Aaron’s pulling at me, propelling me up the beach. We’re almost at the path now.
I stop again. Under the street lights my bare feet look like two pale ghosts.
‘I’ll carry you,’ Aaron says gently. ‘I’ll always carry you, I promise. I carry your heart, remember? And you carry mine.’
And my frozen brain’s stuck on the word ‘carry’, because Aaron always used to say ‘hold’ and it seems important somehow, but I can’t work out how. Then, suddenly, I get this memory, like the music but even stronger, of being a kid standing at the tip of the diving board, Esi yelling, ‘Jump, it’s now or never!’ and me grinning, then leaping in with a huge Doctor Who-style ‘Geronimo!’
I don’t say anything. I just yank my arm free and take off back along the beach, sand kicking up in wide dark arcs behind me. And perhaps Aaron’s too surprised to react, or there’s some small piece of him that knows too, but he doesn’t follow me. When I’ve put some distance between us, I can’t help but turn and look. He’s just a shadow on the horizon. He doesn’t move. Shiney’s next to me, and I put one hand on her coat, like it will give me strength.
Then Aaron lets out a piercing whistle.
Shiney quivers under my hand and I can feel her indecision, wanting to stay with me, but Aaron’s trained her so well.
‘Don’t go,’ I whisper.
But he whistles again and she gives a kind of shudder under my hand, then trots slowly up the beach, leaving me standing holding on to nothing.
Chapter Fifty-One
Gem
‘Gemma?’
It’s Esi who’s opened the door. I’m soaking wet, my feet cut from the long walk up the cliffs, shivering so hard I can’t speak.
‘Shit,’ she says, and it’s so unlike Esi to swear. Then she yells, ‘Mum!’
A moment later, I pretty much fall into Baaba’s arms.
The next few moments are a blur. I hear Baaba exclaiming, ‘She’s soaking wet. Get a blanket.’ I hear her calling for Esi’s dad. And Esi looking at me with such worry in her eyes that I can’t stop crying.
‘Should we call someone? What’s happened?’ Baaba’s saying.
‘N-n-no.’ My teeth are chattering. ‘Please. I don’t want to go home. I just need …’ I’m crying too much to finish.
They push a mug of hot tea into my hands, then Esi says, ‘You’ve got to get undressed. Put this on.’
‘She’s exhausted,’ Baaba says. Then she sucks in a breath. ‘Her feet.’
And Esi is helping me strip off my clothes, taking the tea and putting a nightie and a dressing gown on me. Wrapping the blanket over that. Sitting me back on the sofa. And now I’m crying, because she’s being so kind to me and I know I don’t deserve it.
Slowly I start to warm up as the tea and the blanket take effect. The shivering calms down so I can use one hand to drink the rest of the tea without spilling it. Esi and Baaba wait while I drink.
Esi breaks the silence first. ‘What the hell—’ She glances at her mum. ‘I mean, what happened?’
I shake my head. I can’t seem to get the words out now. I’m drowsy, more exhausted than I can ever remember feeling. My eyes keep closing. Baaba shakes her head.
‘We should tell Lucy she’s here.’
I force my eyes open. ‘No. Please don’t tell Mum. Not yet,’ I say. I’m too confused, too ashamed of everything that’s happened, to talk to her.
Baaba looks at me a long while, then she says, ‘I need to check with my husband.’ She goes into the next room to talk to Esi’s dad. I can hear their voices, low, talking in Twi. Eventually Baaba comes back in holding a bowl of water and a first-aid kit. ‘OK. I’ll make up the spare bed in Esi’s room,’ she says, ‘But first, your feet.’
I’m too tired to do anything but nod in gratitude. I sit still while Esi helps Baaba clean and bandage my feet, then I crawl up the stairs.
‘Should I ask her … ?’ Esi begins as I start to drift to sleep.
‘We’ll get some answers in the morning,’ Baaba replies.
I wonder about answers, about who Aaron is, who I am, but I can’t even begin to think how I’ll understand. And so I close my eyes, and sleep.
When I wake up, I’m alone. I lie for a while until I can’t put off going to the toilet any longer. I creep out to the bathroom, pee, and go back to Esi’s room. She’s left me some towels and clothes on the desk. Next to them is my phone, switched off. I wonder if I did that or Esi. I wash and dress, feeling vaguely more human, and then I steel myself to go downstairs.
But I can’t make myself walk past the bedroom door. It’s not just my bruised and cut feet, or the fact my whole body feels like it’s been whacked with rolling pins. It’s the embarrassment. I wonder whether it might be possible to die of shame. I think about all the arguments I’ve had with people, the way I treated Esi, Cal, Mum and Dad, Michael …
‘Let me guess. You’re wondering whether you can just crawl back into bed and stay there forever?’ Esi’s in the doorway, arms folded. And somehow the fact that she’s pissed off with me makes things better. Like there’s some way back.
‘I’m so ashamed,’ I say.
Esi sits down on her bed. ‘Tell me.’
So I do. I don’t leave anything out, I tell it all, as much as I can remember. How I can never work out which Aaron is the real one. How I’ve thought I might be going crazy. How frightened I’ve been.
Esi listens, asking for more information here and there. At one point I’m wondering if she’s going to take notes – it would be such an Esi thing to do. And then I remember what a me thing it is to do, to think like that. Have I ever really valued Esi’s friendship at all? I think back to all those hours mucking about at the Beach Cafe. To making paper aeroplanes and flying them out of her window for hours one summer. How we cried when we got put in different classes in Year 4. Then I realise I’ve stopped talking, and so has she.
‘So … um, that’s it, I think. I’ve been a total idiot, haven’t I?’
Esi leans forward and takes hold of my hand. ‘No.’ She seems like she’s picking her words with care. ‘I think … you’ve been through a lot.’
I look at my phone. The urge to call Aaron is so strong, here in Esi’s bedroom. I remember before, how worried I was he might do something to himself. ‘I just don’t understand,’ I say, and start to cry. ‘What did I do wrong?’
Very gently, Esi says, ‘I think you’re asking the wrong question. Or at least using the wrong pronoun.’ She shakes my hand, makes me look at her. ‘He’s abusive, Gemma. He’s been abusing you.’
I turn my head away. ‘It’s not like that. We’re not like … like those people you see on TV.’ I mean those women you see who get beaten up, the ones who go back for more. Me and Aaron aren’t the same as that. ‘He’s never been violent. He’s never hit me or anything,’ I add.
‘Well, let me see.’ Esi starts ticking things off on her fingers. ‘He’s pushed past you, he’s trapped you in a room, he’s shouted in your face, destroyed your property, stopped you seeing your family and friends. Oh yes, and chased you for miles. But you’re saying he’s not violent? You think none of those things matter? That they aren’t bad enough to leave? Because they are.’ She’s lost the soft voice and somehow it’s reassuring, listening to her rant, like old times. But I still can’t say she’s right. I mean, yes, it sounds so bad when you add it up like that. But what about all the other times, when Aaron made me feel safe? When I felt so loved?
I try to put it into words. ‘Don’t the good times count too? Aren’t those the real him as well? He just has a problem controlling his temper. I mean, maybe he could get some counselling or something?’
Esi shakes her head. ‘The good times can never excuse the bad. You think you’re only worth someone who treats you well some of the time? That’s not love. It’s not about words, it’s actions too.’
‘If I hadn’t – if that guy hadn’t talked to me just then … We were getting back on track …’ I say,
but part of me knows we weren’t, not really.
‘OK.’ Esi looks like she’s trying to keep herself under control. And I don’t know what I feel. I look around her room. One shelf has an entire section of feminist books. How does she know more about this than me? She’s never lived it. I mean, books and theory are one thing, but she’s never been in love, has she? As if she’s reading my mind, Esi says, ‘I did some research these last few weeks. I think you should have a look.’ She brings up a screen on her laptop, but I whip my head away.
‘I don’t want to read it.’
Esi says nothing.
‘It’s not … it’s not so simple as you’re making out, Esi … Maybe I need to talk to him. We could find a way to work it out …’ I start.
Esi bites her lip, not through worry but because she’s physically trying to stop herself saying something. Eventually she just says, ‘Why don’t you think about it for a while?’
I nod.
Then she says, ‘I turned your phone off.’
And I know why. ‘Thank you,’ I say.
We go downstairs, to where Baaba is making toast. I take a slice, but my stomach is twisted up so hard it’s difficult to get it down. I’m missing Aaron already. The real Aaron. It’s like a physical hole that’s opened up inside. I can’t help remembering the breakfast in bed he got me the other day. How he kissed my forehead so tenderly.
Baaba comes over to sit down. ‘Gemma. I need to tell Lucy you’re here. She’s been so worried these last few weeks.’
‘Has she?’ I say, and hear the way harshness mixes with hope in my voice.
‘Yes. She’s your mother, she loves you. You need to consider that,’ Baaba says, and although her expression isn’t angry, it is very firm. I don’t know how to explain to Baaba about everything that happened, how it felt like Mum and Dad only care about Michael. I’m not sure she’d understand even if I tried.
‘Can I … ?’ I look at Esi. ‘You have a phone charger?’
Esi exchanges looks with her mum.
‘I think that would be unwise,’ Baaba says.
But I need to know. I can’t help it. Esi sighs and gives me her charger and I go back upstairs. I plug my phone in and turn it on.
There’s over thirty voicemails.
Even more messages.
I sit on the bed holding the phone. Esi taps at the edge of the door and comes in, looks over my shoulder. ‘You don’t need to listen to those,’ she says.
But I do.
Esi sits with me while I listen. They’re all the same. Aaron crying, pleading with me. ‘I’m sorry, Gem,’ he says in one. ‘Please come home. Or just call me. I’m worried about you, what you could do.’ Then the worst one of all: Aaron crying and crying, and saying, ‘I don’t think I can go on without you.’
I let out a massive sob and then I can’t stop. Eventually Esi takes the phone off me and listens herself. Then she does the strangest thing: she starts to laugh. I’m so surprised I stop crying for a moment and look at her.
‘Listen to this one. He couldn’t manage to keep it up in the end.’ She hits the Speaker button, and then Play. It starts like the others, a long message going on about how he misses me, how he’s frightened he’ll do something bad to himself, he needs me.
‘Why are you—’ I wail.
‘Shh. Listen,’ Esi says.
A moment later, Aaron’s voice changes into a shout. ‘How could you do this to me? I hope you die, you bitch!’ he yells. The message ends. I sit there, completely frozen, his words, the viciousness of them ringing in my ears. A moment later the next message starts. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, I love you. I just got so frustrated, why won’t you at least talk? Don’t throw everything away, we’re better than that, more than that …’
Esi hits the button to end the call. ‘And if that doesn’t tell you what you need to know, I don’t know what will.’
I swallow hard. Deep inside, I know she’s right. But it’s more painful than I could have imagined. I miss him. Even hearing that, I miss him.
Baaba knocks on the door. ‘Gemma? Your mother is downstairs.’
Chapter Fifty-Two
Gem
I limp down slowly. Not only because my feet hurt, but because I’m afraid.
Mum’s in the living room, her back to the door when I come in, looking at a photo on the mantelpiece. I go up and look at it over her shoulder. It’s of our two families. Mine and Esi’s arms are around each other, and Michael’s dressed in his football kit. He must have been about seven then, so around the time he was scouted.
‘Your dad never knew how to relate to girls. Football was something he could understand, you know. We – I – didn’t realise how much it had taken over all our lives. I’m sorry,’ she says. And then she turns to me, and I want to cry because she looks like she’s aged about ten years. ‘I’m sorry, Gemma,’ she says again. ‘I let you down.’
Then she holds out her arms and I fall into them and it feels like I’m a little kid again and I realise how much I’ve missed her.
‘I’m sorry too, Mum,’ I cry.
Eventually, we sit down on the sofa. There’s an awkwardness between us still, because so much has happened. Some stuff I don’t think I’ll ever be able to tell her. But I know she loves me.
I have to ask though. ‘Mum … what about Dad?’
She looks pained for a moment. ‘Your father and I have been having some issues … You know he doesn’t like to talk about feelings. But he’s sorry for the way he was when Michael had his accident.’
I stiffen, then ask another question. ‘Is he … Will he play football again?’
‘His ankle will be fine in time. But I’ll let him talk to you about the rest,’ Mum says.
I swallow. ‘I don’t know how to tell him I’m sorry.’
‘Gemma, it was an accident. And perhaps things happen for a reason … Like I said, your brother will talk to you. He’s missed you. We all have.’
‘But you never called!’ It bursts out. ‘You left me one weird message and that was it.’
I thought Mum had gone past the point of shock, but now her face goes pale. ‘What do you mean? I called and called you. I sent texts. I even loaded up that … WhatitsFace thing. The green one.’
I smile despite everything. ‘WhatsApp?’
‘Yeah, that one. I did it on my own too.’ Mum looks proud for a minute.
I smile gently. ‘Maybe there’s hope after all.’
Mum touches my hand. Then her face darkens. ‘You never got the messages?’
I think back. It’s all blurry. ‘Well … my phone broke, and I got a new one, and before that, I remember Aaron showing me one message, that first night but …’
Mum gets out her phone. ‘I still have them here. Look.’ She scrolls back all those weeks and I can see them now. The weird staccato way she’s always had with texts. And the whole series starts like this:
Gemma?
Where are you? Mum
We’re at hospital, Mum
xxx
Michael’s ankle is broken but we’re hoping
Sorry
It’s a clean break
Where are you we’re worried
Love you
Mum xxx
And about twenty more just like that. ‘Oh my God. Aaron must have changed them,’ I say. I remember … I can’t work out what I remember, what he said. It’s like some sort of fog. But cutting through it is about a whole ocean full of anger. ‘I can’t believe he’d do that …’ I start.
Then I stop. Because yes, I can.
And even so, I still miss him.
Or the person I thought he was.
I realise I’m shaking, and Mum gives me a cuddle for a while as I cry. ‘Everything’s such a mess. I don’t know how to face it all,’ I say. Mum hands me a tissue.
‘A bit at a time,’ she says and nods to the living-room door.
Michael’s standing there on crutches.
Chapter Fifty-Three
‘Michael.’
I don’t know what else to say.
He comes over, using the crutches like a pro. His foot’s in one of those massive boot things. I can’t stop staring at it.
‘They didn’t even give me a plaster cast, or I’d ask you to sign,’ he says.
‘I’ll find Baaba,’ Mum says, and goes off towards the kitchen.
Michael sits down and puts his crutches to one side, then looks at me.
It’s the hardest thing to meet his eyes. ‘Michael … I’m so sorry—’
‘You should be,’ he says.
I gulp.
‘Not for this. For running away. Mum and Dad were so worried … Dad even cried.’
‘Dad cried?’
Michael nods. ‘We all did.’
I bite down on my lip, shake my head. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.
‘I don’t get it. Everyone thought Aaron was an idiot,’ Michael says.
‘They did?’
‘Well, I did.’ He smiles, shifts awkwardly on the sofa. I look down at that boot.
‘Your football. Will you …?’
‘Maybe, with physio, in time, yeah.’
‘OK, that’s good—’
‘If I decide to,’ Michael adds.
I stare at him, and he smiles back.
‘I’d already been thinking for a while about talking to Dad. Football was taking over … It was my whole life, you know?’
I nod.
‘Yeah, I guess you did know. It was all our lives … too much. I mean, I love it, but maybe I want to do other things too.’
I can’t stop staring at him. Is he saying this to make me feel better? But then I realise he’s not. Michael’s always told the truth.
‘… so it sort of helped to have the conversation with Dad. He’d already had to deal with the idea I wouldn’t be able to play, at least not at Premiership level. Although … I could’ve thought of a less painful way to do it,’ he says, but with a smile that lets me know he’s not angry.
‘How did Dad take it?’
Michael twists his hand back and forth in a ‘So-so’ way. Which is better than I could’ve imagined, really. ‘To be honest, he was freaking out so much about you, too, it kind of took the heat off me,’ he says. Then his face gets serious. ‘I don’t love that it happened. I still want to play football. But if it turns out I can’t, I’ll deal with it.’ For a moment, I see a familiar look in his eyes, like a hurt that’s been sanded over, but a part of you knows the wood’s crumbling underneath. It reminds me of Aaron. Then it’s gone, and it’s just my little brother in front of me again.
I Hold Your Heart Page 22