What I Did

by Kate Bradley

  Like I had to learn to miss you? I nearly asked. But I didn’t because I’m not that mean.

  She wrinkled her nose and leaned in. ‘You were a good nurse. You shouldn’t give it up.’

  ‘I could’ve been a terrible nurse and you wouldn’t know.’

  ‘I know you.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I know you try hard at everything you do. And you’re kind too. And smart. How could you not be a great nurse if you try hard and you’re kind and smart?’

  ‘Maybe I pinched the patients.’

  ‘Well, go and pinch them again, Lisa, before you forget how to or before your training gets so old they don’t let you. You should be busy; it suits you.’

  ‘Things are great the way they are, Mum.’ I was lying but I couldn’t do anything else, because I could just tell that Jack was really listening to every word we say. I wanted an honest conversation, but with an audience, that wasn’t possible.

  ‘You’d have your own money again,’ she persevered. ‘It’d give you more . . . control.’

  The way she emphasised her last word made me think she’d selected the word with care. Did she know something? Had I given something away?

  ‘If you have your own career, Lisa, you can be more independent. That can only give you more . . . options.’

  I struggled for what to say, because it felt like we were talking about my problems. I wondered if she knew, but I was unsure. ‘I tried nursery and it wasn’t a good fit for Jack.’ There – I caught Jack give just the quickest glance up at me. He was listening. We cannot, I decide, have this conversation now. ‘How’s the gardening, Mum? You said you’ve been growing some veg?’

  ‘Nursery does children good,’ she said, ignoring me. ‘They see other kids their own age; it helps them socialise.’

  ‘Well, obviously, but it doesn’t suit them all. Did you pick your Brussel sprouts yet?’

  ‘You loved nursery.’

  ‘I was different, I—’

  ‘Different, smifferent. You’ve just got to persevere. That’s parenting – and you know it. You’ve only tried one – I can’t believe that they’re all the same.’

  My breath felt like it was burning in my chest. There was so much I hadn’t imagined about becoming a parent. I would’ve never been able to guess at how hard it was – how relentless, how demanding, how boring it often was. Getting a kid to poo on a loo – who knew it would require such effort? But of all the things – like making interesting ‘recipes’ out of mashed veg or coordinating outfits – what I could never have been prepared for, was how political it was. How judgey everyone thought that they had a right to be. And that judgement was what I struggled with the most. ‘No one perseveres more than me – and he’s where he should be, safe with me.’

  ‘What’s this nonsense about being safe? Why on earth would you worry about his safety?’ She wrinkled her nose again. She does this a lot when she doesn’t get her own way. ‘You’re not thinking about when you were a child and—’

  ‘I don’t want to get into this now.’

  ‘Well, honey,’ she said with a little laugh, ‘we could wait until I come over to yours on Sunday, for that roast you promised me.’

  Her sarcasm dug deep. I’ve never had my mother visit any home I’ve lived in. I’ve never cooked for her; she’s never seen a single thing I’ve ever chosen for my teenage walls or my adult home. One day she was there, then she was gone. And she never came back.

  ‘It was bad,’ I said. ‘You can’t understand: you weren’t there.’ I was still talking about Jack’s short stint at nursery, but I think we both knew that I was talking about other things as well.

  She must have, because she leaned back and looked around the room. Normally I could read her expression, but then I couldn’t. Instantly I felt bad – she didn’t want to leave me, she just wanted to protect me. It wasn’t until I had Jack that I realised just how awful it must’ve been for her. It must’ve been torture. Perhaps it still was.

  The silence stretched on between us. On the other side of the hall, a prisoner had started to raise her voice to her male visitor. My mother watched them, the whole time rubbing her pinkie fingernail against the pad of her thumb – back and forth, back and forth. It was a sign that she was agitated. I know this is because she views the other women as her responsibility. She’s been here five minutes yet she’s already queen of this prison too, top dog again, unofficially in charge. She’s earned her place as a lifer, but how she’s made it to the top after only five minutes at Send, I don’t know.

  Maybe I wouldn’t want to.

  ‘Do you know her?’ I asked, indicating subtly with my head in the direction of the angry prisoner. Of course she did, but I wanted to hear that she did, that that was the reason for her annoyance. Not me.

  ‘Shhh,’ she said, and continued to watch.

  I thought: that’s it now, she’s annoyed and now she’s not going to say anything else to me until the end of the visit. We’ll have to wait out the rest of the time in silence.

  I was free to get up and leave any time I wanted to, but only once had I done that to her, walked out in front of everyone, before the bell rang signalling our time was up. Everyone would see; everyone would know we’d had an argument. I knew that Mum was so proud of me, her only child, and I loved her very much and would never want to suggest anything other than that.

  But we didn’t sit in silence because the other prisoner’s argument stopped as soon as it started, and then Mum relaxed and started talking about her gardening. I played along, asking questions in the right places, but all I could think about was that I’d come here for a plan and I’d now leave without one.

  When visiting time was up, my mother reached for me and hugged me, clearly not caring that it wasn’t allowed. I inhaled her smell and felt ridiculously comforted by her embrace. The relief brought tears stinging to my eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lisa, if today hasn’t gone well. I’m sorry if there was something you wanted to say but couldn’t. Honey, I know you don’t like writing detail in your letters, but they don’t read them as closely as you think and anyway –’ she rubbed her thumb down my cheek – ‘the screws do understand that people have problems. You mustn’t feel judged. We are all just people on God’s earth, trying to make it out of the scrum alive.’

  I nodded benignly, determined not to torture her with emotion, but as I turned to leave, she gripped my arm and looked me in the eye. ‘Lisa. Listen to me, darling. I think you’re a great mother. But I want you to think about what returning to work could give you – the opportunity to earn your own money and be your own woman. I want you to have your independence.’ She tightened her grip and when she spoke the next line, her voice was meant to be a whisper, I think, but sounded instead like a hiss: ‘I don’t want you to suffer like I did.’

  My heart stopped beating, I swear, as I thought: she has seen my bruises. She knows.

  Finally, she released me. But when she bent to kiss Jack, he turned his head into my skirt and stayed there.

  We both pretended he was tired, but perhaps my mother understood that Jack had heard her conversation. I picked my son up and settled him on my hip, and pushed the pushchair away from my mum.

  It always hurt so bad to leave her there. Worse now that I’d seen her grey hair. Her recent request for parole had been denied – there was no clear end date to this.

  I never looked back at her – never – but that day I did, and saw that she was standing there, watching me go. I wondered what she was thinking. But if she had any regrets, it didn’t show because she smiled and she lifted her hand a little, giving just the most subtle movement of a wave. Queen-like, really. She is my queen; my hero.

  My mum.

  And for some reason, then, I re-remembered the forgotten, long-buried memory of my mother dropping that knife onto her bedroom carpet. I remembered the crimson tide of the duvet, white cotton then red. It was so sudden: so quick. Red before it fell from her hand.

  This time, the mem
ory was less abrupt for the remembering. And strangely, it didn’t knock me to the floor again. For some inexplicable reason, it seemed to do the opposite. I knew that I was always afraid of my father and the memory of my mother letting go of that knife didn’t fill with me fear, but instead filled me with confidence and peace. Finally, finally, she was in charge. I didn’t understand it, but I didn’t question it either because I was so filled with radiating love for her, I simply lifted my hand in response to her goodbye.

  Even from my distance, I could see the golden delight in her eyes and I wondered how many times she had watched me go, my face turned away from her, waiting for me to turn back as I just did. All these years of my not turning back to give a final goodbye feels like I have stolen from her. This patient, stoic woman as strong as Greek marble. She gifted me treasure and I love her.

  On impulse, I pressed my fingers against my dry lips and blew her a faithful kiss. And then I realised we must’ve seen the same corny film, because she pretended to catch it in her fist and grinned a conspiratorial smile that creased all the way into her deep laughter lines.

  Then, I decided, my mother was wrong about my being like my father.

  Even better, I realised I didn’t need her advice because I already had so much more than that. I know I will work out my own action plan, because I am her daughter and as such, I carry her with me. Really, I am so much more than me alone. Her bravery is mine – and that could take me anywhere.

  eleven:

  – now –

  There’s an empty slot in the knife block. The gap yawns ominously, as obvious to me as a lost tooth. It’s the mid-sized one that’s gone – wide blade, smooth edge. The one I use for chopping vegetables. But we had omelette, chips and peas earlier, so I know I didn’t use it. Now I can only think of that missing knife. I know what it means – he means business.

  Well, so do I, I think, white hot with the heady fire of indignation, injustice and anger.

  I can’t think about Jack dying but I do anyway. I promised myself I’d stay focused but I can’t. I’m trying to stay strong but it’s like there’s a little pop-up window that’s opened in my mind and it’s running a film of the unthinkable.

  I’m doing what any decent mother would. If you see something – a situation which is toxic and dangerous for your child – then you do what you can to stop it from happening. I know I’ve not always been a very good parent, but I’m trying, I’m still trying. Even now, I’m still just trying to be better.

  And that’s why we are in this cottage, in this nightmare now. This pop-up video in my mind has been what I’ve feared for a long time. This is what I’ve been running from.

  Is it happening tonight?

  Is it happening now?

  Galvanised, I lean over the countertop and clamp my mouth down on a knife. The steel handle is cold and heavy between my molars. A nerve registers the metal with a lightning bolt, but it feels good, like it’s wired straight to my brain. Like a jolt to a dead battery, I instantly feel more alert. I know I can do this.

  I get a strong grip on the handle and slowly, steadily, pull it away from the wood. I feel like a contestant in a sick TV game show: ‘Will Lisa Law be able to complete this challenge?’ It feels so real I realise I’ve taken a major blow to the head. The knife starts to rise out of the block, and I hear the ‘Oooohhhh!’ of the imaginary over-hyped audience, but it gets to a point where I can’t pull back any further. I haven’t got the reach to change the angle.

  It starts to slip.

  I let go and it slithers back into place. ‘Aaahhhh!’ commiserates the audience. They were certain I was going to do it. I swallow against the saliva that’s pooling in my mouth, not even minding that I’m half mad. At least they’re on my side.

  I feel like screaming. I lean right over the countertop and slam my head against the knife block. The block goes down with a bang. I hold my breath. Instead of the spike of victory I should’ve felt as the knives splay across the countertop, I feel scared because the bang of the block was loud – really loud.

  This cottage is so old and creaky; I know after a year of living here that no one can move around it without someone else hearing. If he comes downstairs, I will hear each step across the landing, and each step on the stairs.

  I wait, still not breathing. Like a hare caught on a road at night-time, I listen for danger.

  I don’t breathe, I don’t move: I wait.

  There’s nothing. But my mind whispers: No one heard you because they’re no longer there. They’ve left, gone into the night, running –

  No.

  The worst has already happened.

  No.

  The knife block is on its side and the knives are freed.

  I clamp the knife handle between my teeth, before I realise I’ve been so fixated on getting it, I hadn’t realised the futility of it – how am I going to use it to cut my hands free?

  Stupid, muddy brain.

  I twist my head round as far as I can, moving my wrists to meet my mouth. I arch my back, yoga like, and crane my neck. But it’s not even close. Not even a little bit.

  If I really push myself, I can just about see my hands. They are so darkened with blood, they no longer look like mine. But I don’t care – only Jack matters. I focus. I try for another arch, another push to do the impossible, but I already know it’s pointless – I already know it’s not even near working. I’m only doing it because I don’t know what else to do. Think, Lisa.

  Perhaps I can wedge the knife to saw back and forth against my ties. I drop the knife back onto the counter’s edge.

  I turn my back to it and grab it first try. Hope surges. I hold the handle, cold in my hot sausage fingers.

  Inching round, I trap the knife between me and the wall so that the blade can press against my bindings. It takes a few fumbles but when I angle it just right, I know I am pressing against them. It’s painful, because whatever it is that is tying my hands together puts even more pressure on my wrists, but I keep going.

  ‘Lisa is going to have another go, ladies and gentlemen! Isn’t she just the grreeaaatttesst contestant we’ve ever had?’

  I can’t achieve the sawing motion that I’d hoped for – I can’t get the range of movement. The ticking of the clock is taunting the pressure of time.

  Eventually, finally, I put the knife back on the counter and stare at it like a lover that’s betrayed me – it gave me a hope of something that wasn’t real.

  I need to try something else. I cast around the small kitchen, desperate for a solution. The food mixer; the washing machine; the sink; all these are useless to me.

  Then I see the gas stove.

  twelve:

  – now –

  I see the gas stove and think: Fire cuts through everything.

  Including me. Do I really want to do this? I look at the gas ring and think how the fire will cut my flesh. I’ll do anything to save Jack – but there must be a different way. Anger and fear and being knocked out have made me hasty. I just need to take a second to be logical.

  It comes to me in an instant, a bright and beautiful ta-daaaahhhh!!! My handbag is in the hall! Everything I need is in there – my phone, wallet and car keys. Yes, I decide, of course! Logic saves the day. Relief washes through me – and I almost smile at my fervour: no burning needed today.

  I look out into the hall first, frightened as I peer round the door. The stairs door is shut. By the front door is a shoe rack and I can see my bag on top where I normally leave it.

  I look around the room; it’s gloomy, lit by a single lamp. It’s a small room, set up as a dining room when we moved in, but because we eat at the kitchen table, I squeezed in some small sofas and now we have a second sitting room. It doesn’t function as a hall: halls are for people who have visitors.

  But he’s not there – there’s nowhere to hide.

  I take a deep breath and then with light feet, run to the door. Bending down I pick up my bag handles with my teeth and then, feeling trium
phant, turn and run back to the safety of the kitchen. But before I get there, I realise what is wrong with what I have just seen.

  Only Jack’s little shoes are in the rack. All mine are gone.

  On tiptoes I enter the kitchen and drop the bag down on the kitchen table. But I feel deflated – he’s a step ahead of me. With careful, short moves, I bite the bottom of my leather bag and coax the insides onto the pine table. But really I’m thinking about him taking my shoes. There were several pairs there – trainers, sandals, welly boots. In my mind’s eye, I see the gaps on the rack, and one by one the contents of my bag is emptied. Lipstick, a hairbrush, a used tissue, some wrapped individual mints that I must’ve got from a curry house about a hundred years ago and other detritus from my life. But really I’m seeing the gap left by the welly boots. It tells me what I won’t find in my bag.

  When everything is on the table I look at the contents. Just as I thought: no phone, no keys, no wallet. Even if I wanted to call the police – which I don’t because there’s no point because they’ll only side with him – I can’t. My mobile is the only phone in the cottage.

  I also won’t be driving out of here. I realise I was sort of thinking I’d be able to drive the car for help. Somewhere in my brain lurked visions of me holding the steering wheel with my mouth, which I realise now was just ridiculous. Already, I can feel my cognitive function improving. As if I’d be able to negotiate the curvy country lanes steering with my mouth! Ridiculous, desperate me. But as ludicrous as the idea was, I still feel crushed it can’t happen.

  No money either – so I can’t even flag a bus down. Not that there’s a bus stop within a mile of here.

  I breathe deeply, trying not to cry. Instead I run through the facts. He’s here – he’s taken my shoes and phone to stop me from leaving. He tied me up and knocked me out. Perhaps he doesn’t want to kill me, but he certainly has something in mind.

  I want to tiptoe up the first few stairs. Even if I don’t reach the top, I want to try and hear if they are in the cottage still. It’s risky – the stairs door will squeak and so will every bit of wood I step on. It makes sense that if I am going to try and bust my hands free, I do that first.