by Heleen Kist
‘Oh Grace, you’re so funny,’ she said, then launched into yodels that merged into mine. And I wished it would last forever.
But the memory faded.
At the dummy’s side, I kept my eyes shut and stroked my cheeks with the fabric, hoping to hold onto the image a while longer. I yearned for the closeness of years gone by, when every afternoon, we downloaded the day’s events in our shared bedroom and analysed each conversation, each frown, each wink. When we exploded into whoops and laughter at our wild and cruel strategies for coping with the mean girls.
Admiring desirable qualities in each other, we joked that if they put us in a mixer, we would make one fabulous person. We even gave her a name—GiGi—a rich and sophisticated-sounding combination of our initials and so, in private, we called each other ‘Gi’. I smiled as I remembered how this splendid creature had been destined for great things—far removed from dreary old Perth—and how we took turns making up her adventures, indirectly exposing our dreams for the future.
Well, we made it to Glasgow, didn’t we, Gi? That’s something.
I folded my jeans and socks and wriggled my bra from underneath my T-shirt, which I kept on to sleep. The sheets were cold, accentuating my loneliness, and I hugged my legs to stay warm. The floorboards on the landing creaked as Stephen wandered about, probably unable to sleep, possibly checking in on his kids, certainly feeling lost. I remained still as I heard him scuffle by my door, not sure what to say if he knocked.
What was it about him, Gi? Did he make you feel safe?
Lord knows we both needed security after moving to the city for college. She’d found it in straight-laced Stephen. Stephen with the steady job at the council. Stephen with the side parting able to withstand a hurricane. We’d thought Glasgow would give us a ‘GiGi-esque’ cosmopolitan lifestyle, but we hadn’t been prepared for the grime and crime of the metropolis. Two naïve girls from the provinces.
Remember our tiny flat in the West End? We had so much fun.
She’d left after four months to be with her man. I’d had to fill the second bedroom with messy strangers, who touched my stuff. Made noise. Invaded my space. But forgiving her had been easy: she was happy.
When you’re happy, I’m happy.
That was our thing.
Yet while an unending stream of tears cascaded onto my pillow, I reflected on what my father had just told me, and realised that maybe, somehow, she no longer believed I was the other half of us.
Chapter Four
I didn’t expect to wake to the sound of giggling, but here were two smiling pyjama-clad boys standing at the foot of the bed, daring each other to shoot me with water pistols, their silhouettes back-lit by the open door. Adam, the elder at eight years old, looking very much a leader, legs spread wide, ordering his brother to hit me from the side.
‘No. No. Don’t shoot.’ I held up my hands.
In contradiction with all military conventions, they shot me anyway. Once they’d discharged their ammunition onto my sodden face, the boys jumped on the bed and pounced on me for a double bear hug. It was torture. My now damp hair was caught under an elbow and tugged at my scalp; I struggled to find a gap in between the body parts through which to breathe, and I experienced the full force of a knee pushed into my bursting bladder. But despite my discomfort, I recognised this moment for what it was: an offering of pure, youthful love. So I let it unfold.
They were the sweetest boys, and I enjoyed being an aunt, but I struggled with the concept of unconditional love—the giving or receiving of it. It felt like such a huge responsibility. And once you’d given yourself over, there was no turning back. Sometimes I wondered what was wrong with me: my ticking clock should be deafening by now. Why couldn’t I let go more? Trust it would all work out, like Glory had?
‘Your door was open, Auntie Grace. Why are you here? Is it because Mummy’s at the spa? Did you know they’re going to cover her whole body in mud?’ asked Adam. I felt a kick in the gut when that image confirmed how close to the truth he’d come. Mud. Earth. Ashes to ashes. It took all my might to stay composed.
‘I don’t believe for one second that door stood open, you cheeky monkey.’ I gave him a quick tickle and changed the subject. ‘Look at this clock over here. What kind of time do you call this?’
Six-year-old Noah beat his brother to it. ‘Six thirty! We’ve been up for twenty-two minutes already.’
‘Oh, you have, have you?’
‘Blue was whining. I gave him some food, but I think he needs a walk. I’ll be his carer until when Mummy’s home.’ Adam sounded surprisingly cavalier about his mother’s absence.
‘Poor Blue. We forgot all about him last night, didn’t we? And aren’t you a good boy for remembering?’ I jumped up to put on my jeans and sniffed at yesterday’s socks, deeming them acceptable. Opening the curtains a little to gauge the weather, I made a mental note to bring some clothes and toiletries over from my place. ‘Well, I think we’re going to have to take him for a walk, then, don’t you? Go put some wellies on. Let’s go to the park. And as a special treat you can stay in your PJs. Now make sure you—’
The boys were racing downstairs before I could finish, gleeful sounds filling the house with the characteristic liveliness of happy families. I stood for a moment clutching the door handle, gathering strength to maintain this good-naturedness. Stephen would wake up soon and reality would inevitably come crashing in. There was only so long we could pretend.
A morning chill licked my face. Wellies had been a good call. Rain had fallen overnight and the paths in Maxwell Park had flooded in the areas where the surrounding grass couldn’t withstand the frequent downpours. Blue ran freely, sturdy paws creating little water fountains as he raced across the soaked ground. The boys rushed to scale the climbing frame in the play park, then bounced like bees in a meadow from one multi-coloured metal structure to the next. Their boundless energy contrasting, unknown to them, with the dead weight I carried inside.
My wet feet squelched inside the light, woven trainers that formed such an inadequate barrier to rain, they should never have been marketed in Scotland. ‘Come on boys. Let’s go.’
Nothing.
‘Come on boys, don’t leave Auntie Grace hanging.’
They stayed spinning on the roundabout, heads tilted back to accelerate getting to peak dizziness, the obvious object of the game. I marvelled at why anyone would choose to become nauseous.
‘We need to get Blue before he catches one of the ducks in the pond,’ I attempted again. Glory had taught me that with boys, distraction was the best tool to get your way or to prevent a tantrum. It was harder with girls, she’d asserted, who were more stubborn and wanted to cling onto their drama for longer. A flush hit my cheeks as I remembered Glory’s own fondness for drama, how she relished its emotionality. She’d always known how to draw the attention towards her—part of that magnetic spell she’d cast on others. On me.
After using my sleeve to mop up nascent tears, I noticed that the boys had gone from the play park. I eventually spotted their two small bodies running towards the pond, oblivious to the fact that Blue had been standing by me all along.
Damn. I didn’t have the patience for this.
As we finally returned home, the boys were in high spirits, comparing the length and smoothness of the sticks they’d picked up. We found Stephen sitting in the kitchen, staring into the middle distance, nursing a cup of tea.
‘Hey.’ His bleary eyes rose to meet me but faltered halfway.
‘Hey,’ I replied.
‘Auntie Grace let us wear our PJs to the park. Blue was whining so we took him for a walk.’
‘It’s okay, Adam, did you have fun?’ he asked, running his hand absentmindedly through his son’s hair.
I left the boys to update their father on the morning’s activities, gesturing that I was going to clean myself up.
Once in the privacy of the shower enclosure, I stood and wept, letting the w
arm water caress my head and cover my shoulders like a comforting throw.
How were we going to tell them?
I turned the side jets to the most punishing setting and suffered through my body being pelted by hail. It was time to get real.
Chapter Five
It wasn’t yet eight o’clock and the clouds were refusing to let the morning sun through, leaving the kitchen in the kind of shade that has married couples arguing whether the lights should be on or not. But Stephen and I were mute as we danced around each other like awkward teens, preparing breakfast while the boys played in the living room.
The rich smell of coffee penetrated my lungs and kick-started my senses, as it always did. The one unhealthy habit I allowed myself and I needed it now more than ever after such a fretful night. Though sleep had come in the end, it was only once the last tear had been drained from me.
Pop. The triumphant sound of the toaster presenting its achievements brought relief from the silence.
We’d so far avoided commenting on the day ahead. Although he’d pleaded for my help when he first called, it was up to him to decide when and how to tell his kids that Glory had died. As we were both new to this, I didn’t even have any advice to give. I would have thought it was akin to ripping off a plaster, best done in one quick painful move. But maybe he was right, and it made sense to hold off until the police came, with the grief counsellor from social services. Still, this charade didn’t sit comfortably with me.
I grabbed the bag of wholemeal bread and fished out a few spongy slices, grateful for the excuse to speak. ‘How many pieces of toast do you want?’
‘I don’t know. Three?’
Anger flashed across my temples. Three? Who has three pieces of toast? There are two slots in the toaster. Two. What kind of messed-up person leaves a slot empty? I closed my eyes and sighed. Wow. This was all becoming too much. Pulling myself together, I said, ‘I’m going to Perth later.’
‘Yes, of course. Of course. I’m sorry.’ He looked away, folding and re-folding a tea towel. I was puzzled to see the unmistakable look of guilt on his face. A look I’d seen a hundred times, when my clients admitted they hadn’t followed their exercise schedule the previous week. Why guilt? Had he sensed my rage? Was he conflicted about making me do the dirty work with my parents? I had to admit thoughts of blame had fleeted through my mind, but they had been suppressed as quickly as they had come. None of this was his fault. He was the victim, I reminded myself. We all were.
But it was him you were hiding bank accounts from, Gi. Why?
I watched him for a while, shuffling in his pyjamas from one cabinet to another, unshaven and expressionless. It’s how the movies always portrayed a widower: crumpled, empty shells of men unable to take care of themselves. Perhaps there was truth to that, but the image before me clashed with the cinematic version because this man was about thirty years too young.
He perked up a bit when the boys came into the room, though a heaviness continued to hang in the air. Spirited chat about Transformers turned into arguments about who got the yellow spoon today and knees colliding under the breakfast bar.
‘Go get dressed,’ the impatient command came when the last of the juice had been drunk. And off they went.
Hesitating for a moment, I gestured to catch his attention. ‘Stephen?’
‘Hm?’
‘When I was tidying up last night, I found sleeping pills in the bin. Whose are they?’
His eyes opened wide at first, then a frown creased his forehead as he seemed to take too long to choose his words. ‘They’re Glory’s. She hasn’t…hadn’t been sleeping well. The café was really stressing her out lately.’
‘How come?’ I asked, relieved I hadn’t been meddling into marital problems.
‘I don’t know. She wouldn’t talk about it much, but I could tell it was taking its toll. That’s why I booked the spa for her.’ He seemed to gulp back a sob. ‘I thought it would help…and it got her killed.’
He hunched forward and clasped his hands around his head. The guilt I’d sensed earlier now made sense. I reached over and stroked his shoulder. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Stephen. You could never have known. It was a horrible, horrible accident. What you did was lovely. I bet she was very excited.’
A grateful face looked up. ‘Yes, she was. We joked that she wouldn’t need the pills anymore after this and she binned them theatrically. She did that for me. She knew I didn’t approve of them. I don’t even know where she got them. We had cup of tea together before she left, and I kissed her goodbye.’
We sat in silence for a while longer. I wondered if he was thinking of that last kiss. Looking at the sky for inspiration, I searched my brain for my last moment with Glory.
Had I even said goodbye to you?
The sun started to tear through the clouds, more confident in its claim of daytime.
‘Are you keeping an eye on the clock, Stephen? The police will be here soon.’
‘You’re right. I’d better go shower.’
I climbed up the stairs shortly after him and listened at the bathroom to confirm the jets were on. The door to their bedroom stood open on the other side of the landing. I had been in here before, but never uninvited.
There was no time to waste.
A vast teak-framed super king-sized bed filled most of the space, with matching bedside cabinets on either side. I checked the drawers. Nothing. It seemed unlikely that she would hold her secrets in this shared room, but then again, she wouldn’t be the first to hide things in plain sight. Glory’s presence was everywhere: in the romance book on the table, in the collection of earrings in the wonky child-made ceramic pot, in the content of the overflowing wardrobe. And the smell.
Glory’s scent enveloped me as I rummaged through her clothes, as if giving me permission and drawing me in further. I caressed the folds of her dresses and buried my head in her jumpers, suddenly overwhelmed by the knowledge I would never see her again. I imagined her elegant and beautiful and full of joy, showing off a new purchase, twirling.
And then it hit me. The shoes. I reached up to the top shelf looking for one particular shoe box: treasured Jimmy Choos that she’d concealed from Stephen at first. Even though they’d been on sale, she’d feared they were too extravagant. She’d told me she’d waited for her birthday to disclose their existence, so he couldn’t give her too much of a row.
‘What are you doing?’ He’d finished sooner than expected and stood in the doorway in his bathrobe; his tone, to my relief, indicating surprise more than annoyance.
I was overtaken by an urgent need to take the shoes.
‘I’m sorry, Stephen. I was just…just remembering, you know? Is that okay? I’m sorry…Could I keep these shoes for a while? She loved them so much.’ I held the box up inviting, but dreading, scrutiny.
‘Yes, sure. All right.’ He looked everywhere but at me, not registering what I had in my hands, fidgeting with the belt of his robe.
‘Sorry. I’ll go now.’ I scuttled away.
In the guest room, I cursed my impatience. Why didn’t I wait until he was out? Whatever would he think? I opened the lid and took out the velvety pouch Mr Choo enclosed to keep the shoes safe and the prices high. From its odd shape, I could see at once this did not hold only shoes. Prising apart the drawstrings confirmed the power of female intuition: there were rolls of twenty-pound notes stuffed inside and around the shoes.
Jesus, Gi, what is this?
Chapter Six
When the police came, I needed all my resolve to keep from falling apart while witnessing the boys’ anguish and Stephen clutching for help as he tried saving them from the abyss while himself plummeting. It would only make matters worse to expose my own immeasurable sadness, so I shut off.
Focus on the practicalities.
‘Do we need to identify the body?’ Clueless, I’d reached for what I had seen on TV and branded myself an idiot the moment it came out.
‘No,’ said the thirty-something police officer in a neat blue uniform. If she was annoyed by the clichéd televisual reference, she was kind enough to hide it. ‘An identification was possible based on the items on her person.’
The woman from social services interjected in a quiet voice. A portly maternal figure, she’d broken the news to the semi-orphans in masterful child-friendly terms and seemed to know what she was talking about. ‘We normally encourage the children to be brought to the deceased to say goodbye. It makes it more real. Sometimes kids struggle to understand the finality of death.’ I balked at the idea of bringing the boys to the morgue, but she pre-empted my response. ‘However, as Glory has been in a car accident and sustained severe injuries, I don’t think it’s a good idea.’
The horror of hearing of my sister’s disfigurement clashed internally with the intense relief of knowing we’d be spared another emotional roller-coaster.
‘And you’re really sure she just lost control of the vehicle? That it wasn’t anything else?’ I asked.
‘We can’t be entirely sure. But there is no evidence to suggest the contrary,’ said the officer.
Towards the end, they handed over the items that had been in the car with Glory: her little orange handbag and a large overnight tote.
‘We checked with the network to see if she was using the mobile phone while driving, which is standard practice. The device appeared not to have been used all day. There is no reason for us to keep it for further investigation. Or any of this.’
And so the verdict fell, with perplexing efficiency. Glory died in a fluke accident and that was that. No alcohol, no common recreational drugs, no texting or phoning, no witnesses, no culprit. But I still had another mystery to solve and I eyed the phone lying on the coffee table with its promise of emails and banking apps. ‘Did you unlock the mobile, officer?’