She sat and said, “Hi.”
I had that feeling again, the one I always get when I’m with her, like I don’t know what to say. I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable, either. I said, “Hi” back and then didn’t have any other words. I was thinking about the tunnel, about the shattering of glass, and my mouth went dry. I started to feel sick.
She said, “Are you okay?”
I shrugged and took a couple of deep breaths. “I don’t know. No, yes, I’m fine,” I replied. “I’m sorry, Kalila. I just get, um…” I looked to Rosa-Leigh for help.
Rosa-Leigh said, “She just gets freaked out sometimes.”
Kalila nodded. And then she just tackled it straight on. She came out and said, “It must have been hard for you. My mum’s coworker was there that day.”
“Really?” I said. “Is she okay?”
Kalila shrugged. “Kind of. She nearly wasn’t. The whole thing makes me sick,” she said. “So violent, so stupid, so terrible. It must have been so terrible.” She put a hand out and gently touched mine. “It doesn’t compare, but it’s been horrible for us.” She lifted both hands toward herself. “One guy came up to me in the street and spat at me. He called me a terrorist.”
“God, that’s awful,” I said, looking into her gentle dark eyes.
“I understand people being angry, but they should be angry with the right people—with the terrorists, not people like me. I just wish they wouldn’t be so narrow-minded.”
I nodded. “It’s so messed up.”
Rosa-Leigh said, “I don’t mean to get you guys on to more cheerful things—Well, I do, actually. I thought that you”—she looked at me—“might like to read tonight.”
“Read where?”
“Up there. I thought you’d like to read one of your poems.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so,” I said louder than I meant to.
Rosa-Leigh did a dramatic sigh and said, “Worth a try.”
Then Kalila asked me about the poems I’ve written, and I got a bit shy. She told us how she loves to sing. One of the performance poets started.
I had this feeling in my chest like I wished I’d put my name down to read.
I’m at Rosa-Leigh’s house. I called Mum and told her I’m spending the night, and Saturday night, too, if she didn’t mind. She sighed and said, “Sure.”
SUNDAY, MAY 21ST
When I got home, this MAN came out of the kitchen. I practically had a heart attack, and I was about to start screaming about intruders and stuff when Mum called loudly, “What do you want to eat?” And I could tell by the tone of her voice she wasn’t talking to me.
He was a slender man, bald, glasses, round face. I recognized him but I didn’t know where from. He reached out his hand and he said his name was Robin.
I shook his hand, which totally enveloped mine.
He said, “I’m so glad to see you. We’ve met before.”
“No, we haven’t,” I said. I dropped his hand quick, like it was suddenly hot.
“You were tiny at the time. You wouldn’t remember.”
Mum came out of the kitchen and jumped at the sight of me. Her face put itself back on, and she tried to smile like everything was completely normal. She said, “Robin and I have been friends for years.” She looked up at him.
“What’s he doing here?” I said.
“This is my friend, Sophie.”
I wanted to say, And he stayed over last night?
As if she’d read my mind, she said, “He came over for an early lunch.”
I didn’t reply, instead turning to go upstairs.
“Come back,” Mum called after me. “Join us for lunch, please?”
I ignored her and went to my room. I lay on my bed. I sort of expected something to happen but nothing did.
In the end I went downstairs. They both quieted when I sat down with them. I could see Mum was about to say something, but then Robin gave her this hold-off look. Mum sighed and put pasta on my plate. They chatted about some professor they’d known at university—they went to university together, apparently. The conversation felt like it was better off without me in it, so I stayed silent and toyed with my spaghetti. I noticed a yellow spill of olive oil on the table. Since when did Mum start cooking again? I suddenly realized she’d been cooking for me for a while—I just hadn’t been eating with her.
Then Mum said, “Robin has been looking forward to meeting you,” and added randomly, “He’s traveled all over the world.”
Robin said, “It’s true.”
“Why don’t you ask him about it?” Mum said.
Robin said, “Don’t push her.”
“She can do what she wants,” I said.
“Sophie, please.”
“What? What do you expect? You’re acting like everything should be FINE.”
Mum’s face went red and splotchy all along the sides. She held on to the table, her knuckles white.
“I’m not hungry,” I said, and got up.
She said, “Please, Sophie.”
I looked at Mum. “What do you want me to say?”
“Please,” she said in a whisper.
I could feel Robin staring at me. I knew he just wanted me to sit down, and I hated him for that. And I hated myself for being such a bitch, but I couldn’t calm down. I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “I’m finished with lunch. I’m going to my room.”
Mum yelled after me to come back and talk. I heard Robin saying, “Leave her. Give her time.”
“She hates me,” said Mum.
I wanted to kill them both.
I slept all afternoon. When I woke up, Robin was gone. I wished then that he hadn’t left, because somehow he got in the way of Mum and me. Without him we’re back to where we’ve always been.
I want to tell Mum that I’m sorry. I want to make it better. But she’s so nervous around me now, and angry, that I don’t know how to handle it.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 24TH
School: awful. Home: worse. Rosa-Leigh called and asked if I wanted to go over tomorrow just for supper. I’ll definitely go. Mum is treating me like I’m made of glass and if she drops me I’ll break into little bits. I just want her to come and talk to me and make everything okay. But every time she’s tried recently, I’ve yelled at her and shut her out. Perhaps I’ve ruined everything forever, especially after how I acted during the weekend.
THURSDAY, MAY 25TH
Supper at Rosa-Leigh’s was great. It’s so much easier there than here with Mum.
FRIDAY, MAY 26TH
I wonder if Emily hadn’t died in the bombing whether she’d have died soon after anyway. Like in that film I can’t remember the name of where they’re meant to die in a roller-coaster accident but don’t. Afterward, death stalks them all until they’re killed in horrible ways.
I imagine a big room with lots of pens writing out the dates we’re due to die. Fate. Written in the stars. When our date comes, it’s all over.
I wonder if there’s anything afterward, like God or Allah. Or is there nothing? Is Emily really nothing now? When I remember her, she’s so much more than nothing.
Mum came in just now. She said to me, “I love you, Sophie. Don’t ever forget that.”
I pretended to be asleep. She turned out the light.
MONDAY, MAY 29TH
Abigail looks really sick. She’s so thin. It’s so obvious that she’s throwing up her food, I can’t believe I didn’t notice before. I can’t believe I haven’t done anything since that day I found out. I know I should do something, but I feel like we’re on two sides of a huge river, and the river is so big that I can’t swim across to her even if I want to. Half-term starts tomorrow for the rest of the week; I’ll use the breather from homework and tests to try and think of what I can do to help her.
FRIDAY, JUNE 2ND
I went to an appointment with a new therapist, the one Lynda organized for me. She is tall and thin and black and looks nothing like Lynda. Her name is (Professor) Ko
reen Sinclair. She reached out a hand to shake and said, “Hello. Make yourself comfortable.”
She isn’t annoying or patronizing, or a puppy dog like Lynda. She’s firm and clear. I liked her straightaway.
She said, “So, why don’t you start by telling me what’s brought you here?”
It’s so embarrassing, but I just burst into tears. I cried as if an upsurge of water had burst from a pipe deep inside me. Then, after she’d handed me a tissue, I started talking. And I’d only said a couple of things when I started to feel that terrible pounding of my heart. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” I said. Nausea flooded through me, and I was struggling to breathe. “I feel like…there’s no air…”
She looked at me as if I was totally normal. She said, “Do you know what a panic attack is?”
I shook my head. I tried to speak. It took a moment for the words to come out. “I looked on the internet, and I wondered if that’s what is happening to me. But it seems like the sort of thing that happens to, I don’t know, weak people.”
She shook her head. “Take a deep breath. Are you okay?”
For the first time in a long time I was honest. “No, I’m not.”
“Panic attacks aren’t a sign of weakness. A panic attack is a normal physical response that happens at the wrong time. Do you understand?”
“Not really.”
“Think of it as a huge adrenaline rush. If you were having that adrenaline rush at the right time, it wouldn’t feel remotely strange.” Her voice was so calm it was like warm milk.
“Like when?”
“If a little boy stepped out in front of a car and you had to rescue him, for example. Your heart would speed up, sounds would be louder, colors brighter, your digestive system would go on hold so more energy could be diverted into saving him.”
“But I’ve never had to save anyone from stepping in front of a car.”
“And that’s why it feels so awful. When you panic, you’re having that response—a right response—at the wrong time. We’ll talk about this again. It’ll take a while.”
I nodded. Stayed quiet. Caught my breath. Felt my heartbeat return to normal. She smiled. Asked me to come back next week.
When I came out of her cozy room, I felt a little different. Clearer.
12
And she’s still with me
Brightly unseen
SUNDAY, JUNE 4TH
I got home from a walk. Robin and Mum were sitting together looking at photographs. I leaned over. There were pictures of them aged about nineteen, hugging each other, sitting on his motorbike, generally looking happy. I said, “When did you two meet?”
Mum gave Robin a quick look and then smiled at me. “We went out together in school. We traveled to Calcutta on his bike when we were twenty-one.”
I was so astounded that I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t even know that Mum has been to India. She showed me pictures of her in these crazy, beautiful places. I wished Robin wasn’t there, because I felt kind of close to her for the first time in forever. But he was there, and he started telling stories about having no money and sleeping at the sides of the roads. Then he went into great detail about one day when he was robbed in Nepal. I wanted to scream at them, asking why I’d never even heard of Robin. Instead I listened and looked at the pictures. I blurted out, “Why haven’t we met before?”
Mum said, “Robin came back into my life, as a friend, six months before Emily died.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard her say it out loud. That Emily has died. It caught me in the stomach, her saying it like that, caught me like someone was pulling me backward.
I was about to reply, but my mobile rang. It was ABIGAIL asking if I wanted to come over on Friday night. Even though we’ve been so distant recently, I know I have to help her with the whole bulimia thing so I said yes.
I was going to ask how she was, but she was in a hurry. When I got off the phone, Mum looked at her watch and said they had to go; they were meeting friends. There was no time to ask any more questions. She looked at me like she felt guilty or sorry or something, but I sort of smiled back to let her know I didn’t mind her going out.
I’m lying here trying to imagine Mum and Robin with their friends at some pub or somewhere, and I realize I can’t picture them at all. I can’t remember what Robin looks like even though I saw him earlier today.
I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I’ve got Art first thing. I wish I hadn’t chosen it. I’m the worst artist in the world.
THURSDAY, JUNE 8TH
Mum made me go to this Boxercise class with her tonight after school. It’s not something she’s ever even mentioned before, but she wanted us to try it together. She thought it would be good for us.
We got there, and Mum said hi in a trying-to-be-friendly way to a couple of the other women standing around in the badly lit big gym, and I realized she’d been there before. The instructor came in: a huge man called Wayne. He gave us all huge gloves and showed us some moves.
We had to pair up and hit our partner—well, not hit her but hit this red padded thing our partner held. Mum was my partner, and she seemed really focused. She even laughed at one point. It was kind of fun.
Then, in the car on the way home, I suddenly wished Emily were there so badly that my heart hurt. I turned my head and looked out the window as the silent streets slipped by.
FRIDAY, JUNE 9TH
I wrote a letter to Eleanor Summerfield at 18 Bowood Road today. I wrote that I’m sorry I bothered her. When I finished the letter, I went to post it, and I felt briefly happy. It’s been so long since I was happy that I hardly recognized the feeling—then I felt guilty for being happy. And confused.
I’m just about to go to Abigail’s now. Robin’s giving me a lift there, which is nice of him, I suppose.
When I got to Abigail’s, her brother was home. He dragged me off to the living room before she even knew I’d arrived. He said, “What’s wrong with Abigail? She looks awful.”
I wasn’t going to say anything—I felt really disloyal—so I changed the subject and said, “I didn’t know you were home.”
“Sophie, she’s so thin.” He stared right at me.
“She’s fine.”
“What’s wrong with her? You must know.”
“We’re not really that close anymore,” I said.
“Sophie,” he begged.
He looked so desperate, I had to tell him. I spoke softly. “I think she’s bulimic.”
He paused. “When you throw up after eating? That?”
I nodded.
“Why haven’t you done something? Or said something?”
“I didn’t even realize myself until recently. I’ve been, um, distracted, I guess.”
He stepped back, releasing me with his eyes, and said, “Bulimic. Are you sure?”
Then I saw Abigail was standing behind him. A tear slid down her cheek, and I knew she’d overheard. She said, “I don’t know what to do,” really quietly.
Her brother took two strides over and seized her in this big hug. I looked at the floor. I heard him say, “I’ll help you, Abi. Just tell me what to do.” He let her go. “I’ll let you two talk.” With that he left the room.
I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO UNCOMFORTABLE IN MY WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE. Abigail and I stared at each other. I could almost feel the river between us, wet and rushing past.
She said, “I’m so sorry about Emily.”
I swallowed.
“I really am sorry. I can’t believe what it must have been like being there. I can’t even imagine it. And you must be so angry with the bombers, and you’ve seen such terrible things, and I’ve been such a bitch to you. It’s so fucked up.”
“I miss her all the time,” I said. “Do you remember how she always bossed me around? I was always saying I hated her.”
“Not always.”
I swallowed and said, “I wish I wasn’t so frightened all the time. And so angry.”
Abigail repeated, “I can’t even
imagine.” She took a deep breath. “I wish I’d been a better friend to you. I didn’t really know how.”
“I didn’t make it easy for you. I didn’t know how to talk to anyone about what happened. It wasn’t just you. I’m sorry. Really sorry.” And then I stepped forward and hugged her. I decided never to tell her about Dan—I realized that sometimes even best friends don’t have to know everything about each other.
She said, “Are you okay?”
I shrugged. “Not really. I want to be okay, but I’m not. Not even close.” I paused then said, “I probably won’t be okay for a long time. Over Easter I went to where my family first used to live.”
“Where’s that?”
“Bowood Road. Doesn’t matter. I don’t even know why I’m telling you.”
“What was it like? Did you remember it?”
“I couldn’t remember anything. I don’t even know why I went. I suppose I wanted to understand better. I wanted to know what it was like before.”
She said, “I get what you mean.”
“I know what’s happening with you because I overheard you talking to Megan in the bathroom. You two were making yourselves sick.”
“Oh God. Everything’s felt so out of control. I couldn’t cope with what had happened to you, and to Emily last summer. And Mum’s drinking is out of control, and I didn’t know how to handle it, and then suddenly I was losing weight. I felt better, and I looked good, and I had some control, I suppose, over things going on around me.”
I took a deep breath.
Abigail said, “I don’t know what to do.”
“I can help.”
“No. I think I need proper help.”
I felt like everything was spinning. I said, “So do I. I was going to this therapist called Lynda who drove me insane. I went to another one recently because I’m so crazy. I have panic attacks. All the time.” I went to sit on the sofa. “How did we both end up such a mess?”
“Speak for yourself,” she said, but she was joking. When she put it like that, it was kind of funny, and I burst out laughing. She sat next to me.
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