The Bones of You

by Debbie Howells

  I open my mouth to tell her that actually, for a few life-changing weeks, almost, only she has turned away and is gazing blankly ahead of her.

  “I didn’t mean to . . . ,” she says, as if to the air around her.

  I frown. “Didn’t mean to what, Jo?”

  “I found the piece of paper,” she says in a different voice, before she looks at me, blinking as she tries to focus. “It said, ‘Kate, supper, eight.’ You screwed my husband, Kate. How could you? You’re my fucking friend.... I trusted you. . . .”

  And I’m finally there, in the nightmare I’ve always dreaded, ever since that fateful evening, as I grab her arms, desperate to reassure her. But she pulls away.

  “Listen, Jo. I didn’t. He came on to me, but I pushed him away. You have to believe that.”

  But she’s staring blankly again, not listening. “It was deliberate.. . . He wanted me to see. He always does that. Wants me to see who he’s fucking, to know that everyone’s better than I am. Even you, Kate . . . What was I supposed to do?”

  “God! Listen to me, Jo! Nothing happened. I invited him and Delphine, but he—”

  “You took Rosanna, and then you took him . . . when they’re mine, Kate. Mine . . . Can’t you see what he’s like?”

  She rummages in her pocket and gets out a small bottle, her hands shaking as she tries to unscrew the lid.

  “Pills,” she mutters. “I need my pills. . . .”

  Gently, I take them away from her, just as her body starts shaking more violently. A look of fury on her face, she tries to get to her feet, only her legs give way.

  “I’m calling an ambulance, Jo,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry, but this can’t go on.”

  ROSIE

  Joanna’s found a way to do this. She pretends that she’s someone else. She decides on a name. The first that comes into her mind. That mother she knows in passing from school, that one she has coffee with, who rides horses and drifts through life without a care in the world. No one should have it that easy.

  “Kate . . .” She says it gleefully, grotesquely, as she dances around the kitchen.

  “Kate . . .” Pours another glass of vodka. “Cheers!” She raises her glass to my friend.

  “Kate . . . you should try it sometime,” she tells Kate. “If you drink enough vodka, your mind can fly like a bird.”

  She doesn’t really know Kate. They have lunch sometimes. Kate actually eats hers! Joanna pretends, of course. Not that Kate even notices.

  It amuses her to think of Kate doing this. Not the real Kate, of course, who’s far too good, too naive to even imagine such a thing. Or is she? Maybe she isn’t. Doesn’t everyone have their little secrets?

  She laughs. A manic, screechy laugh. The laugh of a mad person. Drinks down another glass in one.

  When she does this, she’ll be Kate, using Kate’s voice, Kate’s hands, Kate’s body, and all the time, Joanna will be innocent. And when it’s all over, and everything’s back to normal, Neal will come home.

  37

  “Delphine?” Jo’s voice barely audible from inside the ambulance.

  “What’s that, love?” The paramedic turns to look at me.

  “Delphine’s her daughter. It’s okay. We’re friends. I can look after her. Can I just have a minute before you go?”

  He nods.

  Inside the ambulance, Jo’s clearly sedated, her eyes closing. “Jo? You mustn’t worry about Delphine. I’ll meet her when she comes back from school. And she can stay with us. It’ll be fine.”

  Jo’s eyelids flutter. “No . . . mustn’t . . . take her—”

  But the paramedic interrupts us. “Sorry, ma’am, but I think you’d better leave us. We really should be on our way.”

  “I’ll call the hospital, Jo. Don’t worry. You’ll be okay.”

  It’s my last glimpse of her, lying in the ambulance, her anguished face turned toward me, a single word framed by her lips. It’s a word, even in my best attempts to help her, as someone who cares what happens, I fail to understand.

  “No . . .”

  DELPHINE

  Rosie is in my head and answers my questions, like she used to. Crapshooting, we used to call it.

  “Tell me the worst,” she’d say.

  I’d rack my brains for the worst thing I could think of, like our parents dying or the house burning down.

  Rosie would look past me, her face a blank. “Not so bad, then,” she’d say.

  I wouldn’t understand.

  “Think about it,” she’d say. “There’s far worse things than that.”

  “Like what?” I’d cry, suddenly fearful.

  Rosie would look sad. “Like not loving or never being loved.”

  But there’s worse. Like dying.

  Or ghosts you can’t touch.

  She doesn’t know I can see her.

  ROSIE

  Joanna’s careful. So careful. No one must know. She works out that she has about two months, slightly less maybe, depending on how soon the baby shows.

  She does her research meticulously. It’s not something she knows about, that she’s ever thought about before, though she knows other people do it without a thought. But every so often her breath catches in her throat. As a mother, she wishes for another way. But can’t think of one.

  Everyone thinks she’s so stupid, don’t they? When she really isn’t, and she can use a computer, maybe not brilliantly and speedily, not like her daughters, but she has second-to-none typing skills, and all day, when the girls are in school, when Neal’s away, shagging one of his whores, she uses her time well.

  Not that she needs a computer, since now she has an iPhone. And on the Internet, as she discovers, you can find out anything. Absolutely anything. About things she wishes she didn’t have to. About clinics. About what to do about pregnancies that can’t happen. When there are no choices.

  Hiding what she’s doing, so no one will know.

  Her plan obsesses her. She’s not sure that when the time comes, she won’t bottle out. Wishes with all her heart she could. Bottle . . . She thinks of the one that’s half full of vodka. Hidden from sight, just like this latest secret she has.

  Planning is crucial. So is timing. She has the information now; she just has to choose the right moment.

  38

  I think about calling Carol, but instead call Angus. I’m torn as to what is best for Delphine.

  “You should pick her up from school and go from there,” he suggests. “Jo may not be kept in for long. I’m sorry, Kate, but I’ve got another call. Why not wait till I’m home? I’ll try and get away early.”

  I’ve no idea if Delphine catches a bus or Jo collects her. In the end, I go to the school and wait outside.

  I know you can’t tell just by watching them. The kids for whom divorce is an everyday part of childhood. The lucky ones for whom the worst is a grounding or a bad exam grade. And I know all kinds of things happen to families, but as I watch the car park fill with teenagers, I wonder how many have backgrounds like Delphine’s? A dead sister, a murderer for a father, a deeply troubled mother, a big, glossy, empty, unhappy house. Unable to imagine anyone.

  Just as I’m worrying I’ve missed her, I catch a glimpse of her. Alone, composed, impassive as she stands and looks around. Then seeing me, she comes over. Still her face shows nothing.

  “I’m not sure how long she’ll be kept in,” I say to Delphine as we drive back to the Andersons’ house. I’ve suggested she packs enough clothes for a few days and any other things she wants. “I’ll call the hospital later, but you can stay with us, at least until we know what’s happening.”

  Beside me, she doesn’t speak, just nods.

  “Don’t worry, sweetie. She’ll be okay. I think she just needs proper care and time.”

  “I know,” Delphine says. “And I’m not worried, really.”

  It’s a strange thing to say, but then everything about her reaction is strange. I was prepared for tears, upset, anger even—anything other than he
r passive indifference.

  “Do you have a key?”

  She nods.

  I park outside their house.

  “Would you like me to come in with you? I can help you carry things.”

  She nods. “Thank you.”

  I follow her up the path, and she lets us in, then pauses before unlocking the door into the garage.

  “I need to get something out of there,” is all she says.

  While she goes upstairs to pack, I wait in the sitting room, looking around and noticing piles of papers, magazines, clothes strewn everywhere, which isn’t like Jo. In the kitchen, too, there are cupboards left open and a pile of washing-up. Then I see the glass and the empty vodka bottle.

  “She thinks I don’t know.”

  The voice comes from behind me. I turn round to see Delphine staring at the bottle.

  “She has it when she wakes up. And in the day, when I’m at school or when she thinks I’m not looking.” In the same flat, unemotional voice.

  I’m flabbergasted that I haven’t seen this before. How didn’t I know my friend was an alcoholic? “I’m so sorry, Delphine. I didn’t know.”

  Delphine shrugs. “No one does. It’s okay.”

  But it’s so far from okay, I don’t know what to say to her.

  All the way home, I think of Jo and her drinking, then make tea for Delphine, feeling a nostalgia for when Grace was younger, when she’d chatter all the way back from school, eat about three slices of cake, pull on her jodhpurs, and run outside to her beloved Oz. Carefree, happy, free-spirited, as children should be.

  And I know she’s not Grace, but Delphine is so silent.

  “Would you like to help me feed the horses later?”

  “Yes, please. Can I borrow Grace’s clothes again?”

  “Of course. They’re still in the spare room from last time. I hoped you’d be needing them again.”

  She just nods, carries on eating, the rest of my sentence remaining unspoken.

  Just not like this.

  Such is the magic of horses that they draw out her words and bring light to her eyes. I give her a lead to catch Reba and she comes back not just with Reba but with all of them.

  Seeing a fleeting happiness in her face, I pass her a grooming brush. “Start at the top of her neck and work your way back,” I tell her. “Then, when you’ve done both sides, you do her mane and tail.”

  I watch Reba’s expression of bliss as Delphine brushes her, then leave her to get on with it while I fill up the water trough. When I next look up, her pale head is resting against Reba’s dark one, her eyes closed, both of them still.

  An hour passes, mostly in silence. As we lean over the gate, the low sun filtering through the trees and into our eyes, I’m trying to work out how to reach her.

  When we get back to the house, I call the hospital, then go to find Delphine.

  She’s in front of the television, quite motionless, the sound turned down low. As I come in, she turns it off. I sit down next to her and take her hand.

  “I’ve just spoken to the hospital. They’re keeping your mummy in. She’s dehydrated and terribly confused. They’ve put her on a drip, and they’ll do some tests. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  I continually watch Delphine’s face, trying to gauge her reaction, but there is none. She seems miles away.

  “Perhaps tomorrow I could take you to see her? After school.”

  For the first time, I elicit a reaction from her. She shakes her head quite firmly. “No. It’s okay. Thank you.”

  It’s not what I’m expecting. “It might be good for her to see you.”

  Her eyes turn to mine, her look piercing. “But I don’t want to. It’s her fault she’s ill, isn’t it?”

  “I think that’s a little unfair, Delphine. Okay, so she needs to stop drinking. But losing Rosie, what your dad did . . . It’s not easy for her. Can you see that?”

  She folds her arms and stares at the wall. “Is she coming back?”

  “What?” Is this what’s worrying her? That on top of everything else, she’s about to lose her mother, too? “Of course she will. You mustn’t worry, Delphine. Really . . .”

  “It’s not that.” Her voice is hard.

  “Tell me,” I say gently.

  Her response, when it comes, shocks me.

  “I don’t want her to.”

  “Delphine, you can’t mean that. . . .”

  “Why not?” Her eyes flash angrily. “She spoils everything. Why can’t people see that? She’s not a mother. She’s pathetic.”

  Words ringing with such hatred and scorn, shocking me. How can she hate her mother?

  “I’m sure she doesn’t want to be like this, but she’s sick, Delphine. She needs help, just as much as someone with a broken leg needs help.”

  “She won’t get better. She’ll always be like this.”

  “Is that why you want to live with your auntie?”

  I say it as gently and compassionately as I can, but Delphine’s head turns to stare at me.

  “She called me, sweetie. Last week. She’s worried about you. And your mum.”

  I’m beginning to understand why, too.

  “Mummy hates her,” Delphine says tonelessly. “She says she’s common and stupid and plain. But she’s not. She’s kind, and she loves people. She’s a proper mother.”

  “Would you like me to call her?”

  Delphine hesitates, then says, “Okay.”

  “Okay. I’ll do it now. I’m sure she’d like to talk to you.”

  But as I go to get the phone, she speaks in a completely different voice, the voice of a child in pain, which touches my soul. “Can I stay here, Kate? With you? Please?”

  It’s only now, with Delphine under our roof, that the extent of Jo’s problems fully comes to light. In her daughter, I see the mirror image of Jo’s obsessions, from the food she eats to the way she organizes her room here, so neat, every trace of herself so invisible that you wouldn’t believe anyone inhabited it.

  “I’ve never known another child quite like her,” I tell Rachael. “Most of the time, you’d hardly know she was there.”

  “God. Poor little thing. Makes you wonder what’s going on in her head. Here, have some cake. I hid it from the boys.”

  “Thanks.” Frowning as I take the plate from her. “She knows far too much for a child of her age. She told me about Jo’s drinking. So calmly, it spooked me. Then she made all these angry, bitter accusations, about how it was her mother’s fault that she had a drink problem. She doesn’t want to visit her at the hospital, either.”

  “She probably can’t stand them. I know I can’t. Ghastly places.” Rachael cuts more cake.

  But I’m silent for a moment, thoughtful. “You’d think, wouldn’t you, that now that it’s just the two of them, they’d be closer than ever? Only they’re not.”

  It’s a thought that still haunts me when, early the following afternoon, I go to the hospital. Having been told Jo has been transferred to a psychiatric wing, I’m expecting a grim ward, not a small, sunny room that overlooks the garden. I’m not convinced she’ll want to see me, either, after my revelations about Neal.

  Propped up against the pillows, she looks haggard, ill, exhausted.

  “How are you?” I hate seeing her like this, a shadow of the brave, tortured friend who’s suffered so much. She shakes her head, but it seems to loll, too heavy for her, and I realize she’s drugged.

  I sit down next to her and take her hand. “Don’t try and talk, Jo. I just wanted to tell you Delphine’s fine. She’s staying with us. Don’t worry about her. I’ll look after her. Just concentrate on getting yourself well.”

  I’m not sure how much registers, but then her lips try to move, and I think I hear just faintly a whisper. “Thank you.”

  I stay until her eyes close and the movement of her chest slows and becomes more regular. Then I go out to the reception desk.

  “Excuse me, is there someone I can talk to about Joanna A
nderson?”

  A nurse glances up. “Are you family?”

  “The closest thing she has,” I say, realizing it’s true. “I’m looking after her daughter. I’d just like to know what’s happening.”

  It takes repeated requests and an hour of waiting before a doctor tells me that until they’ve carried out a range of psychiatric tests, Jo won’t be going anywhere. He can give me no clue as to how long this might take, nor does he tell me what the tests are.

  I call Angus from my car while I’m waiting outside the school for Delphine.

  “It’s bloody frustrating.” In the space of twenty-four hours, we’ve gone back a few years, to watching what we say, not in front of Grace but Delphine.

  “She can stay, can’t she?”

  I hear his shrug over the phone, knowing before he speaks what his answer is, reminding myself that this kind of generosity is why I love him.

  “I love you,” I tell him. “Here she is. Better go.”

  I blow a silent kiss at my phone as Delphine climbs in.

  “Hi! How was your day?”

  “Okay.” Like everything else in her life. Not amazing or really terrible. Just okay.

  “Would you like to ride Reba later?”

  “Can I?”

  The next couple of days pass in a similar way, with Jo caught among the machinations of the practitioners whose care she’s under, while I make painfully slow progress in drawing out Delphine. At a loss to know how to help her, I call Laura.

  “It’s like a stalemate,” I tell her when she comes over. “She just doesn’t respond like any child I’ve ever met. Everything’s kept inside.”

  “When did this start?”

  “Four, five days ago.” It feels much longer, in that strange way time can when life springs unimagined change on you, so that before and after are suddenly lifetimes apart.

  “It’s really good of you to look after her,” says Laura, meaning Delphine. “How is she?”