My Second Life (18 page)

“You still love him,” I said. “You still love Dad.”

“I was only nineteen years old when I married Al,” she said, looking straight ahead of her, her gaze fixed on a point out the window. “Our fathers worked together. He lived three streets away. It wasn't an arranged marriage, as such
—
not like you'd understand an arranged marriage today
—
but it felt like one.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I said. I didn't move. I traced the patterns over and over on the carpet and I counted in my head as I did it, to try to keep myself focused, to try to keep myself in the room.

“When Catherine was born, everything changed for me. I loved her. And everything was better in the world. When you know what it is to love a person, unconditionally, that's how it makes you feel, don't you think?”

I nodded.

I knew that was how Rachel felt about me.

“You see, I loved Catherine, and I loved Richard,” she said. “I never loved Al, not really. Perhaps that's why we never had a child.”

I felt a sickness building up inside me.

I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. Instead I counted. I kept counting, in my head, waiting for the tears to come. But they wouldn't. And I couldn't swallow and I couldn't breathe. I was drowning in a pool of saltwater sorrow
—
it was filling my neck, my throat, and cracking as it crystallized in my ears.

“When I saw Catherine's body after she'd been pulled out of the water,” Frances said, “I saw a darkness like I had never known before. This is what it feels like to be blind, I thought, but to have known the gift of sight. You see, it pressed against my eyes, and there was nothing but black, black, black … blackest black.” Her voice was rising now, growing louder with every word. “After you experience that, life is forever torn. My love for Catherine was swallowed by loss long ago,” she said. “But Richard
—
he could still remind me of what it was to love. And in him, there will always be something of Catherine.”

I held on to the mantelpiece and my eyes began to go again. I was weak.

I could feel my feet so wet from the river. My shoes caked in thick black mud. I wanted to stamp my feet and make the mud fall off. I wanted to get it off me. But I couldn't. It was stuck.

Mum was coming toward the house now. It was so dark, but it was her. I could see by her walk, her outline. She had left Dad behind her in the street and she was walking toward me. At last.

“Mum!” I screamed out to her, and the policewoman put one hand on my shoulder, to stop me from going to her, and Frances was almost at Mum now in the street.

“Emma!” shouted Mum, and Frances tried to grab Mum's arm, to try and stop her, to talk to her, and Mum pulled her arm away. “Get off me!” Mum screamed. “Don't touch me!” And she kept walking toward me.

And I knew then that Mum knew. She knew what I knew
—
about Dad and Frances. And I ran. Because I didn't want to talk to her about what I'd seen or what I'd done. I couldn't. So I ran. I pulled myself away from the policewoman and I ran into the house and into the sitting room, and the policewoman let me go in, she didn't follow, because that was where I was meant to be: in the house, with Mum.

I had to hide. I had to find a place in the house where no one could find me. I ran into the sitting room. I could hear Dad outside shouting for Mum, and for Frances, and they were all coming now, following me into the house. They were all coming for me. I stood in front of the fireplace, unsure which way to go. I'd done something so bad, so very bad, and all I wanted to do was hide but I couldn't move. The voices outside were getting nearer: Mum, Frances, Dad, the police
—

“Get out!”
Frances shouted as she walked into the room.

Mum stood looking at me.

“Both of you! Get out of my house! Just get out!”
Frances was screaming now. I could hear Dad's footsteps as he came through the front door. He was calling for Mum. He'd be here, in the room, any second.

I was sobbing now.

I could hardly breathe.

“Emma, come here,” Mum said, reaching her hand out toward me. “Come to me.”

“Get her out, Amanda!” said Frances. “Get her out! Now!”

Dad was in the doorway.

He stood still.

“Richard! Do something!” screamed Frances, turning to Dad. “Take Emma! Get her out! I don't want to see her! I can't look at her!”

“I didn't mean to do it,” I sobbed. “I didn't mean to
—
”

“Amanda, you should take her,” Dad said, looking at Mum. He was slow, calm.

“And leave you here? With Frances?” Mum said.

“I need him here, Amanda,” Frances said. “He needs to be here with me tonight.”

I shook my head to stop myself from passing out, and I opened my eyes.

The memory was so strong it was moving me, physically; I felt sick, and I was shaking. I didn't want to feel this way. I tried to bring myself back into the moment. Had I momentarily fallen out of consciousness? I couldn't tell. I was shaking. I couldn't stop myself shaking. It felt like there was nothing to grasp on to anymore.

I looked at Frances's face
—
her old, worn face.

“What are you saying, Frances?” I said. “I don't understand what you are saying. What do you mean, in him there will always be something of Catherine?”

I could hear Mum screaming now. “We need him, Frances!”

That night
—
the memory
—
with me again.

“Look at her! At Emma! Look at her, Richard!” Mum said. “She doesn't know what's going on! She's just a child. She doesn't understand. She's scared. I'm scared. Richard, you need to be with us. With me and with Emma
—
with us.”

I remember I gagged.

I gagged again
—
now.

“What I'm saying, Ana,” Frances said, “is that Catherine was our child
—
mine and Richard's. She was your sister. I told you, the night that she died. You needed to know. You had a right to know. She was your sister.”

I fell to the floor.

I felt my legs go, and I opened my mouth to cry out, but I knew I was going to hit the floor and there was nothing I could do about it.

I heard the hollow thud of my head hitting the iron grate in the fireplace, and a strike of pain shot through me like an electric current.

The last thing I saw was the fire stand flying into the center of the room; the poker and bellows and the shovel, midair, making a cacophony of sound as they went. And Frances. Immobile. Watching me fall.

 

34

I
AM FLOATING.
I am sitting on a shard of ice and I am floating on an endless sea. The sea is like a glass pool. It reflects only the whiteness all around, and it cannot be cracked or broken. There is stillness everywhere. I am cold and wet. My skin, my clothes, all of me aches with the cold. And the sun is bright, but I can feel no heat. There is just white light. And now … now there is the sound of breathing. Behind me. It's gentle at first. It brings me warmth … a heavy warmth. And it closes in on me … I need that warmth, but I know it's not good.

It's my polar bear.

I know it is.

He's back.

And I don't want to turn around because he will be close, closer than I want him to be, and I don't know whether he is my friend anymore.

Maybe if I don't turn around to face him, he'll leave. But he doesn't leave, and I know, from the shape of his shadow, that he is on his hind legs, getting ready to take me … Still I can feel the warmth of his breath. I look up. So I can see him one last time. And it is him. And as he leans his face down toward me I think about how I knew it was him. How I knew him. How I knew his breath, and now, his long body and his strong open jaw as he comes toward me. And I know what he will do to me and I am glad. Because when he takes me I will be dispersed, and in that there may be more than just some momentary peace. In that there may be a forever peace.

 

35

I
CAME TO EXACTLY
where I had landed when I fell. Frances was still in her chair. I could feel a dampness on my face. I reached up. There was a wet flannel on my forehead. Pain was throbbing above my ear. I moved my hand from the flannel to my head
—
my hair was warm and wet and sticky. Blood. I pulled my legs up toward me and used them to steady myself into a sitting position. Frances was now gazing out the window.

“Please,” I said. I started to cry. “It hurts…” I wanted her to help me. For someone to help me. So I could stand up. So I could go.

“I'm sure it does,” she said, sitting utterly still.

“I need to go,” I said, trying to push myself up so I could get to my feet. My head was pounding out a bass beat in my ears and my legs were shaking, but I was determined to get my bag and get out of the house.

“I'd ask someone to look at that, if I were you,” Frances said.

“Yes,” I said, still crying.

She followed me to the front door.

“I will see you tomorrow morning,” she said. “Amanda and Richard are coming at ten.”

“I have school,” I said.

“I'm sure you can miss one day. It's important. You said you wanted to come.”

I turned and left.

I walked up the front path and reached into my bag for my phone and called Rachel.

“Rachel,” I said, “I
—
I'm hurt. I need you.”

“Where are you, Ana?” Rachel said. “Where are you?”

“I'm on my way
—
to A&E, West Middlesex,” I said, and I hung up because the pain in my head was so strong, and I didn't know how to explain. I couldn't think how to explain, and I just knew that Rachel would come, that she would be there, when I got to the hospital. I just knew that she would come.

 

36

W
E SAT IN THE
hard plastic chairs in A&E, waiting to be seen for what felt like several days. Around us was an assortment of injured and maimed people, and I couldn't stop myself looking at everyone. At their pain. There was so much pain. And yet Rachel seemed indifferent to it all. She only cared about me.

“So tell me again how you did this, Ana,” Rachel said.

I told her that I'd fallen down the stairs at the station on my way back from Richmond. That I'd gone shopping with Hannah but then she'd headed off to meet Zak. I told her that it didn't hurt that much at first, when I fell, and I hadn't realized it was bleeding until I started to make my way home.

“How did you fall?”

“I just lost my footing. Tripped. I told you. One of those stupid things. It's nothing.”

She lifted the hair again over my ear to take another look. She made a slight hissing noise through her teeth.

“Is it bad?” I said.

“It doesn't look that good,” she said, “but you'll live.”

“I'll live,” I said back to her, and as I said it I looked at her, my eyes reflected in hers. “That's good, isn't it?” I said, and I felt like I might cry, but I bit my lip instead.

Rachel smiled, and stroked the back of my head with her hand, smoothing my hair into my neck. And I let her. It felt comforting, warm. I was lulled by it. “Yes, Ana. That's good,” she said.

Sleep was almost there, within my reach. I went to go toward it. I was ready to give in.

“I love you so much, Ana,” Rachel whispered, kissing the top of my head. “I just want everything to be okay.”

“I know,” I said, and as I slipped further toward unconsciousness I saw Frances Wells standing outside her front door. She was screaming, crying, and Dad was trying to get her to go inside the house. Her navy dress was wet and dark where she had held Catherine's limp body against her own. There were grass and leaves from the river covering her shoes, stuck to her legs. And Dad
—
he had stayed with her. He'd watched as I'd been led away from the house by the police, with Mum, and he had stayed, with Frances.

“… I'll try harder,” Rachel was saying, “… if that's what it takes…,” and her voice melted into the pictures in my head, and I didn't know what she was saying. I'd lost all sense of conversation, all sense of time.

“Don't try anything, Rachel,” I said back, only conscious of the words after I'd said them.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean
—
I mean
—
you should just be you
—
and I'll try and be me…”

“Ana?”

“… and well
—
let's see
—
what happens now…”

“What do you mean?” she said.

“It's not always so simple,” I said. “You don't know the whole story, the whole messy messiness of me…” For a split second I felt myself fall into sleep and then Rachel turned and lifted my head off her shoulder and cradled my face in her hands and I was awake again.

“Tell me
—
what you mean
—
when you say that,” she demanded. “What aren't you telling me? Just tell me what's going on, Ana. Please. If it's drugs or something, I need to know. You need to tell me. So I can help you. I won't be cross
—
just tell me
—
what is it?”

“I can't say it. It's complicated…” And as I said it I thought of Grillie and I burst out laughing, and as I laughed tears poured out of my eyes like a gutter channeling the rains after a storm, and I thought it would never stop.

“Sit up,” Rachel said. “Properly.”

I looked at her. She looked like she was going to cry.

“You're not well. Really, you're not well … How do you feel?” she asked, touching my forehead again. “I think you're concussed. I'm going to talk to them, find out how much longer it's likely to be.”