My Second Life (6 page)

“I was sick. I'm fine now,” I said. I didn't feel fine now, but I couldn't tell her that. I had to pretend.

“Sick because you ditched school and you thought I'd find out, or actually sick?”

“I was sick, yesterday … you know that
—
” I could hardly get a word in among hers.

“The school said you left before lunch. That you went to the bathroom and never came back to class.”

“I forgot to sign out. I just needed to
—
”

“And today? Why wouldn't you just tell me if you were sick? Where have you been today? What's going on?”

“Look … it's nothing. I'm okay
—
”

“What if something had happened to you? No one knew where you were!”

“I'm sorry,” I said, fixing my eyes on the table. “I'm sorry, okay?” I didn't say it like I meant it, but I did say it. And when she didn't come straight back at me, I looked up. Her eyes were red and wet and she was squeezing a paper napkin from the table into the palm of her hand. It was screwed up into a tight ball. She was trying not to cry. She was mad with me. She was right to be mad with me. And there was something in her anger and distress that was familiar
—
too familiar
—
and I knew that I didn't want to make her feel like this.

I reached over and grabbed her hand. “I've been stupid. I'm sorry.”

She took her hand back and straightened out the napkin, smoothing it flat on the table between us. She sighed before she spoke again.

“Grillie called last night,” she said.

“How is she?” I asked, relieved at the change of subject.

“She's fine, but she wanted me to talk to you because she's had a call from someone called Frances Wells.”

I picked up my tea and nodded. I tried to hide behind the mug. I could feel myself getting hotter, my face turning red.

“Apparently you went to see this Frances Wells? At the hospital?”

“Yes,” I said. “I did.”

“Can I ask why you did that?”

I went to open my mouth, but I didn't know what to say.

“This woman said to Grillie that your visit rather upset her.”

“So, Frances
—
she talked to Grillie?” I said.

“Yes. They'd swapped numbers at the hospital, so they could play bridge.”

“I didn't realize
—
”

“What?”

“That they were in touch.”

“Does it matter, Ana?”

I didn't want Grillie talking to Frances. I didn't want Grillie to know about me. I didn't want Rachel to know anything. They couldn't know. Panic started to course through me, fast, like rapids over rocks.

“Why did you visit her in hospital, Ana? What's going on?”

I couldn't think of anything to say.

“What did you say to her, Ana?”

“I saw her
—
when I went to visit Grillie,” I said. “And she seemed lonely and
—
I don't know
—
Grillie said she didn't have any visitors
—
”

“You went and asked her about her dead daughter?” Rachel said.

My ears started to make a rushing sound, like I was going to faint. I looked at the table and held on to it, to steady myself. I was hot, all over. I thought I might break into a sweat, and the rushing was still rising in my ears.

“I didn't mean to upset her,” I whispered. “I'm sorry I did that. Really. I am.”

“What's going on with you at the moment, Ana? Walking out of school, visiting people you don't know, old women who've had enough upset in their lives without you quizzing them about it all. I just don't get it. It worries me, Ana. What's going on?”

Rachel's face was so close to me now, her whole body leaned forward toward me across the table like she was begging me for an answer, and her words kept coming, questioning me, asking me for answers. But I had none. Her eyes were so small with the worry and the tears, but I couldn't answer her
—
I had no answers.

“You wouldn't understand!” I said. I didn't mean to say it quite like I did, or so loud, and I pushed back my chair so that I could leave. It fell back and hit the floor with an almighty smack. The room went quiet.

I stood there for a moment, just looking at Rachel.

And then I walked out, and as I walked up the street the air began to cool my face, and all I could think about was how Rachel didn't know anything about me. She thought she did, but she didn't. She didn't know anything at all. Not one single little thing.

 

9

I
WENT INTO SCHOOL
after I left the crêperie, but only because I had to. I didn't know whether Rachel would back me up with a sick note or whether she'd let me face the school sanctions, but either way I knew I just had to go in.

As I crossed the courtyard to go to registration I felt a hand on my book bag, pulling me back. I turned around to see who it was.

“Hey, Ana!” It was Jamie.

I couldn't stop myself smiling when I saw him. How did just seeing him make me do that? I felt instantly better.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I was going to ask if you're around this weekend. Zak's parents are away. He's having a gathering…”

“A gathering?”

“Yeah
—
he doesn't want to call it a party, otherwise word will get around.”

“Okay.”

“So I'll call you and maybe we can go
—
you and me
—
to Zak's. Or do something.”

The thought of Jamie kissing me flittered through my mind quickly, like a bird caught in flight on the wind. I was lifted warmly with the idea of it.

“Ana?” he said.

I opened my mouth to speak, but I didn't get the words out quick enough.

“Well, just think about it, yeah?” Jamie said to fill the pause, and suddenly he looked embarrassed, awkward. I knew it was a big thing that he'd asked, and I'd messed up. I'd totally messed up.

He walked away, taking out his phone and his tangled mass of headphones, leaving me standing in the courtyard alone as everyone else walked by to head in for registration. I watched him go among the crowd until he disappeared completely out of sight, and I wondered then whether the feeling I had in that moment of his going
—
the push and pull of it: the joy of his asking and the despair that I'd messed up
—
was something like the beginning of love.

*   *   *

I made it through the afternoon, but only just. All I wanted to do was sleep. To get back into my bed and curl up like I'd done the night before. To shut out the world. I didn't take my eyes off the clock the whole way through history, and when the bell went for the end of the day all I felt was relief.

I stood up, stuffed my books in my bag, and headed out. I didn't want to go home yet. I couldn't. I'd have to face Rachel, and apologize for the way I'd spoken to her in the crêperie. I knew I owed her an explanation, but I didn't know what I would say. So I just kept walking. I wasn't sure exactly where I was going, I just had to get away from school, from home, from Jamie. I didn't want to see him now either. I'd messed everything up. I'd have to text him and find a way to make it okay again. The thing was I really wanted to go to Zak's gathering on Saturday, but I wasn't sure that Rachel would let me after today. I couldn't ask her until I'd made things better with her. I had to make things better. And then I'd tell Jamie I could go with him to the party. I kept walking. I'd walked in the direction of The Avenue. I hadn't made any big decision to come. I just knew I wanted to see it again, to see if something else came to me. And of course no one would be looking for me here. No one.

I turned onto The Avenue and crossed the road in front of the houses and walked onto the Green. I sat down on the tree roots of the old oak and took a sip from my water bottle. I knew I'd tripped over these roots before. I remembered a deep graze on my knee like a burn that wouldn't bleed. It wept yellow liquid before it eventually turned red and scabbed over, leaving a scar.

Instinctively I reached down and rubbed my knee with my hands, for comfort. I had no scar. Because that had been Emma's scar. I am Ana now, I said to myself. I am Ana.

I looked up at the house again
—
42. I remembered it so well. But what use was this? What use was it coming here
—
seeing and remembering this house?

I began to feel sick. I shook my head and stretched my arms up above it so I could take a bigger breath, make the sickness go away.

I could hear ducks, stroller wheels, the sniff and snuffle of the odd dog padding around the trees behind me. The river. The noise of the path too. Runners. Cyclists. It was busy. I didn't remember these sounds before. It had felt like Catherine and I were the only ones there, on the Green, that evening. My memories were all silent. Except for me, and what I said:

“We're going to the river, Catherine. We'll play hide-and-seek by the river.”

Those words just wouldn't go away.

“If you don't play I'll tell on you. You have to come or that's what I'll do.”

I'd said that because I had to make her come. It was the only way to make her come.

And then I saw it. An ambulance. It was driving slowly along The Avenue right in front of me. I looked around to reassure myself that I was still here, where I thought I was, that this was actually happening, that it wasn't some new and crooked memory. I took another sip of water and swallowed hard. Yes, I was still here. The water was cold as it slipped down my throat.

The ambulance doors swung open and the ramp hit the road. The noise shot a jolt through my bones that made me judder, and I folded my arms around myself instinctively for protection. There she was. Frances Wells. Old, but strong. She was being pushed in a wheelchair down the ambulance ramp and along the street. She was holding her front-door key in her hand and her bag sat high on her lap. I couldn't move. I was transfixed. This was an almost-regal parade
—
Frances shrouded in a red blanket, the ambulance men processing beside her
—
and as I watched them, I walked across the Green, toward number 42, my feet utterly in time with theirs.

I stopped.

I waited so I could watch them go inside. But they didn't.

They kept on walking.

Farther up the street, beyond 42 … I started to run back toward the trees on the Green, away from the houses, like a wild animal shunned. I looked back. Where were they going? She lived at 42. Frances Wells, 42 The Avenue. It had always been that way … hadn't it? That's what I had in my head after I saw her, 42 The Avenue. I had been so sure.

And then I saw it
—
the wall
—
as they walked up the pathway of 38 The Avenue. Rough brown stones. Blocks with symmetrical holes cut out of each brick, each hole shaped like a petal, each brick as rough and ugly as the next. I'd crouched down behind this wall. I'd hidden here. I'd traced the pebble dash with my fingers and I'd grazed my knuckles while I'd waited. But what was I waiting for? Catherine was at the river. It was too late for her to find me now. I knew that. I knew she'd never find me now. Because I'd left her at the river.

 

10

I
WENT HOME, WASHED,
changed my clothes. I must have checked my phone at least ten times, hoping for a message from Jamie. I owed him a call or a text, but still, I hoped that there might be something from him. There was nothing.

I went downstairs.

“You look better,” Rachel said as I walked into the kitchen.

“Yeah
—
I feel it,” I said, putting down my phone. I wasn't sure if we were okay now. We hadn't talked since lunchtime. Really, I owed her an apology. But when we'd had rows before Rachel usually let them drift, pretended like nothing had happened. It suited me now to do that too.

“Do you want this crepe then?” Rachel said, pointing at a doggy bag on the table.

“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.” And I opened up the bag, lifted the crepe out of its box and started eating. I was relieved. It seemed like things were okay.

“Is it good?” she said.

I nodded. But it wasn't. It was cold and it was sticking to the back of my throat. I felt sick. But I had to keep up the act. And I still needed to ask her about a letter for school explaining my absence. And Zak's party.

I forced myself to take another bite.

“So where were you, Ana? Where did you go when you skipped school? You know I have to ask. You can't just walk out like you did. And you know that.”

I gagged.

Rachel saw me. “Ana!”

I stood up, walked over to the sink, and spat the contents of my mouth into it.

“What are you doing?”

“I can't eat it,” I said. “I thought I was going to be sick.”

“Sit down. Have some water.”

I sat back down at the table, and Rachel brought the water over and sat next to me. I took a couple of sips and neither of us spoke for a minute or two.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“Of course.”

“Have I ever mentioned the name … Catherine … before?”

Saying her name, out loud like that, to Rachel, it felt somehow wrong. Like I was giving away my biggest secret, but I had to ask.

“You had an imaginary friend for a bit. I think you were about four or five at the time. She was called Catherine.”

“Catherine?” I said. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I don't know where you got the name from. Maybe a book, or TV. There weren't any Catherines around at the time.”