by Vikki Patis
We sit at the table, Michael and I at opposite ends, Izzy in the middle. She tops her wine glass off with a tiny bit of lemonade and I hide a smile. She is growing up, I think, with a mixture of sadness and pride. She will get past this. She will.
‘Have you spoken to Seb?’ I ask, sipping my wine. ‘Have you told him about the move?’
Izzy takes a bite of coleslaw and chews. ‘Yeah. We’re… I mean, it’s quite a long way.’
I frown. ‘What does that mean? He’s not broken up with you?’
Something flashes across her face, too fast for me to identify. ‘No, Mum. I broke up with him.’
I consider her words, wanting to ask so many questions, knowing I shouldn’t push it. It’s her choice, I tell myself, spooning some chicken into the middle of my tortilla. Don’t interrogate her.
‘Good idea. You’re too young for a long-distance relationship,’ Michael says through a mouthful of fajita, breaking the silence. ‘All packed?’
‘Yep,’ she says after a beat. ‘Almost.’
‘When’s Anthony coming to collect you?’
‘Saturday,’ I say, spooning some coleslaw onto my plate. Two days. In just two days, my daughter will be leaving home. I pick up my glass and take a large gulp of wine.
‘When do you start at the new school?’ Michael asks.
‘Not for a week,’ Izzy says.
‘She’s taking some time to settle in. She’ll start a week on Monday.’
‘A week off, eh?’ Michael grins. ‘Go and enjoy the city. Plymouth is great. Cheap drinks too. I can tell you where all the best pubs are.’ I glare at him as Izzy stares down at her plate. ‘Ah, yes, on second thoughts,’ he says, picking up another tortilla and loading it with chicken. ‘Not far from Cornwall though. Some lovely beaches just across the bridge.’
‘I’m sure Anthony will have things planned,’ I say coolly. ‘They’ve been living there for a while now.’
‘Sure,’ Michael says, eating his fajita in two bites and downing his wine. ‘Right, better crack on.’
There used to be times when I would look at the clock and say, now? But we’ve not finished eating. You spent all day lounging in front of the TV, why are you working now? but now I say nothing. I listen to his footsteps as he leaves the room, the soft click of the study door closing behind him, and drink my wine.
‘He can’t wait for me to leave, can he?’ Izzy says softly. ‘He wants me gone.’
I look up sharply. ‘I don’t give a fuck,’ I say, and the air crackles between us. And then Izzy smiles, a real, I-can’t-believe-you-just-said-that-Mum smile, and we begin to laugh, giggling at first, then louder, heads tipped back, eyes wet with mirth instead of sorrow for the first time in forever.
25
Seb
Seb is lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. He hasn’t slept, Izzy’s words echoing through his mind as the minutes turned to hours, dusk to dawn. I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry. I’m going away.
He ignores the messages from the group chat, turning off notifications and putting his phone on do not disturb, his mind too chaotic to focus on anything but the pain of what has happened. I can’t do this anymore. Do this. Do what? He feels anger building up inside him at the unfairness of it all. It was Izzy who sent the photo, Izzy who started it all. Now he is being questioned by the police, whispered about at school. And, now, he has been dumped.
His phone rings, and he lifts it to see Rosa flashing up on the screen. When he answers, her accent is so similar to his dad’s that it takes his breath away.
‘Your nan rang,’ she says. He closes his eyes, shame flooding through him at the thought of his two grandmothers talking about it all. ‘We’re coming over.’
His eyes snap open in surprise. ‘When?’
‘Now. We’re about ten minutes away. Get dressed and put the kettle on. I’m parched.’
Seb throws on some clothes and quickly brushes his teeth before running down to the kitchen. His nan is already at work, will no doubt have orchestrated this visit so she wouldn’t have to be here. Though she doesn’t object to his father’s family involvement, and she has always got along well with Evelyn, he knows she finds it too painful to spend time with the family of the boy who killed her daughter. And though Evelyn has always condemned his father’s actions, he knows she understands Liv’s pain.
The kettle clicks and the doorbell rings at the same moment, and Seb jogs down the hallway to open the door. Immediately he is engulfed in his aunt’s arms, her sweet perfume filling his nostrils, her stomach firm where it presses against him. She takes a step back and holds him at arm’s length. ‘Look at you,’ she says, smiling. ‘You look more like Brad every day.’
This is the kind of thing Liv cannot bear to hear, and he is glad she isn’t at home.
‘What’s up with your hair?’ he asks, reaching out and flicking one of the twists. His aunt smacks his hand away.
‘Haven’t you ever been taught not to touch a black woman’s hair?’
He grins. ‘I thought that didn’t apply to me.’
She tuts. ‘You and men everywhere.’ She places a hand on her rounded stomach and breathes out. ‘I must be mad, going through this again.’
‘When are you due?’
‘September.’ She grimaces. ‘Another sweltering summer spent looking and feeling like a whale.’ Rosa hears a sound behind her and turns. ‘Ah, there you are, Mum,’ she says, reaching out to take her mother’s arm. ‘You got what you needed?’
Evelyn holds out a stack of paper, folded in half, which Seb takes, a question on his lips. She pats his cheek. ‘I always come bearing gifts, you know this. And it’s a special occasion.’
‘Is it?’
‘Is it?’ Rosa mimics and laughs. ‘Let’s stop hanging about on the doorstep and go inside. My feet are killing me.’
‘The kettle just boiled,’ Seb says as he leads them into the house. They move into the living room while Seb goes into the kitchen to make the tea.
‘Ah, at last! A girl could die of thirst here,’ Rosa says when he enters the living room, three mugs balanced precariously in his hands. ‘Any biccies then?’
‘Just some gluten-free chocolate digestives. They taste a bit like dust,’ he says.
‘Gluten-free?’ Rosa looks appalled.
‘He’s got celeriac disease, remember,’ Evelyn says, frowning. ‘Is that right? Celeriac?’
‘Coeliac.’ Seb laughs. ‘Close enough.’
Rosa tuts. ‘I’d have stopped to pick some up on the way if I’d known. Some hospitality.’ Seb sits on the sofa beside his aunt, clutching the papers in his hands. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘Have a look then. I’m on the edge of my seat here.’
He unfolds the paper and reads the words. Application for provisional driving licence. He looks up at his nan, a grin forming on his face. ‘Really?’
‘It’s hardly a round-the-world trip,’ Rosa says, but she’s smiling too.
‘A belated birthday present,’ Evelyn says, smiling. ‘A boy needs a way of getting around in a place like this.’
‘She still calls it “the countryside”.’ Rosa snorts. ‘Thinks you don’t have buses out here. Or trains.’
‘We have both,’ Seb says, laughing. ‘But a car would make life so much easier.’ His face falls then, as he considers what will come next. ‘But the lessons, they’ll be too much. And I could never afford a car or the insurance.’
Evelyn reaches out to pat his knee. ‘It’ll all be taken care of, don’t you worry.’
Seb knows not to pry; both of his grandmothers are very proud, particularly where money is concerned, but he can’t help but worry. ‘Are you sure?’ he asks. ‘I could get a proper job in the summer now I’m sixteen, I think the supermarket is hiring.’
But Evelyn is shaking her head. ‘You need to be focusing on your studies,’ she says. ‘Not stacking shelves and worrying about money. You leave that to us.’ He grins then, getting up to wrap his
nan in a hug. She pats his back affectionately. ‘You know you can always count on us,’ she says when he releases her. ‘To back you, one hundred per cent.’
‘Yeah,’ Rosa chimes in, ‘even if you are a little git.’ She pinches his arm and winks, and he wonders suddenly what his aunt was like as a child, whether she treated his dad the same way she treats him. She is five years older than Brad, and was already married with two kids by the time he met Seb’s mother.
‘Did you like my mum?’ Seb asks suddenly. The room is silent for a moment, the strangeness of the question echoing in their ears. They rarely speak of her, he realises, even less than they speak of his dad, and he wants to know what they thought of her, wants to hear their memories of her.
‘Of course,’ Evelyn says after a moment. ‘She was a lovely girl. A slip of a thing, with beautiful dark hair.’
‘Like yours,’ Rosa says. ‘The reddish bits are from her.’
Seb touches his hair without thinking, picturing the tight curls he knows are from his dad. But there is some of his mother there too, and this makes him feel warm inside.
‘She was very bright,’ Evelyn says, ‘quiet, not shy exactly but thoughtful, I suppose. She only spoke when she had something to say.’
‘Did you get on? What did she like?’ he asks Rosa. ‘Did you like the same music and stuff?’
Rosa laughs. ‘Oh, no. She had awful taste in music.’ Evelyn gives her a look and Rosa winks at Seb. ‘Your mum preferred reading over anything else. Always had her nose in a book.’
‘We used to swap books sometimes,’ Evelyn says, smiling now. ‘She’d leave little notes inside the front cover. Thought you’d like this one or Saw this and thought of you. She was lovely like that.’
Seb feels himself smiling as he pictures it, this woman he barely had time to get to know. And then something changes in Evelyn’s face, and he feels his stomach clench.
‘Sorry,’ he says quickly. ‘I shouldn’t have… It was insensitive.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ Evelyn says, her eyes flashing. ‘Don’t you ever apologise for asking about your mother.’
‘It’s our fault,’ Rosa says, ‘for not speaking of her. We just thought… It’s hard for us, I guess.’ Her face is serious for once, her eyes clouded. ‘It’s not our place.’
‘But you didn’t kill her.’ The words are out of his mouth before he can consider them, consider the impact they will have. They seem to hit Evelyn like a blow and she sits back, a hand to her chest.
‘We didn’t,’ Rosa murmurs, ‘but we didn’t stop him either.’
A noise from the hallway shatters the silence that follows. Seb stands as Liv enters the hallway, a bag for life hanging off one wrist. She stops when she sees Evelyn in the armchair, her eyes widening.
‘Liv,’ Evelyn says, making as if to rise, ‘we just dropped by to see Seb. We brought–’
‘No,’ Liv hisses, and Seb is taken aback. ‘I explicitly told you no.’
‘It’s not what you think,’ Rosa cuts in, standing. ‘We just brought Seb another birthday present. Look, show her, Seb. Show your nan.’
He unfolds the paper still clutched in his hand, holds it up so she can see. Her expression changes, her eyes clearing as she reads the words. ‘Oh,’ she says.
‘What did you think it would be?’ he asks, bewildered. He has never heard Liv speak to Evelyn in that way, not once. ‘What did you say no to?’
‘Nothing,’ Evelyn says quickly, waving a hand. ‘It’s nothing for you to worry about.’
Seb looks between them, taking in Evelyn’s carefully calm expression, Liv’s forced smile as she drops the shopping bag and takes his arm.
‘Driving! Well. I can’t believe you’re old enough.’ He sees her exchange a look with Evelyn and wonders what they are hiding from him.
26
Liv
I watch Evelyn’s car disappear down the road and feel something tear inside me. Am I cruel to stop Seb from seeing his father? Does he deserve to know him, no matter what he has done? Eleven years is a long time, and part of me hopes that the criminal justice system does work, that Brad has paid for his crime, but it is me who will continue to pay, my grief no less now than it was the day I found my daughter’s body. No, time does not mean you forget about those who have gone, who have been taken from you, it only gives you the opportunity to make room for the grief, to let the ghosts make your heart their home.
Seb goes upstairs and I drink my tea, the house quiet around me until it is too much to bear, the silence too loud. I decide to walk to my mother’s today. I call goodbye to Seb before grabbing my bag and stepping outside. The sun is warm on my face, the sky above vast and cloudless. I try to imagine what it will be like when Brad is released. Evelyn told me that he will soon be eligible for parole. I try to picture him at the tiny table in my kitchen, eating a Sunday roast with me and Seb, but I cannot imagine him there without Paige. My daughter will never eat a meal with us again. She will never see her son pass his exams or learn to drive or fall in love.
‘Oh, Paige,’ I murmur, pressing a hand against my chest. ‘What would you do?’ But I know the answer. I know what Paige would want, and it is exactly what I cannot bring myself to do.
As I walk past the shops, a bike goes whizzing by me and I jump. Two more follow, teenagers whooping and laughing as they pull up by the benches where a small group sits. When Harry and I moved in, this was a new council estate, with lovely greenery all around. But they’ve kept building over the years, trying to keep up with demand, I suppose, and recently I’ve noticed more kids hanging around, smoking and drinking and causing trouble. I walk past quickly, keeping my head down.
To my surprise, Mum opens the door before I can get my key in the lock. ‘I’ve told you before,’ she says, pointing a bony finger in my direction. ‘No cold callers. Push off, go on!’
‘Mum,’ I say with a sigh. ‘It’s me. Olivia.’
‘Olivia?’ She peers at me, her eyes like slits. ‘I don’t know anyone called Olivia.’
‘Well, you named me,’ I say, trying to keep my voice pleasant.
‘Paige?’ The name takes my breath away. I stare at her, my heart pounding. ‘Is it you, Paige?’ She reaches out a hand to touch my shoulder, and I try not to flinch away. ‘I thought you were dead,’ she whispers. ‘Are you a ghost?’
I fight to control myself, my pulse beating in my ears like the ocean, and take my mother’s hand. ‘Let’s get you inside, Mum.’
I settle her down with a cup of tea and a plate of ginger nut biscuits, and go upstairs to change her bed. The duvet is out of its cover, screwed into a ball and flung across the room, and I picture her wrestling with it, sixty-eight-year-old mother with dementia and COPD roaring with fury as she ripped the sheets away. I find a butter knife under one of the pillows, clean at least, and the incentive spirometer she brought home from her last trip to hospital cracked down one side. I sigh, knowing she has no patience for the treatments prescribed to her, knowing it will impact her health irreparably.
I tuck the fresh sheets in at the corners and run my hand over the faded pattern. A lavender scent tickles my nose, and I stifle a sneeze. As I open my eyes, my gaze falls on a photo frame on her bedside table. It is of Seb as a child, two years old and walking on unsteady legs towards the camera. Paige’s feet are just visible in the background; she’s wearing the white pumps that she insisted on buying even though they used to wear out within a month. I touch a finger to her feet, then to Seb’s face. He is still my rainbow child, the one good thing to come out of all the pain and darkness. I need to remember who he really is, rather than the portrait the police have tried to paint of him.
I hear a loud rapping from downstairs and jump, my mind having wandered too far again. This is happening more often lately, and a seed of concern is growing inside me. Early-onset dementia is hereditary, after all.
I shake myself and hurry down the stairs to find Mum opening the front door. A woman stands on the porch, a bunch of flo
wers in her hand.
‘Hello, Jean,’ the woman says, offering the flowers to my mother. ‘How are we today? Oh.’ Noticing me on the bottom step, she flashes me a smile. ‘Hello, I’m Maggie. I live over the road.’
‘Hi. I’m Liv, Jean’s daughter.’
Maggie’s eyes widen slightly. ‘Oh!’ she says again. ‘I didn’t realise you had a daughter, Jean. How lovely.’
I try not to let the words sting. ‘Do you know my mum well?’ I ask, moving towards the door.
‘We met last week,’ Maggie says. ‘Under… unusual circumstances.’ She glances at Mum before continuing. ‘I don’t wish to speak out of turn, but–’
‘Maggie helped me when Ken was unwell,’ Mum says, and I frown at her.
‘Ken?’
She flaps a hand at me. ‘Yes, Ken. My husband. He had a fall and couldn’t get up.’
I look at Maggie and note the sympathy in her eyes. ‘I see,’ I say slowly. ‘Well, thanks Maggie. For helping. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘That would be smashing,’ she says, and Mum moves aside to let her in.
‘Don’t listen to this one,’ she stage-whispers to Maggie as they follow me into the kitchen. ‘She’s the one who’s been stealing my crockery.’
I bite back a response as I fill the kettle. Who the hell is Ken? My father’s name was Roger. A secret lover? My mum and I have never been close, but surely I’d have known if she’d remarried?
Maggie’s laugh is high and tinkling. ‘I’m sure she isn’t, Jean.’ She winks at me before placing a hand on Mum’s arm. ‘Why don’t you go and sit down? We’ll bring the tea through.’
‘And a Cherry Bakewell,’ Mum demands as she turns back towards the living room. ‘I know she’s hidden them somewhere.’
‘I suppose that she is me,’ I say, making a face to lighten the words. ‘Does she have any Bakewells in?’