The Lake

by Louise Sharland

  I tell Gran that I’d better get going because I want to make it in to Edgecombe in time for the welcome barbecue and disco. Her eyes widen in horror and the words kinda fall away. It’s like the oxygen is being sucked out of the room. My head starts to hurt. How did I get this so wrong? I lean over to give her a kiss and feel her arms fold around me. ‘You be careful my boy,’ she whispers. ‘It’s a grim world out there.’

  I am halfway through the second bottle of red and am having trouble focusing. My cheeks are damp with tears and my head is pounding. I stumble to the bathroom, drink water from cupped hands and try to avoid my reflection in the mirror. Staggering back, I collapse onto the bed, the diary clutched against my chest.

  I wake to the sound of seagulls: piercing squeals that slice their way into my brain. I turn over and rub my eyes. My mouth feels like flannel and tastes worse. I sit up, struggling with the nausea that partners my headache. I force myself to my feet and open the window for some fresh air, but I find myself assaulted by the bright morning light. I step back, my foot slips, and I hear the crack of leather. The diary is lying face down on the carpet, pages splayed, spine splintered. I take an involuntary breath – an inverse sigh – and, lifting it from the floor, cradle it against my chest as if it were an injured child.

  As I go to set it down again, I notice that two of the end pages are stuck together.

  I slip my thumbnail into the tiny gap and ease it open. Concealed between the thin sheets of pasted paper is a lock of short, brown hair. It’s not Michael’s. I stare at it in disbelief. With trembling fingers, I pick it up and lift it to my face. It smells of nothing. I hold it up to the window and sunlight glints on highlighted flecks of copper. Who are you?

  After a moment I slip it back between the pages and close the book tightly. How long I sit on the bed with the diary on my lap I couldn’t say, but when I finally look up, the sun has shifted and the sound of people going about their morning business drifts in through the open window: a car starting; a dog barking; the whirr of a lawnmower. I feel warm rays of sunlight stroke my face. I close my eyes to relax, but the diary calls to me, and I find myself returning to the pale pages.

  15 September 2014 – Arriving at Edgecombe

  It’s nearly four by the time we get to Edgecombe. The light seems to bounce off every surface. We park up next to the ‘elite swimmers’ residence’, a shitty looking prefab – but still mine, all mine. While Mum faffs about in the boot, I wander off. There’s a small green at the back of the halls where two girls are playing Frisbee. A disc comes flying my way. One of the girls – blonde, fit, wearing cut-off shorts and a Radiohead t-shirt – looks at me and smiles. I am tempted to throw the Frisbee back, but instead I wait for her to come closer. Her skin is pale, and her cheeks are dotted with freckles. She smiles as I hand her the Frisbee, tells me her name – Shivie (what kind of name is that?) – and asks if I’m going to the barbecue. Her friend spots me and almost waves. She’s taller, with mousey brown hair and a sulky expression that puts me right off.

  When I make it back to the residence, Mum has already unloaded the car and stacked the suitcases and boxes in a pile next to the door. She raises an eyebrow and smiles. I like it when it’s like this – easy, casual. We spend the next hour moving my stuff into the tiny closet that will be my room for the next few years, and then I make us a cup of tea in the shared kitchen.

  We sit opposite each other. I try not to look too impatient. Mum sighs and says she’d better be heading back. We get up and she gives me a hug. When she steps back, I can see there are tears in her eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother look so sad or so pretty. I know it’s not easy for her – I mean, I’m her only kid and all – but I really, really like that she gets me, and knows all I can think about right now is that girl in the Radiohead t-shirt.

  We walk back to her car in silence. She gives me another hug. She looks like she’s going to cry: properly, this time. She tells me she loves me. I tell her the same. She starts to give me another talk about drink, drugs, and safe sex, but I remind her we’ve had that discussion and that I’m not a kid any more – I’ll be fifteen in March! She nods and gets into the car. My eyes shift in the direction of the green. I wonder if Radiohead girl is still there. I wonder if she has a boyfriend.

  This is going to be the best year of my life.

  I shower, have some breakfast, and then force myself outside to sit on the front step and get some fresh air.

  It’s as if I have discovered an entirely new Michael; one that fascinates and frightens me at the same time. Maybe I should have told Adam about the diary. He would know what to do. I grimace and shake my head.

  Ever since I can remember, my way of dealing with problems has been either to avoid them or to let someone else handle it. At fifteen, I had told no one that my periods had stopped; I had hidden my swollen belly under an oversized school jumper. When the school nurse had finally confronted me, I hadn’t even tried to deny it. That night, after the meeting in the nurse’s office, my mother had beaten me with a wooden spoon.

  The next night the church elders had been at our door, the three men lined up like crows. We were shut out, a temporary form of excommunication that involved being shunned by fellow Brethren, possibly permanently, unless we complied with doctrine. The only solution, the elders had said, was for me to marry a church member and raise the child as Brethren as a means of both penance and appeasement. The father, Ryan, was an outsider and unclean – a danger to our community – and must be treated as such. In an effort to appease the elders and prove her devotion, my mother had prayed, fasted, and relentlessly tried to coerce me into the arranged marriage; but I had refused, even threatening to go to social services.

  Three months after that, it had been decided we were unredeemable, even in God’s forgiving light, and we were cast out – excommunicated, rejected, scorned. All clearly outlined in that letter from Brethren headquarters my mother still kept. After that, if any fellow Brethren saw us in the street, they would completely ignore us or turn away in disgust. Our community, on which we relied so heavily, had abandoned us. My mother raged, but I had found it extraordinarily liberating. Being moved to the young mothers’ unit at the local comprehensive school had also meant I was finally allowed to study GCSE Science. I uncovered a talent I never knew existed.

  As for Ryan, he had left a few months before Michael was born to take up an apprenticeship in the West Midlands. I often wondered if the Brethren had anything to do with that, but never had the courage to ask. I saw him once or twice in the village when he was home for the holidays or attending a family do, but we lost touch. He married in his early twenties and had two daughters. Michael, it seemed, was easily forgotten.

  I make myself another cup of coffee and go back upstairs to the bedroom. I pick up the diary and begin flicking through the pages, stopping only when I make the most astonishing discovery. It’s a poem. Michael, my fourteen-year-old sporty, sweaty, socks-and-trainers son has written a poem. It was a struggle to get Michael to read a restaurant menu, let alone a collection of poetry. ‘Books are boring, Mum,’ he’d used to say when I’d suggest some new young adult title, ‘and poetry is for girls!’ Yet here he was writing – or at least trying to write – a poem. I suppose it could have been for his English coursework, and to be fair he did have a reasonable aptitude for language, but why the leather-bound diary? Knowing Michael, a Pukka pad would have been considered a luxury item for schoolwork.

  Photo-frame (November 2014)

  I keep a photo/or photo-frame? by the bed,

  The frame is grey///gunmetal grey,

  Holding in and holds an image???

  of awkward affection,

  Mother, daughter, and son,

  Family but still strangers still.

  forever

  Stand close but not touching.

  Hurricane eyes and cyclone smiles

  A storm that swirls beneath,

  A/the? riptide of rebellion

 
filling my lungs,

  it suffocates and stifles

  the unending the unending?? Overwhelming???

  The love I harbour

  Eternal, unending, sinking beneath

  The water/the ocean Murky seas

  I stare at the page open-mouthed. This comes as a revelation like no other. When Michael was little, I used to love to read poetry to him at bedtime: Yeats; Blake; Wordsworth; A.A. Milne. I always thought he was indulging me – but could he have actually been paying attention? Maybe he’d somehow absorbed it all.

  In places there are deep gashes where Michael has crossed a word out so fiercely that the page is torn: a ragged wound seeping fresh letters from underneath. I skip forward hoping for some sort of explanation. Instead I find this.

  1 February 2015

  You’re waiting for me by the bike sheds (cliché eh) so gorgeous I can’t take my eyes off you. I risk a smile and look around to make sure no one is watching. I’m not going to bite, you say, and kiss me. You taste like winter air and cigarettes. Diving Fish, I want you so much.

  I feel my chest tighten. Had Michael been in love? He had never even told me he had a girlfriend. I feel the same wretched ache as on his first day of school when I had to leave him alone at the school gates, crying. I read on, my eyes scanning the pages. There are at least half a dozen other entries.

  9 February

  We meet by the lake. You’re wearing my grey hoodie, your hair thrown wild by the wind.

  3 March

  No one about, we stay under cover all morning, our bodies entangled like seaweed on the shore

  Beneath the entry is a rough sketch of a female figure lying naked on a bed, her face turned so that her profile is barely visible. The gentle swell of her hips, the roundness of her breast, points to an understanding and intimacy that makes me feel both shock and sadness. Michael was far too young for this kind of relationship, just a few months younger than me when I got pregnant. Yet part of me also feels an odd sense of relief. Michael had been in love, had experienced love.

  Scribbled in small letters beneath the portrait is one final poem.

  Carnation

  Moonlight lingers on

  the pale abandon

  of

  your

  skin.

  Sea-soaked tendrils,

  Entwine

  the smooth pillars of your thighs.

  Encase

  the cool whisper of your sighs

  And

  Await

  My coming.

  I am astounded. This is a poem of extraordinary skills and aptitude, a far cry from that first, clunky attempt. How could I not have known about this side of him? It’s as if my son is suddenly revealing himself to be someone else – someone I would very much liked to have known.

  7

  I make sure I leave early for the hospital, recalling Adam tapping his finger on his watch yesterday: don’t be late. I’ve put on makeup to cover my blotchy cheeks and wear glasses instead of my usual contact lenses to hide my bloodshot eyes. I’m just heading to the car when my mobile rings. It’s Adam.

  ‘We’re short staffed in A&E and I’m not sure I’m going to be able to make it until after lunch.’

  It takes a moment for me to formulate the correct response. ‘That’s all right, darling. I can manage until then.’

  ‘They’ll be trying to take her off ventilation if they haven’t already. There may be complications and you don’t know—’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Adam – really.’ How many times have I said this in the last few days?

  ‘You’ll need to make sure that they—’

  ‘Don’t worry sweetheart; I know what to say. I’ve got to go. I don’t want to be late.’ It’s not often that I cut my husband off like this, but after last night’s drinking session I just don’t have the stamina to listen to his instructions. ‘I’ll call you when I get to the hospital.’

  When I arrive, I’m surprised to see a trio of specialists surrounding my mother’s bed.

  ‘Mr Emery started the reduction in pressure support early this morning,’ whispers the nurse, ‘and your mother regained consciousness very quickly. She’s been reasonably lucid, which is good news.’

  Is it?

  The nurse pauses and I realise she’s doing the good news bad news thing.

  ‘However, there appears to be some paralysis to the right side, which is why the specialists are with her now.’

  ‘Ah.’ I watch as the occupational therapist helps my mother to drink a glass of juice. Her gnarled, liver-spotted hand is holding the plastic beaker as if it were made of fine china. ‘Is she able to speak?’

  ‘Yes, but not very clearly,’ the nurse replies. ‘She asked after someone.’ I can see her wracking her brain. ‘Sam, is it?’

  ‘Tam,’ I reply. ‘Her cat.’

  ‘Oh.’ The nurse giggles, a light, bell-like sound that seems oddly out of place in this room full of buzzes and bleeps.

  ‘Can I see her?’

  I wait until the physio, speech and occupational therapist have completed their assessments before approaching.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’ I place her Bible on the overbed table in front of her. ‘I thought you might want this.’ My mother’s good eye flickers to it and then away. ‘The nurse says you’re doing really well.’ She’s finished her drink and I reach out to take it from her.

  My mother pulls back, gives a low grunt, and then with agonising effort places the beaker on the table herself.

  I feel tears prickling the back of my eyelids. ‘Grace arrives tomorrow,’ I say, with forced brightness. ‘She should be here about one.’

  My mother’s face brightens, and I find myself flooded with resentment.

  I clear my throat. ‘So, I was tidying the spare room, and I found Michael’s old rucksack. The one you hid in the suitcase.’

  Those Gorgon eyes seem to be turning me to stone where I stand.

  ‘And when I was looking for your Bible, something else.’ My mother begins to shift uncomfortably. I lean forward to adjust her pillows. ‘His diary.’

  She gives a small groan.

  ‘It’s okay Mum – really. I just want to know how long you’ve known about it.’ I can feel my nails digging into my palms. I glance down at the tiny half-moon indentations.

  My mother’s eyes narrow and her face begins to contort.

  ‘You must have read it.’

  Silence fills the space between us like a thick sludge.

  ‘You must have known about his girlfriend too; the one he called Diving Fish?’ I flex my fingers in an effort to regain some circulation.

  There’s a loud thud. My mother has knocked her Bible to the floor. Her mouth is twisted grotesquely in an effort to speak.

  ‘What is it?’ I say, leaning in so close that I can smell the orange juice on her breath. ‘Do you know who Diving Fish is? Do you think she might know what happened that night?’ I grip my mother’s arm. ‘Who is she?’

  A primitive, almost animalistic howl comes from deep inside my mother’s throat. I think I can hear words forming.

  ‘Excuse me,’ calls the ward sister, rushing towards us. ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘My mother’s trying to tell me something.’

  ‘This is really not—’

  ‘It’s about my son!’

  ‘Mrs Hardy, that’s enough!’

  The nurse attempts to remove me from my mother’s bedside; but the old woman, still surprisingly strong, grabs my wrist and pulls me in close. Her words are garbled, muted, as if speaking to me from under water.

  ‘Michael’s … moving … home.’

  ‘Michael’s moving home?’ I repeat, bewildered. ‘What do you mean?’ My mother’s lips move, but no sound emerges. ‘What do you mean Michael’s moving home?’

  ‘I think that is quite enough!’ The nurse unpeels my mother’s claw-like fingers from my wrist and stands between us. ‘You mustn’t upset her.’

  ‘I didn’t. I’m not.’
>
  ‘I realise how difficult this is for you.’ The nurse’s cheeks have gone bright pink. ‘But you must remember that your mother is still in a serious condition.’

  ‘She’s trying to tell me something!’

  The nurse’s voice softens. ‘Your mother has suffered a brain trauma. She might not fully understand what she’s saying.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Perhaps it might be best if you have a little break.’ The nurse ushers me towards the exit. ‘A cup of tea? A stroll around the grounds?’ It’s an order, not a request. I’m getting used to these now. ‘I’m sure a bit of fresh air will do you the world of good.’

  Outside, the sun shines, with the promise of a warm summer to come. I stumble my way to the car and sit with my head resting on the steering wheel. What was my mother trying to tell me? Was Michael really planning on leaving? Did she mean he was going to leave Edgecombe and return home to me, or had he decided to stay with my mother permanently because of his increasingly antagonistic relationship with Adam? I feel heartbroken and betrayed. Why hadn’t he spoken to me about all this?

  Adam arrives after lunch as promised and spends most of the afternoon speaking to specialists and reviewing my mother’s treatment plans. It’s too early for an occupational therapist’s home visit – my mother can’t even walk yet – but there’s a physiotherapist’s assessment planned for later in the week.

  We eventually find ourselves sitting in the ground floor café sipping tea.

  ‘Well, that was useful,’ says Adam.

  I put on my best, most cheerful smile, but I’m still haunted by my mother’s words a few hours before. Michael’s moving home. Maybe it wasn’t Adam’s fault at all – maybe it was me. Maybe I was overprotective; too fussy, domineering.

  I am fragmented, conflicted; my mind keeps moving towards unbearable thoughts and places.