My Second Life (14 page)

“So what do you know
—
about Emma?” Mum said. “I'd like to know.”

“I remember the curtains in my bedroom. They were white with green flowers. And the walls, they had matching wallpaper, the same pattern, but green on white. I remember tracing the gaps between the flowers with my fingers when I lay awake at night.”

“Go on,” she said.

“I remember that Dad let me collect up the grass into a bucket after he'd mowed the lawn. I remember you used to talk to the car. You used to ask it to start, when it was cold and it wouldn't go. You'd say, ‘Please, please start. We love you, car,' and when it didn't start we'd sit for a minute or two before trying again. When it eventually started, we'd cheer! I remember a shop, full of clothes. I don't know where that was. I remember a hall … I didn't like it there. It had one yellow wall with framed pictures all over it, set really close together. Maybe someone's house…?”

Mum nodded like she knew the place, but I could see she was holding so much emotion in her throat that she couldn't speak.

“I remember loads more, but mostly, I remember you,” I said. “Just being with you.”

She blew her nose on a pale blue hanky with a pink rose embroidered in the corner of it. I thought about how I'd played with all her scarves and handkerchiefs
—
ones just like this
—
when I was little and I used to go through her drawers.

“Why do you think you remember these things?” she said. Her eyes were fixed on me now.

“I don't know. Being Emma
—
it's just always been there. It's what I've always known. But recently, I've had new memories. It's been more painful, more difficult.”

“Difficult?” she said.

“Catherine.”

“What about Catherine?” she said, lowering her eyes. She looked different, suddenly. Angry even, like someone who'd been provoked.

“Catherine's death,” I said, “and what happened…”

“What happened that night, the consequences of that night, it was all…”

“What?”

“Heartbreaking,” she said.

“For Frances,” I said, nodding.

“Yes, of course. For Frances. For all of us.”

“I wish
—
”

“There's no use in wishing now,” Mum said, her voice dry and taut, like it might crack and split with the pain. “I used to tell you that
—
then. All the time. Wishing will change nothing.” And although her face was full of blackness for a few seconds, it didn't matter. It didn't matter at all, because I knew then, when she spoke to me, that she believed me. She was talking to me as Emma. She knew I was her Emma.

I searched her face for what to say next. I was desperate to say so much but I didn't know where to start. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could say anything she had stood up and walked out of the café.

I followed her out.

She was waiting for me.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I needed some air.”

I put my arms around her. It was all I could think to do. I pressed myself against her chest and held on to her like I would never let her go, and I smelled her smell and the warmth of her, and I found our imprint
—
the one that had always been there, since I was born and bundled
—
the one that made us fit.

After a moment or two I could feel her body start to shake. She was weak, weaker than she was before. Her chest rose and fell as she took a breath, and then she closed herself back into me, her arms wrapped around my shoulders and we stood, enveloped in each other
—
strangers
—
family
—
apart
—
yet connected.

“There's so much to say, but I'm not sure I can say it,” she said, pulling back from me, holding on to both my hands with hers.

“I need to know how she died,” I said. “Catherine. I just need to know.”

Mum dropped my hands. “I don't want to talk about that. That was the worst night of all our lives. It was the beginning of the end of everything good. Surely you must know that? If you are Emma you would know that better than anyone.”

She took a step back from me. “Tell me,” I whispered. “Please.”

“This is too much,” she said, “for one day.” And she motioned with her hands that she was going to leave, to say goodbye, and I could see she was about to break down.

“Please
—
don't go,” I said. “I didn't mean to
—
”

“No!” she said. “I can't do this. I've only just met you. I don't know anything about you.”

“Yes, you do! Don't you see?”

“See what?”

“That I'm here, that I'm Emma, that I'm feeling the things that Emma felt, that I have these memories
—
her memories
—
that I need to know about that night, about Catherine.”

“What I see,” she said, “is a young, vibrant girl, Ana. In the here and now. Yes, I hear you speak of things only Emma can know, and I'll admit that's strange
—
extraordinary
—
almost wonderful. But … Catherine. I just can't … I'm sorry.”

“But if I hadn't seen Frances
—
”

“Ah, Frances!” she said. “Frances put you up to this. I should have known … As if we all haven't suffered enough.”

“No! No one put me up to this. I saw Frances. In the hospital. By chance. It was by chance
—
and I asked her
—
for your address
—
I wanted to see you!”

“I have known Frances for a very long time,” Mum said. “And if there is one thing I am certain of, it is that she will never let what happened that night be laid to rest. Never.”

“And what about Dad?” I said. “Has he laid it to rest?”

I hadn't meant to say it
—
Dad.

It just came out.

Mum flinched when I said it.

“We have too many unanswered questions of our own,” she said. “Can't you see that?”

“I thought you'd understand,” I said, so softly now.

She took a step toward me. “I can see something of Emma in you,” she said. “I can.” And she reached out and stroked some hair across my forehead where it had fallen in front of my eyes. “I don't know what it is, but it's there.”

“I love you…,” I said.

“I loved you,” she said back. “So much, my Emma.”

A car beeped its horn, and she looked over her shoulder. “I've got to go,” she said, and she walked toward a large silver car that was pulling up alongside us. As she opened the door, she spoke. “I'll be in touch. I'll definitely be in touch. Goodbye, Ana,” she said.

I watched her get into the car, and I didn't take my eyes off her for a second. I saw her turn and say something to the driver as she put on her seat belt. I crouched down lower. The driver was wearing a pale brown coat. I could see his hands on the steering wheel, set in place, sturdy, strong, ready to go. And then he glanced over at Mum, and so, too, at me.

It was my dad.

And he didn't even want to say hello.

 

friday

26

I
HAD A NIGHTMARE.

About me
—
facing a polar bear. It's white in the dream. Everywhere is white. The bear is white and I'm in a white world. It's hard to see. It's bright and the light burns my eyes. But I can see the bear. Wherever I am, I can see it. And it terrifies me that I can see it. It terrifies me that I know it will attack. It terrifies me that there is only white space all around me, and nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, no one to help me in this white wilderness.

I think to myself, in the dream, This is my worst nightmare
—
to be here
—
with a bear. And in the dream I'm saying out loud to myself, “This is my worst nightmare
—
to be here
—
with a bear!”

And the polar bear is padding his way toward me, low and heavy. His swagger is strong. And even in the brightness I can see he is coming for me, and then
—
just as if someone has flicked a switch in my head
—
I decide not to be afraid. I decide to face it; to face the bear. I think to myself, I'll face it and see what happens. The worst that can happen is that I'll wake up.

And so I go toward the bear and the bear comes toward me and he stands on his two back legs and opens his wide mouth. I can see deep inside his red throat, and I can see all of his brown teeth.

He is preparing to kill me.

He is going to savage me.

I know this.

And I go up close to him, really close, and I lift my arm to his face, and I place my hand in his open mouth, and I turn my head away and I wait for the pain.

And I feel nothing.

No pain. No fear. Nothing.

And I look at the bear, and the bear looks at me, and I bring my arm back to my side, and the bear lowers himself down onto all fours and then he sits.

I sit down too. I mirror him.

And we sit like this for I don't know how long. And we look at each other. And now me and the bear are friends. True friends. I know this as much as I know everything else that I know.

And I am calm.

And now I wonder.

I wonder whether this is what it will feel like when I come to die.

 

27

“A
RE YOU OKAY IN
there?” Rachel's voice was on the other side of the door. I looked at the clock. It was 2:34 a.m.

“Yeah,” I said.

Rachel didn't respond. I heard a creak on the landing, and I waited to see what she would do. I heard her go downstairs. A light went on; the kettle began to rumble. I looked at my clock again. It was 2:41 a.m.

I lay there for about half an hour, and whatever I did, however I shifted, I just couldn't go back to sleep. The images of my dream were still vivid in my mind and they were there, with me, every time I closed my eyes; the brightness, the feeling of terror as the bear raised itself up. When I thought about it I felt dread and fear, right at the core of me.

I'd died before. When I was Emma. I would have to die again.

3:12 a.m. Rachel was still downstairs. I couldn't stay alone in bed any longer, so I went down.

“Hi,” she said. “Do you want some warm milk?”

We used to have warm milk like this if I woke in the night, when I was little.

“With sugar?”

“Yep, with sugar,” she said, smiling.

I sat down in the warmth of her seat while she got up and prepared the milk. It felt nice. Safe. She had always been a good mum. A really good mum.

“Bad dream again?” she said.

I nodded.

“How's the headache?”

“Better,” I said.

“Good.”

Rachel was moving around the kitchen now, opening and closing the fridge, taking the mugs off the shelf. “I couldn't sleep either,” she said. “Too much in my head.”

“Do you think about David much?” I said after a moment.

“Not really. Why?”

“Because you talked about him the other day. You haven't mentioned him in ages. I was thinking…”

“Is that what's keeping you awake at night?” she said, turning to look at me for a moment.

I shook my head.

“Do you think he'd ever come and find me, though? Do you think he'd ever want to meet me?”

There was a pause. “Hard to say,” she said.

“Are you still in touch with him?”

“No,” she said quickly, and when she did she looked at me, a glance, and I saw it. Guilt. I'd recognize it anywhere.

“Did he ever come and see me?” I asked. “When I was born?”

“What's that?” she said, as she poured the milk into the cup and stirred in the sugar. I knew she'd heard me. She was playing for time.

“I haven't ever met him
—
have I?” I asked again.

“He came once. When you were tiny. You wouldn't remember.”

“When?”

“I don't know. You must have been six or seven weeks old. Does it matter? You were too young to remember.”

“And what happened?”

“Well, he came. He saw you. He brought you Brownie, and he left.”

“Brownie came from him?” Brownie was my soft dog, my comfort, the thing that had come everywhere with me when I was a toddler.

“Yes,” she said, still stirring, her back toward me.

“Rachel!” I said. “You never told me…!” I was angry, but I didn't know what to do with the anger, so I laughed as I said it. I couldn't believe she hadn't told me.

“What does it matter where Brownie came from?” Rachel said, passing me the warm mug.

“Didn't you think I'd want to know? David is my dad!”

“Well, you just asked, and I told you, didn't I? You've never asked before.”

“Because I didn't think to ask!” I said. “Sometimes I don't know the right questions to ask, Rachel!” And as I said it I thought about my conversations with Frances, and the conversation I'd tried to have with Mum. I still didn't know how to ask about the things I needed to know. “There are some things you just have to be told!” I said.

“That's true, Ana,” Rachel said. “If I knew the right questions to ask, then maybe I'd know what's going on with you. Because I know something's not right. I'm worried and I don't know what to do.”

I imagined what I might say to her:

“I'm not your daughter, not completely.”

“You don't feel like my real mum.”

“You don't know who I am at all.”

It was cruel
—
all of it. It would ruin her, to hear me say it. I couldn't say it. I couldn't say anything.