My Second Life (17 page)

“You haven't been over in a while,” she said.

“I know, I'm sorry…” I'd totally messed up. I used to be around Grillie's all the time. We'd play Scrabble and eat chocolate biscuits. But that was before.

“You don't need to say sorry. Life changes, you're growing up
—
I understand,” she said. “But what I don't understand is why you go and see Frances Wells.”

“Frances?” I said. It was completely obvious I was playing for time. I swallowed. The noise of it was loud in my ears.

“You know who I mean,” she said. “Frances Wells. The woman from the hospital. We played bridge on the weekend. She's joining our club.”

I nodded.

“Sounds like she sees you more than I do these days,” Grillie said.

The doorbell went. Jamie. I didn't know what to say, but I couldn't go and get the door until I gave Grillie some kind of an answer.

“It's complicated,” I said.

It was all I could think to say.

“Can I give you some advice?” Grillie said. “Sometimes it doesn't have to be. Sometimes we make it more complicated than it needs to be.” And she put her hand over my hand and patted it, where it sat on the arm of the sofa, and she smiled. “You know I'll always love you, Ana
—
no matter what you do.”

I looked at her face
—
it was full of love and kind gentleness. I was glad that she had come. It was comforting to have seen her.

The doorbell went again.

“You'd better get that,” she said. “Don't want to keep whoever it is waiting.”

*   *   *

Rachel invited Jamie to stay for dinner, and he stayed.

And we actually had a great dinner. I'm not sure why I was so surprised that we did. I mean, whatever I thought about Rachel, when it came down to it she was a pretty cool parent, and I think lately I'd forgotten that.

Grillie told us why she didn't like pizza, why she wouldn't eat it under any circumstances. She believed too much dough wasn't good for a person. That it filled you up, made you bloated. She said it had made her stomach so bloated once she thought she'd actually lift off the ground and fly away. And she talked about how the recipe for the salmon cutlets had been passed down from mother to daughter all the way through five generations, and how no one made those cutlets like her own mother.

“The pressure's on then!” Jamie said, smiling at me and Rachel, and Grillie squealed and clapped her hands with joy.

“I like this boy!” she said, slapping him on the back. “I like him!” And I was pleased.

By the end of the meal Grillie had a captivated audience in Jamie, and she didn't show any signs of letting up. Jamie didn't seem in the least bit bored. He was enjoying himself, I could see that. So was I, but I was desperate to take him away from Grillie and pull him into my room, so we could be on our own. I kept trying to give him a sign, but short of actually dragging him away from the table I wasn't sure what I could do. And my eyes were becoming heavy with the need for sleep now.

Grillie was on a complete roll with the story of how she and Grandad Bob got together. I'd never got to meet Grandad Bob, but I'd heard so much I felt like I had. Grillie loved telling stories about him
—
always in the exact same way, laughing in the exact same places
—
and I loved them too, but all I wanted to do was be with Jamie.

Rachel spoke. “Come on, Mum. Let's make some coffee.”

“I'm enjoying myself!” said Grillie, like a petulant child. “Don't stop me enjoying myself!” And she laughed conspiratorially with Jamie, who at last stood up and showed signs that he was ready to make a move from the table.

“Ana, do you want to watch a DVD? You could watch it in your room,” Rachel said, clearing the table.

“Yes, yes,” I said. I couldn't hide the astonishment from my face; Rachel had actually orchestrated this getaway for me.

She walked over and handed me a DVD.

“I was young and in love myself once upon a time, you know…,” she whispered so Jamie couldn't hear, and then she walked back toward the kitchen, swiping a tea towel off the table as she went.

“Grillie is great,” Jamie said, flopping back on my bed and kicking his shoes off. I had my back to him as I loaded the DVD into the player.

“She is,” I said, “but I thought we'd never get out of there!” And I turned around and sat down next to him, close, and I kissed him. I'd waited all evening to kiss him like that again, and it felt strong, different. “I missed you,” I said.

“But I haven't been anywhere,” said Jamie, smiling.

“I know,” I said, “but still, I missed you.”

 

sunday

33

I
MUST HAVE SLEPT
that night. I'd gone to bed after Jamie left and I must have slept because I remember waking up.

I'd woken and stayed in bed staring at the ceiling, watching the clock turn through the hours
—
1 a.m., 2 a.m., 3 a.m.
—
and then it was 7 a.m., so I must have slept some more. And I woke then because my heart was racing and I was wet through. The sheets were cold underneath me, my pajamas damp. I ran my hand across my chest and wiped off hundreds of tiny beads of sweat.

“I saw you!” she said. “I saw you!”

Panic gripped me, as it had then. Frances. She'd seen me. I'd been seen. I felt sick with them knowing what I did.

I swallowed.

And still, I didn't remember.

Why didn't I remember?

I needed her to tell me. To say it. Because not remembering, and feeling this way, not sleeping this way, the guilt and the shame, it was like some parasite was eating me from the inside out.

Today was Sunday.

I would go and see Frances.

And I would ask her to tell me what she'd seen.

I'd ask her to tell me it all.

Because she had seen.

She must have seen it all.

*   *   *

I banged on Frances's door.

There was no answer.

I waited a few moments, and I knocked again.

Nothing.

I walked into the front garden and I looked through the windows into the sitting room. There were things out on the coffee table
—
signs of life; she was home. I decided I would wait.

I turned back and walked to the front door and stood in the porch.

I had stood in the porch the night Catherine died. My feet so wet and muddy from the river, my throat so taut and dry it hurt. The police were standing at Frances's gate by the front wall, and I was meant to have gone inside the house. Mum was coming. The police were going to ask us both some questions. They wanted me in the house, away from all the chaos outside. That's what one of them said. “Can we take her in here, just until my colleagues arrive? She can go home with the mother for questioning after that.” I'd stood in the porch looking for Mum, willing her to come, and suddenly Frances was there. She was towering over me in the doorway
—
shouting at me
—

“I saw you! I saw you!”

I could see Mum in the street now, talking, crying, arguing with Dad. He went to stroke her arm and she pushed him away. I wanted to call for my mum, but I couldn't. Because Frances was standing over me, blocking me from sight, boxing me in toward the front door. I wanted to get away, to get to my mum, but I couldn't, and all the time Frances was saying over and over
—

“She's dead! She's dead! She's gone! Because of you! How could you? We trusted you, and she's gone.”

And then a policewoman came and started to talk to Frances. She took her away from me and into the hall. I was relieved. But Frances was still shouting, and I made myself block out her words, her anger. I just kept looking for Mum … until I was shoved … Frances came past me in the porch and walked quickly, urgently, out of the house, through the front garden and into the street toward Mum and Dad.

I felt a tightening in my chest. Air was slowly seeping out of me like a deflating balloon. I gasped and gasped … I tried to catch my breath … I willed for it to come through my panic and then I heard a sound, behind me
—

“Ana?”

I turned toward the voice.

It was the same voice.

Frances.

I was present again.

She was standing at the front door.

I pulled in a breath. My body pulsed with the need for it, the satisfaction of gaining it.

“Come in,” Frances said, and she beckoned me into the house.

I took myself into the sitting room and sat down. My legs were shaking.

“What is it, Ana?” Frances said. “You're shaking.”

“I need you to tell me,” I said.

“Tell you what?”

“What I did. How it happened. How I killed her.”

Frances didn't speak.

Suddenly I knew I couldn't do this without Mum. I had to have my mum.

“Have they agreed to come here, Mum and Dad?” I said. “I want to be here when they come.”

“You need to be, Ana,” Frances said. “I'm glad that you see that now.”

I didn't speak.

“You know I'm not doing any of this for you, Ana,” she said. “This has never been about you. I'm doing this for Catherine. Only Catherine.”

Hearing Catherine's name in that moment hit me like a physical blow. I could feel my heart racing again, and my body began to twitch involuntarily.

“You came to me
—
you wanted to know about Catherine,” Frances went on. “You wanted to talk. I said I would talk to you
—
but that is all
—
that is all I will ever do for you
—
”

“I know I killed her!” I screamed. “But why don't I remember what I did?”

“You didn't remember the house you were born in, Ana. You needed to come to me. That's why you are here.” Frances was so calm.

“No!” I said. “I'm here because I saw you … at the hospital … and when I saw you … the memories … they came back to me … more of them … I mean, I'd always known I was Emma
—
that I had been Emma … always. I'm used to it now
—
or I was
—
until I saw you two weeks ago and I started to remember things I'd never remembered before, and feel things I'd never felt before. Dreadful things. Things that keep me awake at night because I feel so bad about what I've done. You will never know, Frances, how bad I feel
—
and I wish I could explain it, so you'd know. But I can't … words can never be enough … or say enough … and I can't pull out my feelings and show them to you
—
to prove what I say is true
—
that I'm sorry … I'm so sorry for what I did. Please
—
just tell me what happened
—
so I can remember what I did
—
so I can know the truth
—
there is no one else
—
I have no one else I can ask
—
”

“Ah, the truth!” Frances said. “That can be an elusive thing, don't you think?”

“No!” I said. “No!” But I was no longer sure what I was saying back to her, or what she was saying to me. Her words were slow and jumbled; it felt as if I was slipping slowly into sleep. I leaned forward to try to listen
—
harder, better.

“I would say that what you remember, and what you feel, are two very different things, aren't they, Ana?”

“What?”

“You say you don't remember what you did, but you know how bad you felt when you did it
—
because you know what you did
—
you know.”

“I don't remember!” I said.

“I never got to speak to you after that day
—
the day she died. They didn't let me see you,” Frances said.

“If I did it, if I pushed her, if I dragged her in there, why don't I remember?” I said, and as I said the words I could feel my pulse speeding up, pounding in my neck, my wrists, my groin, at every pressure point, like a drum roll gaining speed; my head began to throb. I needed to stand up again. I wanted to stand up.

I walked toward the fireplace.

I held on to the mantelpiece.

Dad's mug was still there from yesterday; his half-drunk cup of tea sat with a thin film across the top of it, the milk cloudy where it had soured and a dirty ring clinging to the inside of the mug.

I couldn't take my eyes off it.

Frances hadn't touched it. She hadn't moved it. She had left his mug in the place where he had last been.

I closed my eyes.

And I saw Mum coming toward me.

I was sitting in the corner at the party, just as she'd left me. “I've been back to Frances's and I've seen Dad. I've told him you're here, with me,” she said, and her voice wavered as she spoke.

And I saw Dad and Frances again, on the stairs.

Dad kissing Frances.

“Where is Catherine, Emma? Do you know where Catherine is?” Mum said.

I shook my head.

“Because she's not at Frances's. Dad says you two were playing together, out on the Green. Is that right?”

I nodded.

“So where is she, Emma? It's very important that you tell me. It's dark outside. She's only six. We need to find her.”

I nodded again.

“Will you show me where you were playing?”

I nodded, and I bit my lip and I tasted blood but I sucked it away so Mum wouldn't see.

And she took my hand and she walked me out of the house and into the darkness on the Green and I was scared. Because now they would know. They would all know what I had done.

I opened my eyes.

I looked up at Frances and again at the mug on the mantelpiece. Dad's mug.