My Second Life (9 page)

Frances's words were fast. My brain was scrambling them, trying to hold them all together, to make sense of them, to understand.

And suddenly I could see Mum screaming. I could see her pretty face filled with red rage and she was screaming over and over
—
“How did this happen! How?” Dad was there too
—
standing, motionless
—
and they were looking at me. They were both looking at me with a mixture of pity and pain in their eyes. “How could you have done this? How could you?” Mum had screamed.

“Richard was a good man,” Frances said.

My dad. She was talking about my dad.

“And Mum?” I asked.

I wanted to know about my mum.

“Good enough,” Frances said. Her words were long and slow.

“I wish they were here, now.”

The words just came out of me, and I felt the lump in my throat again as I said them
—
a bundle of tears all wrapped up, holding tight to one another, so as not to spill.

“You mean Amanda and Richard?”

“Yes,” I said. “I miss them.” And as I said it my eyes filled with the tears, the bundle unraveling down my cheeks as I spoke. “I miss them so much.”

“But you came back to me, Ana. Not to them. You came to me!” said Frances.

“It's just
—
I mean … Do you know where they are?” I tried to wipe the tears from my face, to stop them coming. “Do you know where they live?”

I saw Frances's lips tighten. Her whole mouth had tightened around the jaw. “I have an address,” she said. “When they moved from here they moved out of London. To Berkshire. I have no idea whether they are still there.”

“Can I have the address?” I asked, and as I did I could hear myself. I sounded like a spoiled, ungrateful child, angling for all the sweets in the jar. But I didn't care, not if it meant I might get to see them both again, my mum and my dad. But especially my mum. In that moment I would have done anything anyone asked of me if it meant I could see Mum again. If I could see Mum and she could make it all better. “Or if you don't want to give it to me,” I said, and I grabbed a pen and an old receipt from my bag and started scribbling, “this is my mobile number and my address. You could give it to them?”

“You can have their address, Ana. If I can find it. It's in an old address book somewhere,” she said. “I'll look for it. Another day.” And she stood up awkwardly to take the receipt from me as I leaned forward to pass it over and then we were silent for a moment as she struggled to sit back down.

“It's not so easy,” she said. “Looking back. Is it?”

“No,” I said, wiping my eyes again.

“I look back every day,” she said. “For Catherine, for the answers as to why this happened.”

She looked at me. Her stare was hard. I could feel the weight of her anger and sorrow pressing down on me. It was like a train moving slowly, steadily, heavily over my chest. Her pain felt like it was crushing me.

“I want to know why you did what you did. I want to know why you killed my daughter,” she said.

“I
—
”

“You must realize that is the only reason I have let you into my home. So I can ask you and hear your answer
—
the answer I've been waiting for all this time.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said, and I started sobbing. “I'm so sorry.” And I kept saying it because I didn't know what else to say.

“Hearing you say that,” Frances said, “it means nothing to me. I thought it might be worth something
—
to hear it, an apology
—
but it's not. And you know why, Ana? Because it changes nothing.”

I looked up through my tears. Frances's face was hard, worn. There was nothing I could say to her. Nothing I could say to make any of it better.

“Does your mother know you are here, Ana?” she said.

“Rachel? No,” I said.

“What does she know
—
about you?” Frances asked.

“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head.

“And you don't want her to know?”

“She mustn't ever know,” I said. “It would break her heart.”

Frances nodded and took a sip of tea from the cup that was sitting in front of her on the table. Her fingers curled around the cup like the warped branches of a dead tree, and I could see that it hurt for her to move, to lift it to her mouth.

I watched her for a moment. “Are you okay?” I asked.

She swallowed and put the cup back down on the table slowly.

I waited.

“Osteoarthritis, osteoporosis, and now gallstones,” she said. “Bones are crumbling. Body's packing up. Not much I can do.”

“Are you in pain?”

“Most of the time,” she said.

“And today?”

“Today isn't such a good day. In fact, you could pass me my pills. They are in the sideboard,” she said, pointing across the room.

I stood up and walked over toward the sideboard.

“Second drawer down,” she said.

I opened the drawer and saw papers and pens, a pack of playing cards, and a small plastic pill pot, all neatly arranged in front of me. And there, to the right, was a stack of birthday cards. You Are One and Two Today! I flipped them between my hands inside the drawer. They were old, worn. My heart sped up. There were more underneath. Congratulations! You are 3! 4! 5! I turned around to see if Frances was looking over at me. She wasn't. She was filling a glass with water for her pills from a carafe on the table next to the tea. These were Catherine's cards. They had to be. I felt as if somebody had their hands around my neck. My throat was tight. There was no air. I glanced back at Frances again and then pulled in a deep and painful breath before opening one of the cards to read.

Dear Catherine,

Happy Birthday!

With love,

Amanda, Richard, and Emma

This was Mum's writing. It was hers. I let my fingers stroke the card where her pen had been. I was close to her, in that moment, closer than I'd ever been before. I quickly opened another card, my hands still in the drawer.

Dear Catherine

Have a day filled with fun!

Lots of love,

Amanda, Richard, and Emma

And still, another, the same.

From Amanda, Richard, and Emma

And on one, I'd signed my own name.

Emma

And in another I'd drawn a smiley face
—

For my friend Catherine

My writing was big, scrawled.

“Can't you find them?” Frances asked. I jumped at her voice, and then I took one of the cards and put it in my skirt pocket. It was instinctive. I just knew I had to have the card. To have something that had been touched and held by Mum.

“Got them,” I said, holding the pill pot up to show Frances, and I closed the sideboard drawer.

I went and sat back down and passed over the pills. I watched while Frances opened the pot up and tipped the contents out into the palm of her hand. She was slow. So slow. Arranging and rearranging the pills on the table and then again in her hand. And as I waited I felt anxious, restless.

I looked out the window at the Green.

And suddenly it was there. An almost-immediate pain
—
and with it that feeling again. My dad. I'd been waiting for him to come and play. Where had he been?

I turned back to Frances.

“He didn't come out and play,” I said, and as I said it I felt as if I was still waiting for him now, willing him to come.

“What are you talking about?” Frances said, setting down her glass of water on the table in front of her.

“Dad. He never came out and played like he said he would. He never came.”

“He was talking to me,” said Frances.

“To you? But he was meant to come out and play with me
—
” I said, and I recognized the child in my voice as I did.

“I'm sure he would have come, but we had things we needed to talk about. What does it matter, Ana?” Frances said.

“It matters,” I said. “To me!”

“Why?” Frances said.

“Where was Mum?”

“She was already at the party. You'd all gone to the party early
—
around half past five. Amanda was helping with the food. She'd baked. She was always baking something. So you and Richard helped Amanda carry the food over to the party and then he brought you over here to see Catherine. The plan was that the four of us would go to the party when it started at half past six. But none of this matters, Ana. None of it. Because it isn't what happened.”

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

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

“What were you and Dad talking about?” I asked.

“I don't remember,” Frances said.

“But he never came,” I said, again. “He'd promised!”

“You never could accept the way things were. Never! You could never just leave things alone! And still
—
now
—
”

“But you said you had things you needed to talk about with Dad. That's what you just said. You must remember what those things were.”

“I told you. I don't remember,” Frances said.

I looked at Frances. She was lying. I knew she was. She was pretending she didn't know, because she didn't want to say.

Neither of us spoke for a moment.

“What have you got there?” she said, suddenly pointing her crooked finger at my pocket. I looked down. The card I'd taken was sticking out so it could be seen.

“Nothing,” I said, tucking it back in.

“It's something of mine, isn't it?” Frances said. “From the sideboard. Show it to me!”

I didn't move.

“Now!” she said.

I pulled the card out of my pocket and held it in my hand. I didn't want to give it back to her, but Frances was shouting at me. She was shouting.

“That was Catherine's. Give it back to me!”

I stood up and put the card down on the table in front of her, just out of reach. It was cruel, I knew it was, but I didn't want to lose it.

“I can't reach it from here!” she said. “Put it here, in my hand.” And as she held out her hand toward me I could see it was so weak. The only strength was in her voice, her words.

I didn't move.

“You stupid, stupid girl! Give it to me. Now!” she screamed.

“Don't shout at me!” I screamed back. “Don't shout at me like that!” And I heard in my voice a fury like I had never heard before.

“You don't understand anything!” Frances said. “You are just like Emma! Just like her! Now give me the card!”

“No!” I said, snatching it back off the table, taunting her with it. I knew it was childish, but I couldn't bear being shouted at like this
—
like I'd been shouted at before.

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

Frances's voice was in my head now
—
from before
—
shouting, screaming … she was crying
—

“Get out! Get out of my house! Get her out! Now!”

She was raging
—
at me.

And there was nowhere I could hide. I had nowhere to hide.

“Why have you still got these cards?” I said.

“They are my daughter's birthday cards, Ana!”

“But they're from us
—
from Mum and Dad and me.” And I walked over to the sideboard, opened it again and began to pull out the cards. “There are only cards here from us
—
no one else! Catherine must have had cards from other people. Not just us!”

I walked back toward Frances. She didn't speak.

“I want to know why you've kept those cards
—
only those. Our family's cards to Catherine. She must have had others!” I said. “Why would you keep cards from me after I did what I did to her?” And I saw her arm rise up from the chair in front of me, and the next thing I felt was a hot and scorching pain across my left cheek where Frances's pale and bony hand had struck me hard.

The card fell to the table, fluttering in the air as it went. I raised both my arms to defend myself against a second blow. I was sure another was coming. I closed my eyes and waited.

Nothing.

I opened my eyes.

Frances was sitting back down in front of me. The card was now between the palms of her hands, her twisted fingers clasped around it so tightly all the blood had drained from under her nails. They were almost blue.

I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.