11 Missed Calls

by Elisabeth Carpenter

  He swallows the hot chocolate.

  ‘Nothing. I had my mouth full.’

  I’m just tired, that’s all it is. Perhaps if I have a few drinks, I’ll get a decent night’s sleep.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll go on the night out.’

  ‘Great. I’ll let her know.’

  I say nothing.

  I picture what’ll probably happen this evening. Me, putting on a happy face, watching bloody Albion Market or whatever it’s called, and then going to bed knowing I’ll be awake a few hours later. It doesn’t even fill me with dread, because I feel nothing.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ I say, ‘I’m going to have an early night. I didn’t sleep well last night.’

  I walk through the door to the lounge. Bobby’s still engrossed in Thomas the Tank Engine.

  ‘But I thought we were okay now?’ says Peter. ‘How will I do the kids’ bedtime on my own?’

  He thought we were all right? Did he think that a suggestion of a night out would make everything better? I don’t know what planet he lives on.

  ‘It’ll be good practice for Friday,’ I say. ‘Mum made up some spare bottles for tonight – they’re in Annie’s bag.’

  ‘Wait a sec, Deb.’

  I stop and slowly turn around. I’m not in the mood for an argument. I just need to get under the bed covers and lie alone in the dark. I wait for another of his protests, but instead he gets something out of the drawer.

  ‘This came for you yesterday.’

  He’s holding out a pink envelope. It has my name and address written on it. He’s smiling – does he know who’s written it?

  I don’t want it, I want to say. Whoever’s writing to me is trying to break me. But I can’t tell Peter that.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  I manage to stop the tremble in my hands as I take the letter. I walk through the lounge into the hall.

  ‘Night, Debs,’ he shouts after me. ‘Hope you feel better in the morning.’

  He talks as though I’m a colleague or someone at the corner shop. Why isn’t he intrigued about the letter? I know I would be, if he were to receive one. We hardly ever get handwritten mail these days, people just phone each other. I shut the door to the living room and scrutinise the postmark. Lancashire and South Lakes. It’s local. This is the first time one of these letters has been stamped. Perhaps it’s just a fluke that it’s the same colour.

  I tear it open.

  My hope that the colour is pure coincidence is shattered when I read it.

  He wishes you were dead. They’re thinking of ways to get rid of you.

  I stand for a few moments as I take in the same carefully written capital letters. It’s like the words in my head have been printed on paper, but I’m reading them as though I’m a thousand miles away – like it’s happening to someone else.

  It can’t be Dean. I don’t know why I even thought it would be. I can’t understand why anyone would want to be so mean to me.

  Unless they really know me.

  Perhaps Peter wasn’t curious about it because he wrote it.

  I can’t trust him. He’s in on it too. With Monica. I don’t think she’s ever liked me, not really. But fuck her. I don’t care what she thinks of me.

  I want to tear the letter into pieces, but I don’t. I leave it on the hall table. If it’s still there in the morning, then I’m going to collect all of the notes and take them to someone who can help me.

  But, for the moment, I haven’t the energy to give a shit. Let whoever it is hurt me. They’ll be doing me a favour.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Anna

  I manage to find a parking space in the crammed hospital car park. I switch the engine off, and lean against the seat.

  Thank God Jack finished work early and I could leave Sophie at home.

  ‘Did your dad say what was wrong with her?’ Jack whispered to me before I set off.

  ‘No, nothing. Just that she was injured and in hospital.’

  I was shaking so much my keys rattled as I held them. Jack took both of my hands in his.

  ‘Try not to worry. Shall I drive you there?’

  ‘No, no. I don’t want to worry Sophie. I’ll be fine.’

  I turned to leave, but a thought stopped me.

  ‘How come you’re back so early? When I phoned, you were already home.’

  ‘I … I just wanted to have a chat. But now’s not the right time. Just go – go and see Monica.’

  ‘Oh … okay.’

  It’s bad enough imagining what’s wrong with Monica, without worrying even more about my marriage. Oh God. What if she isn’t all right? Dad didn’t say what happened, and when I tried to phone him, it went straight to answerphone. I get out of the car and walk slowly to the main reception.

  I give Monica’s name, and almost cry with relief when the man behind the desk says, ‘Take the lift to level two, and then through the doors to your right. Bleasdale Ward.’

  When Grandad was here three years ago with his knee, it took me at least half an hour to find him, but Monica’s is easier to find. I push the hand sanitiser into my palms and spread it up to my wrist.

  ‘Could you tell me where I can find Monica Atherton?’ I say to the nurse at the station.

  She points her pen to a room only two metres away.

  I see Dad straight away, leaning against the window. The curtain around Monica’s bed is pulled across, so I can’t see her from the doorway.

  ‘Dad!’ I walk quickly towards him, trying to walk on tiptoes so as not to disturb the other patients. I don’t know why I bother, though, because most of them are chatting away to the visitors milling around them.

  It takes a few seconds for his eyes to focus, to recognise me.

  ‘Anna! I didn’t expect you to come here. Did I not put that in the text? Where’s Sophie?’

  ‘Jack left work early. I had to come – I was worried about Monica.’

  She’s sitting up in the bed, her eyes closed. Her right arm is in a cast and there are Steri-Strips on her forehead.

  ‘Hey, Annie,’ she says, her voice slurred.

  ‘They gave her some pain relief,’ says Dad.

  I sit on the plastic chair next to the bed; Dad sits on the one opposite.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She fell down the stairs at the train station.’

  ‘I was pushed,’ Monica says quietly.

  I look up at Dad.

  ‘Pushed?’ I say. ‘Oh my God! Have you called the police?’

  Dad purses his lips. ‘I think it’s the pain relief. I wasn’t there, I was paying for the tickets. We were going to go for a day trip to Southport. There were a few other people who saw what happened, but they didn’t see anyone push her. Remember when they gave your grandad morphine for his knee? He started talking to your grandmother … thought he was about to die too … that she was coming for him and after that, he was convinced there were spiders crawling all over him.’

  Monica groans. She tries to open her eyes, but the one nearest me, the one with the strips above it, is too swollen.

  ‘She was wearing those ridiculous shoes,’ says Dad. ‘The ones with the weird tassels on them.’

  ‘I bought her those,’ I say. ‘And they’re pom-poms, not tassels.’

  I don’t know why I’m taking offence about a pair of shoes at a time like this.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ says Dad. ‘But they’re not very practical.’

  ‘I feel awful now.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Anna,’ says Dad. ‘I said to Monica, “They’re shoes for sitting down in, not travelling in.”’

  ‘Did you?’

  He shrugs. ‘I suppose living with you two must’ve rubbed off on me.’

  ‘Pushed,’ says Monica.

  ‘You weren’t, love,’ says Dad. ‘But if it makes you feel better, I’ll see if the station has CCTV.’ He looks at me. ‘I really don’t think she was pushed.’

  I look to Monica: an imperceptibl
e shake of her head.

  ‘Dad, Monica can hear you, you know.’ I try to whisper, so my voice is lost among the chatter around us. ‘Are you sure she’s just imagining it? It’s not as if she’s seeing dead people or creepy crawlies everywhere.’

  Dad frowns. ‘We’ll have a better idea when whatever medication they gave her wears off. She was in too much pain to talk before the ambulance came.’

  After ten minutes, Monica seems to have fallen asleep.

  Dad gets up carefully, so he doesn’t scrape the chair on the floor.

  ‘If you can stay for a few more minutes, love,’ he says, ‘would you mind if I go and grab a coffee from downstairs?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He’s only been gone half a minute when Monica opens her eyes. She leans forwards, gently smacking her lips together. I reach over for the beaker of water on her cabinet. After taking a small sip, she leans back into her pillow, exhausted.

  ‘So thirsty.’ She pats around the bed with her free hand; I put my hand in hers. She squeezes it. ‘Darling, Annie. You should find the letters. The truth. Get me some clothes. Use your key.’

  ‘What do you mean, the truth?’

  Monica closes her eyes again.

  ‘Everything okay here?’

  ‘You were quick, Dad!’

  ‘Was I?’

  I take my hand from under Monica’s and stand.

  ‘I’m going to pop to yours and get Monica a change of clothes,’ I say. ‘So you don’t have to worry about going back and forth in visiting hours.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ says Dad.

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ I walk over to him and kiss him on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you in an hour or so.’

  ‘Thanks, love,’ he says.

  Poor Dad.

  I don’t think he knows as much as Monica.

  It’s six o’clock, still light, but the lamp at the far end of their hallway is still on, as always. ‘It’s the ambience more than the light,’ Monica always says; it reminds me of Penelope Keith in The Good Life.

  Robert said he found the letters years ago, in the junk drawer – the place where all the old phone chargers, screwdrivers, television and microwave receipts are kept. They probably won’t have been put back there, but I check it anyway. There are still the same old Nokia chargers that were there years before. I search in the other drawers: tea towels, cutlery, sharp knives. But no letters.

  I head upstairs, going straight to Dad and Monica’s room. They have fitted wardrobes and drawers along the wall to the left. Monica’s clothes are in the cupboard near the window. I grab a weekend bag from the bottom and pull it open on their bed. I look at her clothes; most are unsuitable for a stay in hospital. There are at least twenty dry-clean only dresses, and five silk blouses. I don’t think I have ever seen her in a pair of jeans. I go to the chest of drawers near the bedroom door. From what I remember, Monica’s things are in the top three. It feels inappropriate to be looking in her underwear, so I just grab a few random items and shove them into the bag.

  I open the second drawer and find neatly ironed and folded nightdresses and pyjamas. I take one of each, close the drawer, and grab her dressing gown from the back of the door. She might only be in one night, but you never know. I open the third drawer where she keeps her exercise gear. She’s fifty-eight and still does aerobics three times a week. I pick out a pair of what look like yoga trousers and a matching top, still with their labels attached. She might not want to be in her nightwear in front of strangers.

  I open the fourth and fifth drawers. Dad’s underwear and pyjamas. I kneel on the floor and pull open the bottom drawer. There are three Clarks shoeboxes in a row at the back. I grab the nearest and take off the lid.

  Inside are lots of little packages with Sellotape wrapped round them. Anna 1992 is written on one of them in Monica’s handwriting. There must be seven or eight with my name on. I pick at the tape on one and gently prise off the paper. Inside is a tiny white thing. I take it into the palm of my hand and see that it’s a baby tooth. My baby tooth. She kept them.

  I push the little packages of teeth to one side and pull out the wad of paper underneath. I sit cross-legged as I pick up the first. It’s a handmade card with a picture of a woman and a dandelion on the front. Happy Mother’s Day, Monica. I love you. From Anna Bandana.

  Under my words, Monica has written 1993.

  Anna Bandana. I’d forgotten that’s what she called me.

  Did she mind that I never called her Mummy?

  Under this are other cards I made her. The dates scribed underneath them end at 1997. Hadn’t I written her a Mother’s Day card since? My face grows cold with shame.

  I remember Dad used to buy her flowers, telling her they were from all of us. 1997 was the year I started secondary school; I had only thought about myself, and the fact my mother didn’t want me. But all along, I had Monica. Someone who talked to me about things Dad was too embarrassed to speak about. She stroked my hair when Jason Doherty in Year 10 said I was the ugliest person he had ever seen. ‘You’re not ugly, Anna. You’re beautiful. He probably likes you. They’re strange creatures, boys. And we should know, shouldn’t we? We live with three of them.’

  I lay down the Mother’s Day cards, replacing the little packages of teeth on top of them. I place the shoebox next to the other two and lift open the lid of the one next to mine. Inside are identical packages labelled ‘Bobby’. I flick the lid of the third, expecting the same, labelled ‘Leo’, but it isn’t.

  Inside, there is a pink envelope addressed to Debbie. Underneath it, there are two folded notes in the same colour – the same pink as the awful letters Grandad gave me. My hands shake as I lift them out. I open the first one.

  He wishes you were dead. They’re thinking of ways to get rid of you.

  It is written in identical handwriting to the ones Debbie received. Why does Monica have this one and not the rest?

  The other note’s folds are worn, as though it’s been read hundreds of times. The paper is grubby.

  I open it. Robert was right about the handwriting. It’s not like the other envelope, but a strange, slurred scrawl.

  To my family,

  I’m sorry. I can’t do this any more. I’ve tried.

  I love you all.

  Debbie.

  I read it again and again. Is this all she wrote before abandoning her whole family? It’s so vague. If she was intending to leave, then why not say everything she wanted to?

  I reach into Robert’s shoebox. Underneath the Mother’s Day cards are birthday cards from age one to six. Love from Mummy and Daddy, is written on each of them. Some have been written by my dad, but others have my mother’s writing inside. I compare it to the writing on the pink note signed by Debbie.

  It’s not the same.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  She suggested a café I’ve never been to before, but that wasn’t difficult. Smooth FM plays quietly in the background, but I can still make out the song: ‘Just the Way You Are’ by Billy Joel.

  She was already here when I arrived. I didn’t tell her what I wanted, but she walks over to the counter and places a black coffee in front of me.

  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ she says. ‘I reached over to say hello and she just fell.’

  ‘She wouldn’t remember you,’ I say. ‘It was too long ago.’

  ‘So, I’m that forgettable?’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘There’s no need to be like that.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry. It’s just that … you could’ve ruined the whole thing.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’m so close. I’m nearly ready.’

  ‘Why is everything about you?’ She leans forward, her eyes boring into mine. ‘You need to remember that I’ve kept your secret for all of these years. I didn’t have to.’

  ‘I know, I know. I said I’m sorry, didn’t I?’ I
run my finger along the rim of the cup, but it’s not like glass, it won’t make a sound even though I wish it would. ‘I’m thinking of confessing – it’s been on my conscience for too long.’

  ‘You know I think you’re doing the right thing. Perhaps leave out the part where I’m involved, though.’

  ‘I suppose. But they need to hear the whole truth. It’s not fair on them. I started all of this – I have to see it to the end. They won’t believe me if you don’t back me up.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I really don’t understand you.’

  ‘I don’t think I understand myself.’

  She stands, her coffee barely touched, and puts on her jacket.

  ‘If it all goes wrong,’ she says, ‘don’t come running to me.’

  I don’t reply; I watch her leave, not looking back.

  ‘Heart of Glass’ plays on the radio.

  You’re following me, aren’t you? I try putting my fingers in my ears, but it doesn’t drown out the sound.

  I push my coffee away and stand.

  The bell dings as I open the door. I take a deep breath of fresh air, but there’s a scent in the air.

  I search for you.

  Sometimes I think I see you.

  I want to run to you and tell you that I’m sorry. But I can’t.

  Because you’re dead.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Friday, 18 July 1986

  Debbie

  Monica’s at the bar, probably asking for another couple of cocktails with umbrellas. They work, these ones. The umbrellas, I mean, not the cocktails (although they work too). You just push the little round bit up and down the cocktail stick, and there you have it: a working umbrella. If you’re the size of a mouse. And I’m definitely not the size of a mouse.

  Oh God, I should stop smiling to myself.

  Shit, I’m pissed.

  We’ve only had two, but I haven’t had a drink for months. It feels like years since I’ve been out like this. From the time we started going to pubs, which was from about the age of fifteen (but don’t tell my mother), Monica’s always been the one to go to the bar. When I was twenty, I looked about twelve, so I’ve always handed her the money and she always got me what she wanted.