’s idea of a sick joke? Or was it her imagination, giving her what she wanted? Did she imagine her phone ringing, her mother’s soothing voice talking to her? Was it nothing but a hallucination, her mind playing tricks on her?

  Hurting and afraid, Claire didn’t want to be alone. She could no longer talk to Tony, who didn’t seem to notice anything around him and spent his days staring into space. Two days after the terrible news, Gaby came to see Claire, bringing a single white rose. ‘White, for hope,’ she said.

  ‘Hope for what?’ muttered Claire but took the rose and placed it next to her bed, so it would be the first thing she saw in the morning and the last thing at night.

  The good friend that she was, in the days that followed Gaby sat through countless reruns of Gone With the Wind, holding Claire’s hand as she sobbed. Then one day, a week after – that was how her life was divided now, before and after she thought she had a mother – Gaby was busy and Claire found herself alone. She hid in a small study at the back of the house, photos of her mother in her lap. But she couldn’t look at Angela’s face. Every glimpse was like a knife in her heart. So she watched as a pale sliver of light illuminated the wall and the grey flowers came to life, forever in bloom on the old wallpaper that was frayed and torn in places. This room was at odds with the rest of the house and looked out of date and old-fashioned. Loose strips of wallpaper drooped from the ceiling like spooky Halloween decorations. Seventy-eight flowers from left to right, and forty-seven from top to bottom, Claire counted.

  Hours passed, the sun faded, and still Claire played loves-me-loves-me-not with the ghost paper garden on the wall, when she realised her phone was ringing. The overseas number she knew by heart appeared on the screen.

  ‘Hello,’ said Claire in a voice she didn’t recognise.

  ‘Darling Claire, it’s Mum.’

  Claire threw the phone down so hard, it bounced off the floor and landed in the corner. Petrified, she stared at it. ‘Claire, are you there? I can’t hear you.’ And that was when Claire screamed. Her screams drowned out the soft voice coming from her phone. But when she paused to take a breath, she could still hear it. ‘Darling, is everything okay?’

  Groaning, Claire covered the phone with a cushion and when that wasn’t enough and the phone continued talking, she picked it up and hurled it hard out the window. The sound of the broken glass was like an explosion in the room, so loud, Claire thought her head was going to explode. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, bent over as if in great pain, and howled.

  Nina rushed into the room, followed by Paul. Their voices were piercing, invading her senses like thoughtless knives. Somewhere on the other side of the house her father was calling out in alarm. All she wanted was silence but they wouldn’t give it to her. She wanted peace but they grabbed her hands and shook her. She fought against them. As hard as she could she struggled but she wasn’t strong enough. Together, they managed to lift her and carry her to bed. Through her screams she heard snippets of conversation. ‘A strong sedative … A psychotic episode … Needs rest.’

  Then she felt an injection, like a bee sting in her arm. Finally, everything went quiet.

  Chapter 11

  Claire didn’t know how long she had spent in a heavily sedated mist. It could have been an hour or a week or a month. Day after miserable day she felt herself falling into a dreamless hole from which there was no escape. And then one night, her nightmare was back, hovering over her like a terrifying ghost. The minute she closed her eyes, the dream was there, ready to pounce. She didn’t feel safe anymore, not under her blankets, not at night, not during the day. She was pursued, hunted, under siege. In her dream, she would see herself running away from an unknown danger, her heart thumping. Then a sudden fall, crashing through the air, branches hitting her face. She would wake up abruptly, gasping for air. When she was awake, she would scream. A piercing scream of hopelessness, stifled by a pillow.

  When she felt strong enough to walk, Claire forced herself to get dressed and made her way downstairs. Nina was there, not so much cleaning as guarding the front door, judging by the speed with which she blocked Claire’s way. ‘You can’t leave, Miss Claire.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘Mr Paul say you are too weak. You have psychotic episode. You stay in bed.’

  ‘Mr Paul is not my jailer, Nina. He can’t keep me here against my will.’

  ‘He tell me not to let you out of sight.’

  ‘That’s fine. You can come with me if you like. But I’m not staying here.’

  Claire stepped outside into the world that went on as before, as if nothing had happened, as if life hadn’t been turned upside down once and for all. The cars still moved past and the traffic lights changed. Just like always. As if her mother getting killed wasn’t enough to alter the universe like it had altered Claire’s whole existence.

  As she walked down the deserted street, she looked at the cobalt of the skies and tried to make sense of her life. There wasn’t a soul around because a storm was coming. The gale began, the dust twirling in a desperate tango, the first drops of rain appeared, and suddenly Claire felt a little better. It wasn’t just her – the skies themselves were about to open up in floods of tears. A dark cloud hung over London and over Claire as she walked hunched over in the rain. It was appropriate, really – as if the whole world was mourning Angela. There was nothing but the noise of the wind and the noise of thoughts rustling through her head.

  Under the beating rain she ran, exposed and defenceless. She wished she had remembered to tak
e an umbrella. With Nina in pursuit, Claire walked into Matilda’s practice and rang the bell. When there was no answer, she rang again and again, finally hurling the bell to the floor and shouting, ‘Please, help! Is anybody here? I need help!’

  Matilda appeared, wide-eyed. ‘Claire! Is everything okay?’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Do we have an appointment today?’

  ‘It’s an emergency.’

  ‘I am with another patient right now. Would you mind waiting?’

  ‘No, please. You don’t understand …’

  There must have been something wild in her face because Matilda nodded and said, ‘Give me a minute. Please, take a seat.’

  When she was gone, Claire didn’t take a seat but paced like a caged lion, back and forth and back again around the spacious waiting room, past Nina, who was relaxing with a magazine in her hands. Claire wanted to scream. She wanted to grab Nina’s magazine and tear it to pieces. How long had it been? According to the clock above her head, only a few minutes but that was impossible. The clock was lying like everyone in her life was lying.

  Finally, Matilda emerged and motioned for her to come in. Nina got up, ready to follow. ‘Please, excuse us,’ said Matilda to Nina. ‘This is a therapist’s office. Only patients past this point.’

  By Nina’s face Claire could see she was about to argue but Matilda’s voice didn’t allow for arguments. Claire felt relieved and grateful to the therapist. The last thing she needed was Paul’s spy in the room with her when she bared her heart and soul.

  In the comforting familiarity of Matilda’s room, Claire collapsed into a chair. She clasped her hands to stop them from shaking but it didn’t help. All of her was shaking, not just her hands. Silent tears ran down her face.

  It took a while for her to compose herself enough to speak. In that time, Matilda handed her a tissue, made a cup of tea and held her hand.

  ‘I can’t,’ repeated Claire. ‘I can’t! I don’t know what to do. I can’t do this anymore.’