Hush

by Sara Marshall-Ball

  Today he arrived home to find Anna sitting at the kitchen table. The radio was on, a low, comforting babble that made him think of times past, when he would often have come home to find Anna and Lily playing together. The house would have been in disarray because Anna never thought to tidy up after herself, and it would be Marcus and Connie who picked up after them, muttering about how they were obviously the grown-ups of the family.

  Now it was just Anna sitting there, a curtain of dirty blonde hair falling in front of her eyes, her mouth pursed in concentration as she moved a pen in broad, sweeping strokes across the page in front of her. Marcus stood in the doorway for a moment, watching, thinking she was absorbed and hadn’t noticed him come in; but of course she’d heard the front door slam.

  ‘Stop it, you’re breaking my concentration,’ she said, looking up from the page. Her expression was half-amused, half-annoyed.

  ‘Sorry.’ He took a step towards her, then stopped, feeling oddly hesitant. ‘Can I – can I see what you were doing?’

  She looked down, as if considering, and then shrugged and held it out to him. He took it gingerly. It was an A4 sketchbook, bound with black cardboard, the pages thick and white and substantial. On the top page was a sketch of a naked woman. It was rough, but not unskilled.

  He traced the curve of the woman’s body with a fingertip, gently.

  ‘I like it,’ he said finally, handing it back. ‘What made you suddenly start drawing?’

  She shrugged, defensive. ‘I’ve always drawn a bit.’

  ‘Anna, we’ve been married for thirteen years. I’ve never once seen you pick up a pencil and draw something. I’ve never even seen you colouring in with the girls.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She closed the sketchbook and stood up, moving across the kitchen in two strides. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Sure.’

  As she filled the kettle, he studied her back, her shoulders taut and rigid underneath her black T-shirt.

  ‘But seriously,’ he said, noting the way her muscles visibly tensed as he spoke. ‘What made you start doing this today?’

  ‘What does it matter?’ She sounded annoyed.

  ‘It matters because I love you and I’m interested,’ he said, in the most reasonable voice he could muster. ‘Why do you not want to tell me?’

  ‘It’s nothing. I just – ’ She put the kettle in its cradle and flicked it on. ‘I was speaking to a friend today, that’s all. About – bereavement, and trauma, and so on. And they said it can be good to do something creative. To get the feelings out, or whatever.’

  ‘So you drew a naked woman?’ Marcus was genuinely perplexed.

  ‘Well, apparently I don’t really have feelings like other people do.’ Her voice was bitter, and Marcus found that he wanted to step closer to her, but he wasn’t sure how to bridge the gap between them.

  ‘Darling, you definitely do have feelings.’

  ‘You make me feel as if I don’t.’ She looked directly at him, then: her blue eyes, so like those of her daughters.

  ‘How can you say that? I’ve never doubted that you had feelings. All this time, I’ve been trying to protect you – ’

  ‘I don’t want to be protected, Marcus; I want to be understood.’ Her eyes blazed.

  ‘How can I understand if you won’t talk to me?’

  ‘I’m trying to talk to you.’ She marched back to the kitchen table, picked up the sketchbook, and threw it at him. It bounced off his shoulder, one corner digging sharply into his skin before it fell to the ground. ‘Learn to listen, why don’t you?’

  Without another word, she turned and walked out of the patio doors. By the time he’d recovered enough to follow her, she’d crossed the lawn and was disappearing into the woods.

  Connie arrived home just after four o’clock. Marcus heard the click of the front door from the kitchen. He was sitting at the table, in much the same position as Anna had been when he’d arrived home an hour earlier; he’d rescued the sketchbook from the floor, and had been perusing it intently, searching for clues. He flipped it shut when Connie appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Hey, stranger.’

  ‘Hey.’ She dropped her bag on the floor next to the table. ‘Where’s Mama?’

  ‘She went for a walk.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the patio doors.

  ‘The woods again?’

  ‘Again?’

  Connie was rummaging through the cupboards, searching for food, and she didn’t notice his head snap up. ‘Yeah,’ she said, her voice vague. ‘I’ve seen her go walking in that direction a few times. I’d have thought it would bother her, being out there, but it doesn’t seem to.’

  Marcus weighed up his next sentence before speaking. ‘Does it bother you?’

  Connie shrugged, still facing away from him. ‘Obviously.’

  He was surprised at her honesty, but he didn’t pursue it. He sat watching her while she took bread and peanut butter out of the cupboards. ‘You want some?’ she asked, when she saw him looking.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Then what are you staring at me for?’

  He smiled as she slipped two pieces of bread into the toaster. ‘Sorry. Just thinking. Did you have a nice day?’

  ‘Not really.’ She leaned back against the counter, and Marcus was reminded again of the similarity between his daughters’ eyes and his wife’s. Lily’s and Connie’s eyes were virtually identical – vivid blue, ringed with darker blue, flecked with grey. Anna’s were only different because her eyelashes were sparser, the creases in her skin more pronounced. ‘Next question?’

  ‘What do you want for dinner?’

  ‘Takeaway. Next?’

  ‘What kind of takeaway?’

  She smiled, her eyes scanning the ceiling as she mentally trawled through her list of takeaways. ‘Chinese?’

  ‘Hmm. I might be able to manage that, I suppose.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Connie looked genuinely excited, which made Marcus laugh. He forgot what it was like, sometimes, to not be in control of your own circumstances, to be at the mercy of older and more sensible people all the time.

  ‘Sure. Why not? We’ll have to wait till Mama gets home, though. I’ll never hear the end of it if we order without her.’

  ‘Cool.’ Connie’s toast popped up, and she set about spreading it liberally with peanut butter, looking more animated than she had in weeks. Was that all it took, then: the prospect of a meal that wasn’t home-cooked? Or was it just that any change from the day-to-day routine was a welcome relief?

  In the end Anna didn’t come home until gone seven, so Marcus ordered without her. When she came through the door they were curled on the sofa together, surrounded by foil containers and plastic bags, a large plate of prawn crackers on the cushion between them.

  ‘Hey,’ Marcus said. His voice was controlled, purposely cheery: he was determined to be normal and not demand to know where she’d been for nearly four hours. ‘I ordered you chow mein. It’s in the fridge, if you want it.’

  Anna looked confused; also out of breath and dishevelled, as if she’d been running. ‘Chow mein?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s what you usually have, isn’t it?’

  ‘Um, yeah. Thanks. I’m not actually that hungry right now, though.’

  She hovered in the doorway, awkward.

  ‘You can sit down, you know.’

  ‘I know.’ But still she didn’t. ‘I might go upstairs, actually. Have a shower. I was walking for a long time.’

  ‘Yeah, you must have been.’

  She looked at him curiously, as if trying to figure out if there was a hidden meaning in what he was saying. But Marcus turned back to the TV, and she shrugged.

  ‘See you in a bit, then.’

  Her footsteps echoed on the bare floorboards; they followed her all the way to the bathroom.

  Marcus went to visit Lily every other weekend. Sometimes, maybe one in three times, Connie and Anna would come with him. In theory he welcomed their presence – he t
hought it made the family less broken, somehow, if they were all in the same place together at least some of the time. But actually, all of them together generally meant arguments, awkwardness, discussions about the future; things best avoided. And so when Connie said she had plans and Anna said she’d better stay home to look after her, Marcus tried not to let his relief show.

  When he pulled into the driveway his father was in the front garden, digging at the borders between clumps of daffodils, and Lily was kneeling on the ground behind him, bundled up in a thick coat and fingerless mittens, sorting through a pile of stones. She looked up for a moment at the sound of him slamming the car door, then went back to her stones without acknowledging him.

  ‘Hey, Dad.’ Marcus spoke loudly, overcompensating for his father’s slight deafness. The older man turned slightly and lifted a hand, but didn’t stop his digging. Marcus crouched down beside Lily.

  ‘Whatcha doing, Lils?’

  She didn’t look up, but continued shifting stones from one pile to another. He squinted, trying to see her logic, but it was lost on him. The usual distinguishing features – size, colour, shape – didn’t seem to be of importance in whatever system she was using.

  ‘If you can figure it out, you’re smarter than me,’ his father said, coming up behind them and laying a hand on Lily’s shoulder. She looked up briefly, a faint trace of a grin on her face, and then bowed her head again and continued her sorting.

  ‘How’s the garden coming along?’

  ‘Oh, same as usual, really. Not much to do this time of year. Lily’s been helping me tidy up some of the shrubs while I loosen the ground a bit ready for spring planting, but then she got distracted by this – ’ He waved a hand in the direction her stones. ‘She’s not been much use since.’

  ‘Can’t blame her. Sorting is more fun than gardening.’

  ‘And both are more fun than lessons with Grandma. Isn’t that right, Lily?’

  Lily didn’t look up.

  ‘What do you mean? Have the lessons not been going well?’ Marcus looked from his father to his daughter, both of whom stared at the piles of stones on the ground and wouldn’t return his gaze.

  ‘Why don’t you go and have a chat with your mother?’ his dad suggested, without looking up.

  Marcus found his mother doing the washing-up, singing softly to herself as she looked out of the window. For a moment he was struck, as he sometimes was, by her age, the extra years blurring the features of a face that was almost as familiar as his own. He couldn’t remember when she’d started looking like a grandmother instead of a mother.

  ‘What are you doing lurking in doorways instead of coming to say hello like a normal person?’ She didn’t turn her head, still staring at something out of the window, but she was smiling.

  ‘How did you know it was me?’

  ‘Heard your car pull up, didn’t I? Come and give me a hug; if I try and move I’ll get bubbles everywhere.’

  He came to stand behind her, hugging her around her shoulders. She pressed her cheek into his forearm. ‘I’ve been watching that blackbird out there,’ she said, lifting a bubble-covered hand and pointing out of the window. ‘He’s been bobbing around singing to himself for about fifteen minutes. Not a care in the world.’

  ‘Well, I don’t imagine blackbirds have much to get stressed about.’

  ‘I’d like to see you build your own house every year and not get stressed,’ she retorted, and then laughed and changed the subject. ‘Where’s that daughter of yours? Still following your father around like a lost puppy?’

  ‘Yep. She’s sorting stones into piles.’

  ‘Ah, yes. She’s been doing that for a couple of days. Got your father totally confused, trying to figure out her system.’

  ‘And me,’ Marcus admitted.

  ‘Yes, well. You were never much good at that sort of thing.’

  ‘And you are?’ He raised an eyebrow, stepping to one side and picking a soap-covered glass off the worktop. ‘Can I rinse this?’

  ‘Sure.’ She lifted her hands out of the bowl so he could run the tap. ‘I’m done now anyway. And yes, for your information, I am. I figured out what she was doing straight away.’

  ‘Really? What is it?’

  His mother grinned. ‘It’s to do with the indents.’

  ‘Indents?’ Marcus narrowed his eyes, puzzled.

  ‘Yes. You know? Those things that stop the stones being round and smooth?’ Her tone was warm, teasing. ‘She’s sorting them according to the number and size of the indents. There might be some other factors as well, but that’s the main thing.’

  ‘Oh.’ Marcus turned this over in his head, wondering at his daughter’s behaviour. ‘Right. So Dad said something about the lessons not going well?’

  ‘They’re not going at all, actually.’ She pulled a tea towel out of a drawer, wiped her hands, and then picked a plate off the drying rack. ‘Lily seems to have lost interest in the last couple of weeks. No particular reason, I don’t think, but nothing I can do will get her to sit down with me.’

  ‘You don’t think you’ve upset her somehow?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. She’s still happy to cook with me, and we watch films together, and so on.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Marcus leaned back against the kitchen counter, watching his mother as she concentrated on drying a wine glass. ‘Maybe she needs to go back to school. Be with other kids.’

  ‘I thought the school recommended that she not go back until she was speaking.’

  ‘Only because they’re too lazy to deal with her not speaking.’ Marcus realised his voice was unusually harsh, and he took a breath before continuing. ‘We can’t keep her out of school forever, can we? And they can’t refuse to take her just because she won’t talk.’

  ‘Well, not necessarily because she can’t talk. But they might say she’s difficult, or antisocial, or what have you.’

  ‘In what way is she difficult?’

  ‘Oh, Marcus, come on.’ His mother put down the wine glass and the tea towel. ‘You find it difficult, don’t you? Having a daughter who doesn’t speak?’

  He shrugged, and found himself being forcibly reminded of standing in this same kitchen at the age of fifteen, with his mother speaking to him in the same tone of voice. He’d felt the same defensiveness then, and the same twinge of childish embarrassment. ‘Yes,’ he admitted at last. ‘Of course it’s difficult.’

  ‘So how do you imagine it is for other people, who don’t have the same love for her that you do? Can’t you imagine how hard it is for them?’

  He sighed. ‘But it’s not as though she misbehaves.’

  ‘Not talking is a form of misbehaviour, Marcus.’

  He glared at her, but she held his gaze, steadily. ‘But she’s not – it’s not like that.’

  ‘How can you be sure? How can any of us be sure, really?’

  ‘What’s your point, Mum?’

  She sighed. ‘I don’t know. I just – I’m not sure it’s working. I think maybe she needs professional help of some sort. Or at the very least a professional opinion. I have no idea whether I’m helping, or making no difference, or even doing her damage. And I’m starting to feel as if maybe I don’t want the responsibility of trying to guess.’

  Marcus nodded. Looked down at the floor. Noted the scuff marks on the lino that had been there since he was a teenager.

  ‘Yeah, that’s fair enough.’

  ‘I don’t want you to think I’m giving up on her.’ She took his hand then, and when he looked up he realised she had tears in her eyes. ‘Really. If I thought I was helping I would do this for years. But I need to know that I’m doing the right thing for her.’

  He smiled, and put his arms around her, marvelling at how small she was; the top of her head rested an inch below his chin. ‘I know, Mum. I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised I was being so selfish.’

  ‘Don’t start beating yourself up – ’

  ‘Shh. I won’t start. But I will talk to Anna about takin
g Lils to see someone. Okay?’

  When she nodded he could feel her nose digging into his chest. He tried to remember when it had been the other way around: when she’d been the taller one, and he’d had to stretch his arms to reach around her waist. But she felt so fragile now, it almost seemed as though that person had never existed.

  now

  The hospital was an endless succession of waits. Waiting for tests, waiting for test results, waiting for various doctors to collate their opinions on test results. Lily said even less than usual, and spent a lot of time looking out of the window. She was at the end of a row of beds, and with the curtain drawn she could almost pretend they were alone. Richard held her hand and twitched anxiously every time someone came on to the ward.

  He’d tried asking her about what had happened. ‘I fainted,’ was all Lily would say, her tone of voice growing more petulant with each repetition of the statement. He tried hounding doctors, hunting down concrete responses, and was met with nothing but a series of apologies.

  In the end he gave up, and called Connie, who said she’d come right away.

  Darkness fell early, so that the sterile whiteness of the room, and its motionless occupants, were reflected unavoidably in its wall of windows. A short while later, muffled bangs, like distant gunshots, punctuated the silence, and Richard realised it was the fifth of November. Remember, remember, his mind whispered. A look from Lily told him that he had inadvertently spoken aloud. The surrounding buildings were too high for him to see the fireworks in the sky, but he craned his neck nonetheless.

  Connie’s arrival scattered their silence irretrievably, as always.

  ‘Do they know what’s wrong yet? Have they told you anything?’ She directed the question at Richard, bypassing Lily entirely, though she did sit down on Lily’s other side and take her free hand.

  ‘No. They’ve done scans, and blood tests. We’re just waiting for the results.’