Beneath the Distant Star

by Lisa Shambrook

  “Worried? About me? Yeah, right!” Jasmine snorted.

  “I was worried!” Mum insisted.

  “Keep telling yourself that!”

  “Jasmine! What on earth have I done to deserve all this, all this aggression?” She raised her hands in despair.

  “Ask yourself!”

  “I have!” she cried, “I have, if I knew why…”

  “You’d what? If you knew why you’d what?” burst out Jasmine.

  “I’d…I’d…”

  “Go on, you’d what?” screeched Jasmine, “You’d…care?” She shook her head and stared at her mother.

  Now tears coursed down Mum’s face. “Of course I’d care! What do you think I am, a monster?”

  “You tell me!” Jasmine stepped closer to her mother.

  Mum shook her head. “I don’t understand you, really I don’t. Why do you hate me so much?” Her shoulders shook. “Why, why do you hate me? I don’t get it. Why can’t you be more like Freya?”

  Jasmine couldn’t understand her mother’s question. She burned and she exploded. “Why can’t I be like Freya? Because she’s dead!” She spat the words into her mother’s face. “I never knew her, Mum! She’s dead, dead and buried!” Jasmine stared right at her mum. She raised her hand and Mum flinched as she brought it down onto the table with a resounding bang. “Why can’t you understand?” screamed Jasmine, “And why can’t you be there, or even just love a child that’s not dead!”

  Mum’s mouth fell open as Jasmine’s wide, blazing eyes pierced her. Jasmine’s breath came in short bursts, and then she clamped her mouth shut and spun away. Mum watched her daughter storm out of the room.

  The lounge door slammed so hard behind her, Jasmine saw her mum jump in her mind’s eye as the door rebounded and the hinges complained. Her bedroom door did likewise.

  She snarled as she threw her jacket onto her bed, peeled off her damp jeans and pulled on dry ones. She faced her wall, the wall partitioning the two bedrooms, and stared. The posters, even the retro stalking panther, became invisible as she stared into the spare room, Freya’s bedroom. The neat net curtains, the frilly, faded drapes and the eternally violet duvet made her want to throw up. Her eyes narrowed and her fingers curled as she imagined the photographs adorning the walls, and she desperately wanted to march into the room and break something.

  Instead, she slammed her hand hard against the wall, ignoring the pain that coursed through the heel of her palm. She hit it again then pummelled the aubergine paint. The pictures hanging on the other side vibrated and she punched it with the edge of her balled up fist. Pain rushed through her hand and she pitched backwards, landing on her bed clasping her fist.

  Now her fierce anger dissolved into self-pity, the feeling looping up and around her, nursing not only her hand, but her battered emotions too. When would her mother ever accept her for herself? Would she ever let her lost child rest and love her instead? Would she ever love her the way she loved Freya? She let her tears spill over her burning cheeks and she rolled over, curling up into a tight ball. Tears soaked her pillow, black eyeliner and mascara staining soft cotton.

  After half an hour, done with crying, she hurried to the bathroom and almost laughed at the black swirls and smudges reflecting in the mirror. She bathed her face, caressing her skin with a soft flannel, and wiped away all traces of hurt with the refreshing fragrance of pink grapefruit. Finally, she stared in the mirror.

  The harsh bathroom light did her no favours. Her face was pale and drawn, her cheeks, pink and blotchy. Her hair hung limp and straight, red and black, and her roots though still dark, were peeping through. Only her eyes, green with life, shone, glittering still with unspent tears.

  She snorted at her reflection. “So, I look as dead as Freya…”

  She ruffled her fingers through her greasy hair and shook her head. She leaned across the bath and turned on the shower. She stripped and moments later she stood beneath running water and steam misted up the offending mirror.

  She heaved a deep sigh and relaxed, letting the water slip over her shoulders and run down her body. “Wake me up…” she murmured. It rained down, soaking her hair and soothing her spirit. It drove out her self-pity and alleviated the coil of resentment that rose from deep within. She lathered her hair and suds, like soft cotton-wool clouds, gathered at her feet.

  “Wake me up,” she repeated.

  She stood, letting the beat of the water massage her shoulders, the heat enveloping her and her troubles eddying and swirling down the plug hole.

  For once she felt at one with herself.

  When fog shrouded the whole room, she stepped out. She wrapped herself in white cotton towels, hiding within the soft and welcoming cocoon. She didn’t want to leave the hazy safety of the bathroom and sat on the side of the bath, breathing in the humid warmth. After the freezing river, she felt sleepy and rejuvenated at the same time.

  Finally, she wandered back to her bedroom, got into her night clothes early, and watched as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon in the field. Golden rays faded, dropping until they vanished, and just before they did Jasmine caught a glimpse of glistening silver on her desk.

  She picked up the small silver locket and turned it between her fingers. The engraved star blinked at her and Jasmine closed her fingers around it. It tingled beneath her grasp, cold metal against her warm skin.

  She opened her fingers and gazed down at it.

  An idea formed, twisting its devious threads through her mind.

  Jasmine flicked the catch open and peered at the picture of her sister. Freya beamed at her, a cheeky grin with sparkling emerald eyes, and the glitter of fairy wings. She slowly closed the locket and undid the clasp. She reached behind her neck and fastened the chain. The locket sat in the hollow of her throat, resting happily against her soft skin.

  “If she wants to remember Freya, she can have Freya…”

  Saturday morning meant a lie-in, and Jasmine took advantage. She was sure her mum was working at eleven, so when she wandered downstairs, she was surprised to find her mother in the kitchen unloading the washing machine.

  “I thought you were working?” she said.

  “At one,” said her mother. “Did you sleep okay?

  Jasmine nodded.

  “Can we talk about last night?” Mum’s face was pale.

  Jasmine shook her head.

  “I think we should,” Mum said tentatively, stroking her fingers through her hair.

  Jasmine eyed her suspiciously. “Is that an olive branch you’re offering?”

  “If that’s what you want,” said her mum. “We should try and work this out…”

  “Work what out, Mum? The fact that I’m not important to you? Is that what we should work out?”

  “You are, you know you are,” she began.

  Jasmine scowled and glared as Mum glanced at her watch. “You don’t even have time to talk this through!”

  “I’ve got to work…”

  “So let’s not discuss it.” Jasmine moved around her mother.

  “Got any plans?” Mum asked instead, defeat colouring her tired eyes.

  Jasmine shook her head.

  “Do you want to wander around town while I work? I can drop you in,” Mum offered as she resumed pulling clothes out of the machine.

  “It’s okay. I can walk if I decide to.”

  Mum shrugged. “It’s up to you. I’m going in an hour.”

  Jasmine reached for a cereal bowl. Mum finished the washing and picked up the basket. Jasmine ducked past her, grabbing cereal from the cupboard. Mum faltered, almost dropping the basket.

  “What’s that you’re wearing?” she asked in a soft voice.

  Jasmine glanced down at her clothes and shook her head. “Jeans, t-shirt, the usual, boots…”

  “No…” Mum paused and stared at her. “Around your neck, what’s that?”

  Jasmine flushed and her fingers leapt to her neck instinctively. “Oh, nothing.”

  “It�
��s not nothing, it’s far from nothing.” Mum’s eyes glistened.

  Jasmine smiled perversely, her back to her mother. “Oh, this? I found it the other day, pretty isn’t it?”

  “Can I see?”

  “Of course.” Jasmine turned round.

  Mum breathed in and stared at the silver locket. Her mouth moved, but words didn’t form.

  “Where did you find it?” she finally managed.

  “In Freya’s jewellery box, the rainbow one. Do you remember when you used to show me all her treasures, all the little trinkets she had?” Jasmine didn’t take her eyes off her mum. “I’m not sure why this was in that box, because it isn’t hers. It’s mine.”

  Still holding the laundry basket, Jasmine’s mum shifted on her feet. “Have you, have you, is…”

  “Is Freya’s photo still in there?” Jasmine raised her eyebrows. “Yes, it is, I thought it would be nice to keep it there, especially as Uncle Pete and Aunty Jen put it there, seems wrong to change it.”

  Mum sighed. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to wear it…” she began.

  “I think it is…”

  “Are you sure?” Dangerous ground crackled with electricity beneath their feet.

  “Yes, I’m sure, absolutely sure,” said Jasmine, fingering the locket. “It’s mine and it’s about time it got some wear, how could we hide something so sweet away for so long. We need to remember Freya, don’t we?”

  Mum couldn’t speak.

  “Don’t we?”

  They stared at each other. “I’d rather you didn’t wear it,” Mum began, “It’s very precious…”

  Jasmine interrupted. “But, it’s mine. Don’t you think it’s precious to me too?”

  Mum hitched the washing basket higher and backed out of the kitchen. Jasmine continued getting her breakfast and didn’t think twice about her mother crying on the back doorstep.

  The towpath was quiet but the beautiful day did not match Jasmine’s seething anger. The glistening sun bounced on the water and she settled on a bench not far from town. If she listened carefully she could hear the bustle and noises from town, buses droning past and cars rumbling along the road further up beyond the grassy bank and out of sight. It surprised Jasmine how quiet it was for Saturday at noon.

  A dog walker wandered by. The little Jack Russell scampered close and sniffed her boots. She resisted the urge to kick. The owner was already several strides ahead of her, the dog loitering by her feet on a long, yellow, retractable lead. She bared her teeth and emitted a low growl. The dog stopped and stared. Jasmine was not a dog person. If she had a dog it would be big, very big, and it would bark, not yap. She imagined a dog, her dog, and she sneered as the little dog hurriedly scurried on.

  A middle-aged courting couple meandered along the path, and she rolled her eyes when they kissed. A small group of teenage boys swaggered past on their way to town, each trying to outdo the other in a noisy bluster.

  One of them caught her gaze, grinned and winked. She eyed him disagreeably and he nudged his friend. “I think she likes me!” They both looked her up and down, and Jasmine prickled beneath their gaze. She kept his eye but sneered in disdain. “I don’t think so mate!” said the other and punched his shoulder.

  “Win some lose some, never liked Goths anyway.” They sauntered on without a further glance.

  Then it was quiet again.

  She moved to sit hunched up, feet on the bench, chin on her knees. She stared at the water. Her bracelets crowded her wrist, black leather cords with glass beads, knotted tight, and a narrow cuff stamped with the word ‘strength.’ She shifted her other wrist as her black and silver studded wristband jabbed her knee. The jewellery embracing her arms sat in sharp contrast to the delicate silver locket at her neck. Her hair draped forward, her fringe obscuring her face, and long, silver spirals hung from her ears.

  She drew in a deep sigh and lifted her head, flicking her fringe away from her face, and she gazed at the glittering stars dancing on the surface of the river. Her hand moved to her neck and sought out the necklace. She unclipped the locket catch and it dropped open. The colours of the tiny photograph caught her eye, but it was too close to her neck to see the picture.

  It didn’t matter as the picture was already ingrained inside her head. It had lived up on the mantelpiece forever and the image was entrenched into her very soul. She closed her eyes and still saw seven-year-old Freya, all cheeky grin and bright eyes, tousled brown hair and the violet impression of soft, gauzy fairy wings.

  She sighed through gritted teeth. She wanted to rip the locket off and toss it into the river.

  She stared down the path towards the town trying to ignore her building frustration. A bridge crossed the river, not more than a quarter of a mile down the path. It loomed dark against the sunshine.

  She gazed at the bridge, and a smile formed on her face and an idea in her mind. She jumped up off the bench and discovered a skip in her step as she hurried down the path towards it.

  She ran up the uneven steps from the towpath to the bridge, her hand grabbed at the railing and her bracelets jumped up and down her arms. This was the old town bridge, a thick stone construction, resilient and solid. Traffic passed in two lanes and the footpath was narrow.

  Jasmine almost bounced to the middle of the bridge beneath the old, iron lamp post, and leaned against the stone. The river ran beneath, swirling and churning with the current. She ignored the constant traffic, and considered the drop from the centre of the bridge to the water below. She’d thought it was a good ten to fifteen foot when she’d stood on the towpath, but then she wasn’t much good at maths.

  She stretched her arms across the wall, spreading her fingers and gripping the far edge. It was wide, and she couldn’t see the water immediately below as the wall reached almost up to her chest. Frustration simmered.

  She glanced about her, no shoppers, or children and only one person walking away from the bridge. She gripped the far edge of the wall with her fingers and stood on tiptoe. She tried to lean over the wall, but she was still too short. She backed up, and hopped two steps then jumped against the wall, catching the edge. She heaved her body forward and climbed, or rather scrambled ungainly, up onto the wall of the bridge.

  She swung her body up and over, and sat on the wall, dangling her legs over the edge. Pleased, she released a satisfied sigh and grinned.

  Behind her the traffic kept moving and she ignored the constant noise.

  She put her hands up behind her neck and released the pendant. She looped the chain around her hand.

  She brought her legs up, awkwardly beneath her, and leaned forward to stand up, oblivious to everything but the opportunity to rid herself of Freya. She stretched out her arm in front of her and opened her hand. The locket dangled over the river, the chain balanced across her palm glistening in the sunlight. Could she really drop it into the water? Could she just let it roll off her hand? Could she banish Freya to the depths of the river?

  A shout startled her and she swung round. She suddenly heard the hoot of cars, the slamming of car doors and the sound of running feet on the pavement behind her. She was suddenly aware of people, of faces staring at her with concern and fear etched into their expressions. Unnerved, she closed her hand over the chain and tripped over her feet as she spun round on the wall. Her arms windmilled in the air and the onlookers’ collective gasp panicked her as she overbalanced.

  For a moment Jasmine stared down at the water, her body leaning precariously over the edge then she shoved herself backward and caught her balance. The people watching heaved a sigh of relief and Jasmine glared. All the cars had stopped, leaving a gap in the middle of the bridge. Several people stood by open car doors staring at her, and a woman stood just a few paces away from her.

  “Can you get down?” the woman asked.

  Cars hooted further down the road, unaware of the unfolding drama on the bridge. Jasmine stared down the road, shocked by the traffic jam and suddenly unsure of herself.
r />   “Sweetheart, can you climb down?” the lady asked again.

  Jasmine stared blankly at her.

  A man came running to join the lady and Jasmine flinched, unconsciously stepping backwards. The lady thrust out her arm to stop the man from passing or getting closer. She hissed at him then turned back to Jasmine. “You need to come down, off the wall. It’s not safe up there.”

  Jasmine took her eyes off the lady and swallowed hard. The bridge was at a standstill. She swung her head side to side. People gravitated from town towards the bridge. She spun on the spot and an incredulous chuckle left her throat.

  Behind her the woman spoke again. “Sweetheart, nothing’s this bad, nothing’s too bad that we can’t fix it…”

  A slight hysterical laugh bubbled in Jasmine’s throat. She stared down at her feet. She was close to the edge of the wall, dangerously close, and a wave of dizziness engulfed her. Her arms spiralled again and she held them out to steady her.

  “C’mon, please, what’s your name?” the woman pleaded.

  Jasmine’s brain whirred as nausea rose, and she turned round again, a full circle, eliciting another gasp from her audience. People stood to her left and to her right, and cars filled the road on both sides of the bridge. Cars still hooted and shouts accompanied people still arriving. She looked up at the sky and cotton-wool clouds rushed past as she swayed. Then she glared down at the water.

  Trapped, she stood upon the wall of the bridge, there was no escape.

  She stared down into the river again and the woman on the pavement let out a small cry. “Please!” she cried. “Don’t do it!”

  Embarrassment burned. Jasmine had no idea what to do. She clutched the locket in her hand and stared down at the glistening water below. For a moment, she considered jumping—the water was a more welcome prospect than the attention she had garnered up on the bridge.

  It was a long way down, more than ten feet, definitely, maybe twenty, and the water below the bridge swirled in the shadows, dark and uninviting.

  It was the sirens that truly tempted her to jump and her feet itched with the desire to leap…