The Inbetween Days

by Eva Woods

  She, as observed by herself from a seat right behind, was wearing open-toed shoe boots, useless in the rain, and a long fringed skirt. Clearly, she’d been aiming at boho chic, but instead she looked like Jessie from Toy Story. “She’s not our sister,” she was saying. “Urgh. It’s disgusting. Dad’s ancient to have a new baby.”

  Daisy stared out the bus window at the rain. “This weather. Do you remember that time in the caravan in Wales?”

  Rosie groaned. “God, it didn’t stop pouring once! All we did was hang out in the rec center and play board games with the pieces missing.”

  “You snogged that boy from Pontypridd behind the loo block.”

  “Hwel. Urgh. And Mum and Dad were...” Rosie stopped, narrowed her eyes at her sister. “Very good, little miss reverse psychology. I know they were nightmarish together. It doesn’t mean I want to meet his replacement kid.”

  “Come on. It can’t be worse than a caravan in Wales in the rain.”

  “Wanna bet? At least I got really good at Scrabble on that holiday. And I learned the Welsh for kissing with tongues, though I really wish I hadn’t.”

  They got off the bus at a rain-soaked stop by the side of the road, nothing around except a cluster of dreary bungalows. A ghostly Grandma and Present-day Rosie followed behind. Past Rosie wrapped her arms around her inadequate jacket and huddled under the bus shelter, while Daisy did up the hood of her sensible anorak. “Where is he anyway? He was meant to be here.”

  “Give him a minute.”

  “This sucks. They live in Hicksville.”

  Daisy just sighed. “Look, there he is.” A car was drawing up—the impractical Jaguar their father had bought not long after the divorce.

  “He’ll have to change that now,” said Rosie, with some satisfaction. “Baby puke all over the leather.”

  The sisters trudged to the car in the rain, and Rosie went to follow. Grandma put up a hand to stop her. “No need for that, love. Just close your eyes.”

  She did so, doubtfully, and when she opened them the patter of the rain had stopped, and she was inside a cozy identikit living room, with chain store furniture, and pictures in Perspex cubes everywhere, the kind photographers in shopping malls shoot against portable white backgrounds. Rosie realized her lip was curling in sympathy with her past self, who was standing rigid in front of the mantelpiece, the hem of her skirt dripping onto the cream carpet. An anxious-looking woman was hovering, in black polyester trousers and a floral top. Her frosted pink lipstick, which didn’t suit her, was smeared on her teeth. Rosie gaped. “That’s Carole? But she looks like...a bank manager.” She’d been picturing some kind of femme fatale.

  Grandma was inspecting the mantelpiece for dust, and seemed satisfied with what she found. “Close. She’s a finance officer. Met your dad at an accounting conference in Swindon.”

  So this was the floozy her dad had left her mother for. A forty-something in slacks. In this memory, Carole was nervously offering tea, or coffee, or wine, or beer, or spirits—she said spirits like a Temperance preacher—and putting out little bowls of crisps and olives. Daisy was dutifully munching, though Rosie knew she didn’t even like olives. There was nowhere to put the pits, so Rosie watched her sister rummage through her own handbag—not dissimilar to Carole’s—and wrap them up neatly in a tissue. Oh Daisy. So neat, so polite. Whereas Past Rosie was clearly boiling over in rage.

  “Won’t you have a seat, love?” pleaded her dad. “We can have a nice drink and a chat—I got that wine you like, that Spanish stuff?”

  “I don’t want any wine.” But she sat down, perching on the arm of a sofa as if she might run away at any moment. “Where is she, then?”

  “Scarlett?” Carole’s nervous face creased with love at the name. “She’s having her nap. Would you like a little peep at her?”

  They traipsed up the stairs, also lined in photos, including lots of Daisy and Rosie, and into a baby’s room that was like an explosion of pink. Frills, flowers, hearts, teddies. In a flouncy cot, a baby was stretched out in deep sleep. Rosie and her past self hung back in the door, but she could remember how it felt—a gut-punch of jealousy, sadness; strange, sudden tears coming to her nose at the sight of this little baby. Daisy said all the right things, of course. “She’s beautiful, Carole. Hello, Scarlett. We’re your big sisters.”

  Carole was misty-eyed. “I never thought I’d have one. Forty-three and four rounds of IVF. And now a little girl of my own!”

  “Because you took someone else’s husband,” Rosie had muttered. Carole must have heard. There was a short awkward pause, the three of them crammed into Scarlett’s room.

  Carole said, “It’s very good of you to come, girls. I know it hasn’t been easy, but I hope that you...that you’ll see her as your little sister, like you said, Daisy.”

  Daisy hugged Carole as she started to cry, murmuring soothing things. But all Rosie could think of was her own mother, weeping on the bathroom floor, staying in bed for weeks. That day years ago, the fear and the screaming. Petey. Petey! It wasn’t fair. She pushed her way out of the baby’s room and thundered downstairs, eyes blurred with tears, only to find her father on the sofa, his jolly expression sunk into one of exhaustion. Good, Rosie had thought with a stab of spite. He’s finding out what happens when you have a baby and you’re actually around.

  “I know it’s hard, Rosie, love,” he said, quietly. “But will you please try? It’s not her fault. Little Scarlett.”

  What a stupid name. A name for a confident, privileged little girl who rode ponies, and how could she ever be that with nervy Carole for a mother and their useless shared father? “I know it’s not her fault, Dad,” Rosie said, retrieving the wine he’d poured her and draining the glass in one. “It’s yours.”

  Present-day Rosie, watching it all, winced again. Such a cruel thing to say, but she’d believed it, and afterward, as his face crumpled, she had added privately to herself: And mine. It’s my fault too. All of it.

  She just wasn’t entirely sure why.

  Daisy

  As Daisy closed the front door of her house, some of the engagement cards on the hall table fell over and drifted to the ground. She stooped to pick them up, feeling a twinge in her back. This was ridiculous. She was thirty, how could she already feel this tired and old? Gary appeared in the door to the living room, drying a glass with a tea towel. “Might be time to put those away now,” he said, nodding to the cards.

  “Okay.” It had been two months. It felt like years.

  Gary’s face was caring. “How is she?” She’d eventually called him on her way home, after returning to the hospital with bags full of new things for Rosie, finding her parents still fighting, and realizing she needed some backup.

  “They seem sort of hopeful. She’s made some sounds, responded to light—it’s all...hopeful.” Mentally, she imagined scoring a red line through that sentence, like Maura would with her client reports. Find a synonym for hopeful rather than repeating the same word, Daisy. But she couldn’t think of one.

  “And did they say what happened?”

  Daisy squatted to take off her shoes, leaning on the wall. Gary’s lips pursed—the wallpaper had been very expensive. She took her hand away, balancing awkwardly instead. “She walked in front of a bus.”

  “You mean...”

  “That’s what they said. People saw her step right in front of it. They don’t know if she just didn’t see it, or if she...” Daisy felt her face crumple, an ugly grimace of pain, and her mouth fill with tears. “I can’t believe she would do it. On purpose. I just can’t believe it.”

  “Oh hey, come on. Come and sit down.” He tidied her shoes onto the rack for her, then ushered her into the neat, cozy living room. The scented candles were lit, and the coffee table was dust-free, magazines stacked on it. Home. Daisy sank into an armchair and Gary perched on the sofa, gazing at her sadly. “You don�
��t know for sure?”

  “No, but... I went to her flat. It’s such a—God, she lives in a fleapit. It’s horrible. And since Mum and I haven’t really been speaking to her, you know...so I think she might have been...unhappy.”

  “Well, I hate to say it but—it’s not surprising, is it. The way she was at the engagement party. I mean, Dave, for God’s sake—he’s not coming to the wedding by the way, I’ve let the caterers know he’s off the spreadsheet.”

  Daisy slapped a palm to her head. “The caterers! That was today. God, I totally forgot.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve rearranged. But we do need to decide soon. Chicken and parma ham or beef Wellington? I’ve made a list of the pros and cons of each.”

  Daisy stared up at him. They’d been living together for almost three years now, since meeting in the pub after work one Friday, her tired and freewheeling after a busy week of contract law, him in his suit, fresh from work at a management consultancy firm. A meaningless phrase which meant camping out in the offices of other companies and telling them everything they were doing wrong. She hadn’t made it home in three days and was wearing knickers that still had the price tag on, bought in a hurried trip out of the office that morning. Then, Gary had just been an interesting stranger. Now, she knew every curve of his face, every item in his wardrobe. Today was Tuesday, so it was the blue-and-white-striped shirt with the gray suit. His stomach hung slightly over the waistband of his trousers—they’d both agreed they would lose weight before the wedding. “I can’t think about the wedding when Rosie’s in the hospital,” she heard herself say.

  “I know, babe, I know. Just saying it’s hardly out of character for her to do something...unstable.” He finished off wiping the glass with a hard polish, holding it to the light to check for smears. Daisy recognized it as one she’d already washed and put away the night before. “And when you think of it, walking in front of a bus, isn’t that kind of selfish? I mean what about the driver?”

  Selfish. Unstable. Unhappy. Oh Rosie. How did you get here? Daisy pushed herself to her feet. “I might have a bath.”

  “But I made dinner. Slimming World pasta. It’ll get cold.”

  “Sorry. Leave me some. I just—I just need a bath.” She escaped up the stairs, into the white bathroom with the fake old-style claw-foot tub, the one they’d spent so long choosing. They’d felt so grown-up, owning a house, paying to have the bathroom redone (though she’d had to shower at the gym for weeks). She’d felt like she’d achieved something, a life she could show to her parents and maybe allow them to stop worrying about at least one of their children.

  As she ran the hot water into the bath, glugging in a good measure of the rose-scented oil her mother had got her for Christmas, which she normally kept for special occasions, Daisy took off her engagement ring and sat it on the side, where it sparkled and gleamed among the steam and bubbles. She was just overwrought. There was so much to do. Tomorrow, she had to get up early and call Maura, rearrange her work, explain she wasn’t coming in again. Go to the hospital, referee her parents, hope there might be some change in Rosie. Try to find out what the note meant, what Rosie had been thinking when that bus hit her. She should really get out of the bath and do something useful.

  But she stayed in there so long, just staring at the ceiling, that Gary was in bed when she got out, the lights ostentatiously off and her pajamas left by the door in a neat pile. His back was already turned away from her. He was pathological about being asleep by nine. She bet Rosie hadn’t been to bed by nine since she was at primary school. Rosie lived alone in a hovel, while Daisy lived in this all-mod-cons house with a garden and replica claw-foot bath, with Gary who cooked for her and would wake her in the morning with green tea, who she would soon marry and live with for the rest of her life. She was the lucky sister. Rosie was the one who’d walked in front of a bus. So why did Daisy feel a hollow gnawing its way into the base of her stomach?

  She thought of the list of names she’d found in Rosie’s flat, which was now slipped into a pocket of her handbag. What did it mean? Tomorrow, she would try to figure it out. She had to, because one day had already passed, and Rosie was still in a coma.

  day two

  Rosie

  Time in the hospital seemed to lose all meaning. The meager light from the high window came and went, but the fluorescent bulbs burned constantly, and outside in the corridor there was always the sound of feet and beeps and hushed voices, occasionally rising to a shout or a run. It was night, she thought. One day run out already, and all she knew about her life was that it sucked. Did that mean she’d wanted to die? She’d walked in front of the bus on purpose? She had only two days to figure it all out, or she might never wake up.

  “Hello, darlin’.” The door had opened and there was a vision in orange. Dot.

  “Can you hear me?” Rosie tried. “I mean, do you see that I’m...awake?” Are you dead seemed a rather rude question to ask.

  Dot bustled in, wobbling on her flat feet. She had short gray hair and a whiff of cigarettes about her, and she kept up a constant stream of chatter that was hard to interrupt. “Let me see now.” She consulted the chart, pursing her lips. “Oh dear oh dear, that is a nasty one. Don’t you worry, love, we’ve fixed all sorts in this hospital.”

  “Have you? Do you think I’ll...will I get better?” Rosie wasn’t even sure if she was speaking aloud or not.

  “You’ll be right as rain, my love, I just know you will. You just sit tight and let that pretty head of yours heal. Now, let me see, what do we have here.” She tidied some paper cups from the bedside locker. “Ooh those are nice, aren’t they.” Rosie’s mother had put a vase of irises there, the deep purple and yellow lighting up the drab room. So she must believe, in some small part of her, that Rosie knew they were there. Or perhaps it was just blind hope.

  “Dot? Can you...can you tell me what’s happening to me?”

  Dot smoothed down her bedcover. “It must be confusing, Rosie, love, but we have it all in hand. You just get better, okay, darlin’? Now I have to go, but I’ll be along to say hello again.”

  “Dot? Dot, wait...” But she was gone.

  Rosie wished she could sleep. Every part of her ached, from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head. But sleep brought memories, which threw her awake with her head racing and tears leaking from her eyes. Sleep brought no rest. She was alone for now, except for the nurses who passed, regular as clockwork, checking charts and adjusting her drips, their touch efficient and cold.

  So. What had she learned so far about her life? Her family was fractured, and the love of her life (she knew Luke was that, she could feel her love for him carried beneath her solar plexus, as real and solid as a fist) had married someone else (probably), she’d been horrible to her stepmother and half sister, and she lived in a nasty flat with a beatboxing drug-addled downstairs neighbor. Her parents were divorced, acrimoniously. Something had happened, something bad, when she was younger. The top of her finger ached, a ghostly memory of when she’d sliced it off. What other wounds was her body carrying, both physical and mental?

  “This is fun, isn’t it. All these memories.”

  Rosie sighed as a ghostly apparition appeared in front of her, in polyester maroon. “Melissa. It’s not that much fun for me, no.”

  “But it’s a real trip down memory lane!”

  “Yes, if memory lane was haunted and full of potholes and feral foxes.”

  Melissa chuckled. “Oh Ro-Ro, such a joker. You could be on Friends. Ready for another memory? Let’s go.” Melissa checked her Casio watch. She had fraying friendship bracelets all around one wrist. “We’re on day two now already. Time’s running out, Rosie. Try to remember.”

  “Remember what?” The hospital room began to fade around Rosie. The dials appeared, spinning drunkenly. “Remember what?”

  Too late. She was back there.

  28 September 2017
(One month ago)

  “It’s actually a bit linked to Friends, this memory.”

  “Oh?” That sounded better. Maybe she had a big group of loving mates after all, who’d show up at the hospital any minute, bantering in-jokes back and forward.

  “Ta-da!”

  Rosie looked around her. “Right. So when you said it was just like Friends, what you meant was, it’s a memory about a coffee shop?”

  “A coffee shop where you work! That’s the dream, Rosie! Just like Rachel.”

  “Okay, well, it’s not the dream once you’re older than fourteen, Mel. So this is my job?” She gazed around her. A small, hip café, with gluten-free organic cakes arranged in piles, and a menu as long as the phone book. Brief bursts of memory were coming back to her—the smell of coffee, slicing into a pan of brownies warm and oozing from the oven, giggling at Serge when he had to wear a plastic hairnet over his beard...(who was Serge?). Each memory left a trail of different feelings, some happy, some sad, some dull, and then was gone like a speeding comet.

  Melissa was gaping at the menu. “I thought the only hot drinks that existed were coffee, tea and hot chocolate. What’s cold brew?”

  “It’s...” Rosie drew a blank. “Sorry, I don’t know either. You’d think I would, if I worked here. Oh look, there I am. Yikes, I look awful.”

  Her uniform was a red polo shirt, the worst possible color for her, and her gingery hair was bundled back, almost but not quite beaten into submission. She was behind the counter, and a large bearded man with tattoos was lecturing her. “It’s just not good enough, Rosie.”