The Lives We Touch

by Eva Woods

  Alone in the silence of the hospital – machines ticking softly around her, draining fluids, putting new fluids in, monitoring the beat of her heart – Rosie turned the questions over in her head. Why had she fallen out with her mother and sister? What the hell had happened to Luke, and why wasn’t he at her bedside? Why was she reliving all these awful moments, and what could she do to make it better? If only someone could help her. These ghostly visitors, they were no good. They could only tell her what she already knew. What if some memories never came back? Luke. Luke. Come on, access memories of Luke. She pictured clicking on a computer folder, holding the mouse down firmly. Nothing happened. The memories remained stubbornly elusive.

  The door opened – God, not Gary again – and a nurse came in, the one who smelled of Germolene and didn’t bother making chit-chat. Her hands were cool and efficient as they changed Rosie’s catheter bag. Rosie would have thought this must be incredibly humiliating, to be peeing into a bag as an adult, but the nurses were so discreet and efficient about it that it was fine. She felt well looked after, in her body at least. The broken leg and bruised ribs would heal, her cuts and bruises would fade. Maybe her brain would even sort itself out. But the turmoil in her mind – the painful scrape of those terrible memories – she wasn’t sure how long it would take to recover from that. She began to make a list in her head of people she had wronged. Angie, of course. Caz. Mr Malcolm, except he was dead. Had she known he was dead before this? She must have. Melissa, ditto. Her mother, she supposed. Her sister. But why? What had happened between them that they hadn’t spoken in months? Think, Rosie. It wasn’t easy to force yourself to relive a time when you’d behaved awfully, but she knew now it had to be done. The sooner she figured out what the lesson behind all this was, the sooner she might be able to wake up and take charge of her life. She could almost feel the memory inside her, sitting there, waiting to be relived. She wondered who would take her on this journey. ‘Grandma?’ she said cautiously.

  ‘I’m here, darling.’ There she was, a ghostly figure in a cardy, Filou on her lap, now dressed in the pink dog onesie she’d knitted him, and not looking very happy about it.

  Rosie shut her eyes. The dial rolled round to a date just a few months ago: 1 8 2017.

  1 August 2017 (Two months ago)

  Success! She had managed to actually control her memory, and found herself now at her sister’s engagement party. The noise level was high. There were about fifty people crammed into the room above a pub – Rosie remembered she’d been surprised Daisy and Gary had so many friends. She spotted herself loitering sulkily near the mini quiches, dressed in ripped jeans and an ironic Steps T-shirt. She stuck out like a caterpillar in the salad, as all Daisy’s friends wore sensible shift dresses, ballet pumps, minimal make-up. Rosie could see that her past self was already drunk. She glanced around for Daisy. Her sister looked happy, smiling and displaying her ring to various friends and relatives, but if you knew her very well, you’d be able to see the tightening around her eyes. Because of Gary, Rosie had thought. Because she wasn’t sure about him. But now she wondered if maybe it was in fact because of Daisy’s unstable drunk sister.

  Ghostly Grandma was picking over the buffet with unabashed curiosity. ‘Look at the size of those cocktail sausages. Tiny, they are. It weren’t like that in my day.’

  Grandma had loved a good get-together when she was alive. A chance to criticise the buffet food and catch up on family gossip.

  ‘I have a feeling this might … It might get a bit … heated. I think it didn’t go that well.’

  ‘All the better. It’s hard to have a good barney in the afterlife, everyone just drifts about being serene all the time.’

  Gary was holding court, a bottle of imported lager in his hand, talking loudly to his colleagues. She wouldn’t have put it past him to throw this entire party just to impress his boss. ‘So I took her to our favourite spot in the woods – that’s the thing about Daise, she doesn’t need fancy proposals or expensive trips abroad – and got down on one knee. Luckily I’d remembered to bring a tarpaulin! Didn’t want to ruin my chinos.’

  Urgh. Rosie tuned him out. ‘He’s the worst.’

  ‘Seems a good catch to me, love. Solvent, all his own hair …’

  ‘But Daisy needs more than that. She needs someone … adventurous, and lively, and open to the world.’

  ‘That you or her you’re talking about?’ said Gran shrewdly, examining a wrapped prawn. ‘Eee, party food’s changed since my day. No hedgehog pineapple? No Black Forest gateau?’ She passed a sausage to Filou, who was under the table.

  ‘It’s both of us. She’s like me; she needs to not be boxed in.’

  ‘But she’s got a serious job and she’s engaged at thirty with a mortgage and a set of barbecue tongs.’

  Rosie sighed. It was true. What if she’d just been projecting? What if Daisy really did want a dull, stable husband and a house in suburbia? ‘I don’t know how she can get married when she’s seen the example Mum and Dad set. Look, he’s not even here, Mum wouldn’t allow it.’

  ‘Your parents were happy for a time,’ said Gran. ‘Until all that. Not many couples could survive something like that, you know.’

  Rosie couldn’t really remember a time before ‘all that’, or even what ‘all that’ was. It seemed to sit on her childhood memories like a rock, crushing and shattering everything. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t watch the rest. I don’t think I behaved all that well.’

  Gran passed her a mini-sausage. ‘It’s not really me, love, you know. You don’t need to worry.’

  It was about to happen. She could see that a paunchy man in a Star Wars T-shirt had sidled up to her at the buffet table. He was casting covert looks at her, with her torn jeans and rippling red hair, as if she wasn’t quite real. Past Rosie spotted him and downed the last of her drink. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Er, hiya.’

  ‘Rosie. Sister of the bride-to-be. Huh.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, we’ve met before actually. Dave. Gary’s mate from school.’

  ‘Dave.’ Rosie’s eyes flickered round the room, and her current self knew she was doing a calculation. There were no other single guys at this do except for some of Gary’s work people, and they all looked like the type of guys who’d add you on LinkedIn after you’d spent the night with them. Speaking of Gary, he was about to make his speech, beaming, half-heartedly shushing the applause like he was running for President.

  ‘Thanks, thanks. Daisy and I are so thrilled to have so many supportive friends and relations.’ She bet he’d recorded exactly who was there, added it to some kind of friendship database.

  ‘Three years ago I was in a bar, and there was this woman doing tequila shots, and she insisted I do one too. Well, who could resist a girl that buys you a drink? Though sadly it was something of a one-off as Daisy’s now more than happy for me to pick up the bills!’ Laughter. Both Past and Present Rosie winced. She knew fine well Daisy earned as much as Gary did, if not more. ‘So … after a few years of dating and making sure she didn’t have an actual drinking problem … I sensibly asked her to marry me and put a ring on it. I’m thrilled that Daisy Mary Cooke will, as of next year, be Mrs Gary Rudley.’

  Past Rosie was miming retching. ‘This is awful,’ muttered Present Rosie. ‘I’d forgotten that. Like she has no identity now – just his name! God, I hate him.’

  ‘So, Daisy and I would like to thank you all for coming. Do stay for a cheeky wine or two with us – and otherwise we’ll see you at the wedding!’ He stood down, clasping Daisy to him and kissing her forehead, flushed with the success of his speech. Daisy looked rigid, her smile forced.

  Present Rosie was still ranting to her imaginary grandma. ‘How can Daisy stand all this patriarchal crap? I gave her The Female Eunuch when she was thirteen! I just don’t understand it. Mrs Gary Rudley … I’m going to vom.’

  ‘I think you already did,’ said Grandma, pointing to where Past Rosie was hunched over one of the crisp bowls in the corner, s
hakily wiping her mouth.

  Present Rosie winced. ‘Oh yeah. God, I did puke, didn’t I?’

  ‘Right on top of the Hula Hoops, love. Shame to waste ’em.’

  Rosie watched as her past self surreptitiously hid the bowl behind some curtains and sashayed, or attempted to sashay, back to Dave, who was looking horrified. ‘Sorry about that. I guess their sickly sweet romance made me actually nauseous.’

  ‘Um … do you want some water?’

  ‘No water. Vodka!’

  Dave went to the bar, fishing out a worn tenner from his tattered polyester wallet to pay for it. Rosie winced at that too. Had she made him buy her drinks? He didn’t look rich. He came back with a drink – only for her – and she downed it again, a grim expression in her eyes. Then she made a beeline for her sister and Gary, parting the crowd with the strength of the booze fumes and her rage.

  ‘Your speech.’ She poked Gary in the chest. ‘Bit presumptuous, no? What makes you think Daisy will take your name at all? She’s got a career already.’

  Daisy’s face was frozen in fear. ‘Rosie, please …’

  Gary fake-laughed, tightening his hold on Daisy, so close a small slosh of wine jumped from her glass onto his shirt. ‘Of course she’ll take my name! It’s what people do.’

  ‘In medieval times, maybe. It’s 2017, or haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘Well, I think it’s nice – we’ll be a family, a unit. She has to have the same name as our kids.’

  ‘Newsflash, Gary, you don’t have any kids.’

  Dave was hovering anxiously behind. Their mother, hearing the commotion, swooped in. She murmured, ‘Rosie, do lower your voice. You’re like a foghorn.’

  ‘I won’t!’ Drunkenly, she raised her finger again. Poke poke poke into Gary’s chest. ‘You seem to have it all figured out, Gaz.’

  ‘Please don’t call me Ga—’

  ‘Put a ring on it, you said – like she’s some kind of animal! – change her name, tie her to the kitchen sink having your babies, and give them all your name. Well, that’s not what Daisy wants, OK.’

  ‘How would you know what she wants?’ Gary hissed. ‘When was the last time you called her, or came to visit, or asked how she really was?’

  ‘She’s my sister. I know her.’

  ‘You don’t know her.’ He turned to Dave. ‘How much has she had to drink?’

  That just enraged Rosie further. ‘He’s not my keeper! How dare you. You bloody sexist.’

  There was a small choked sound, and the splash of more wine hitting the floor, glass shattering. Daisy had bolted from the room, crying. Gary moved to go after her, but Rosie rounded on him. ‘Don’t! She’s my sister, I’ll go.’ She staggered out after Daisy, and Present Rosie followed, cringing. This was awful. As if someone had gone round and filmed all her most embarrassing moments and made them into a home movie. Like the world’s worst episode of You’ve Been Framed. She remembered that Jeremy Beadle was dead too. Maybe he’d show up any minute and ask was she game for an after-death laugh.

  Daisy was in the stairwell of the bar, biting her lip hard, her make-up already smudged with tears. Past Rosie tried: ‘Hey, Daise—’

  ‘Why must you spoil everything?’

  Rosie stepped back, shocked at the rage of her mild-mannered little sister. ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Well, you did. It’s my engagement party! And you’re pissed, you’ve been sick on the crisps – don’t think I didn’t notice – and you’re all over Dave, for God’s sake, a guy you wouldn’t spit on if you weren’t trying to get at me … God, Rosie, you’re so selfish!’

  ‘I’m not trying to get at you, Daise! God, it’s the opposite. I don’t think you’re happy, that’s all.’ She stepped forward; Daisy shrugged her off. ‘When I see you with him, you’re not yourself. Your eyes. They’re all kind of tight and miserable. Why are you doing it? Just to make Mum happy? For someone to love you? Anyone would love you, Daise—’

  ‘I’m not miserable. I’m happy! I’m getting married! You’re the one who’s miserable, Rosie, and you’re trying to bring everyone else down with you!’

  The door opened and the noise of the party rose and fell; their mother stepped out, shutting it behind her. She looked furious. ‘Rosie, what on earth is wrong with you? Showing us up like that! What’s going on?’ She sniffed at her daughter. ‘And you’re drunk. Rosie, I think you need help.’

  ‘You’re the one who stopped Dad from coming to his own daughter’s engagement party! You don’t think that was kind of upsetting for Daisy too?’

  Daisy stared at the floor.

  Their mother’s face hardened. ‘I think you should leave. You’re embarrassing yourself and us.’

  ‘I just don’t think Daisy should be marrying that guy. He’s a prat. He won’t make her happy.’

  ‘He’s a stable young man, with a good job, who won’t let her down, unlike your father.’

  ‘God, when will you stop blaming everything on Dad? Take some responsibility! What about what you did?’

  ‘Oh!’ Her mother’s face tore into a sob. ‘Oh, Rosie. How can you be so cruel?’

  ‘I’m so cruel? What about—’

  Daisy snapped. ‘Will you just both stop it? I’ve spent my whole life listening to you two tear strips off each other. And this is my party. Stop ruining it!’

  ‘Daisy!’

  ‘Enough, Mum! Just go back inside.’ Daisy turned to Rosie. ‘Mum’s right. You’re drunk, you should go home. But don’t take Dave with you, please. He’s a sweet guy under all the Star Wars stuff. He doesn’t need your drama.’

  ‘What’s going on out here?’ It was Gary, of course, sticking his oar in.

  Daisy sounded very tired. ‘It’s OK, I’m handling it.’

  ‘Is she causing trouble again?’

  ‘Just leave it, Gar. Come on. Your boss is here, let’s go and smooth things over.’

  Her mother and sister turned away from her, her mother wiping a shaking hand over her eyes, and closed the door behind them. Rosie was left alone on the stairs, shut out from the party. Gary hung back, staring at her.

  ‘You’ve got something to say, I suppose?’ she snarled.

  ‘Don’t think I’ll put up with this kind of thing after the wedding, Rosie.’

  ‘How fucking dare you, Gary? It’s my family. It’s nothing to do with you.’

  He came close, hissing in her face. ‘If you ask me, your family would be a lot better off without you, Rosie.’ And he went back to the party, slamming the door, pasting on a smile.

  As Rosie watched, her past self gave a long ragged sob and fled down the stairs, out onto the street. She remembered now that Dave had come after her, clumsily asking was she all right, and she’d dragged him home with her and— Oh, it was all a mess. A terrible, insoluble mess. And now she’d remembered, she couldn’t even say sorry, because she was comatose in a hospital bed.

  ‘Eeee,’ was all Grandma had to say on the subject. ‘It does take all sorts.’

  Daisy

  The village’s sole Chinese takeaway did a roaring trade, and so did not have to bother with niceties such as nonlaminated menus, environmental health ratings, or lighting that didn’t make you lose all hope as soon as you entered. The man behind the counter was also definitely not Chinese. ‘All right?’

  ‘Yeah, hi. I’ll have the beef in black bean sauce, the chicken chow mein, fried rice, spring rolls, prawn crackers … What?’

  He was staring at her. Under his very dirty white uniform hat, his face was narrow and spotty. Early thirties, she thought. ‘You’re Rosie Cooke’s sister, ain’t you?’

  ‘Er, yeah, I’m Daisy.’

  ‘Thought you was. Andy, Andy Franks.’

  ‘Hi. Were you friends?’ Please God it was just friends, not another example of Rosie’s famously terrible taste in men.

  ‘Was mates with Bryn, you know, who she used to have that thing with.’

  Daisy nodded, although she had only heard of this Bryn just minu
tes ago. ‘I hear he’s in prison.’

  Andy’s face hardened. ‘Yeah. He were a bad lot. Took me a while to see it. Your Rosie, she were … Always hoped she’d ditch him. She were way too good for him. All that hair she had, like a princess or something, and in them school plays – she were right good. Did she make it, you know, at the acting? Always look out for her on EastEnders and that.’

  Daisy hadn’t the heart to tell him Rosie had given up acting, and was currently lying unconscious in a hospital bed. For this man, Rosie was forever a teenager, the beautiful livewire she’d been back then. Of course, the thing about live wires was they were actually quite dangerous. ‘Er, yeah, she’s doing OK. I’ll tell her you were asking after her.’

  ‘There you go.’ Andy slid over the warm, fragrant bag of food. ‘Stuck a few spare ribs in and all.’

  ‘Oh, that’s really kind of you, thanks.’

  ‘Tell ’er to look in and say hello when she’s down.’

  ‘I will.’ Except Daisy had no idea if Rosie would ever set foot in this village again.

  Despite pronouncing herself ‘not very hungry’, her mum had eaten three spring rolls and a generous helping of rice and beef in black bean sauce. Daisy was glad. There was something sad about this house, which had once held a family. The pathetic contents of the fridge, the single chair angled to the TV, her mother’s glasses placed on top of her book. Ever since her father left, Daisy had been at pains to keep the peace, between him and her mother and also between Rosie and her parents (she hadn’t done such a good job there). But she’d never really thought about how it was for her mum, left behind, sitting in her empty house while her ex-husband was off with another woman and a new child.