Hush

by Sara Marshall-Ball

  It was three weeks since Connie had left, and they hadn’t heard a word from her.

  Lily sometimes wondered, half-heartedly, what her classmates did when they got home in the evenings. Or what she would be doing if Connie were around. Instead, she was making dinner every night and taking it in to her mother on a tray, trying not to feel horrified at Anna’s appearance, at the smell of her room. She missed Connie most at these moments, wishing she had someone to share them with, to lessen the horror of the experience.

  She stepped through the front door into stillness, picking up the envelopes on the floor as she did so; Anna never bothered to look at the post these days. She closed the front door quietly, and stood for a moment, letting her eyes readjust to the dim light. It was bright outside; spring was working its way optimistically towards summer, and the days were gradually lengthening, extending orangey fingers into the dark evenings. Inside all was dark and quiet, as usual. Only the kitchen was bright as she walked in, the wall of south-facing windows flooding the room with light.

  Lily put the post on the table and paused, listening for movement upstairs. There was none. It had been a week since Lily had seen her mother out of bed for more than a few minutes.

  She poured herself some juice from the fridge, and checked the cupboards for food. There were basic supplies – enough for spaghetti bolognese, or something similar. She would have to go shopping tomorrow.

  She took her bag through to the living room and ploughed through her homework. They were doing Romeo and Juliet in English, a play she found herself utterly unable to connect with. She’d started to become concerned, that other girls in her class seemed so focused on the idea of boyfriends, love, marriage. She’d felt the odd flicker of interest, but she couldn’t imagine spending that much time with one person. Couldn’t even begin to imagine the intricacies of a physical relationship. She’d searched the play for clues as to what she should be feeling, but there was nothing there. The idea of someone touching her didn’t just fill her with fear, it left her utterly perplexed.

  Nevertheless, she wrote two hundred words on Romeo’s passion for Juliet. Then she wrote up the notes on a science experiment they’d done that day. The only sounds were her breathing, and the scribble of pen on paper.

  When she’d finished, she put her books away and went into the kitchen to make dinner. It was just starting to get dark outside so she flicked on the lights, and the reflection of the bulbs bounced back at her in the windows, making the room over-bright and harsh. The windows had wooden blinds, and the patio doors had thick curtains which she pulled across, shutting out the darkness of the garden. She flicked on the radio, and listened to the chattering of the DJs as she made dinner.

  She took Anna her dinner on a tray, knocking as she entered the room. Anna was propped up in bed, and the lights were on: an improvement on the last few days. She smiled wearily as Lily entered the room, and put aside the photo album that she’d been looking at. ‘Hey, sweetheart. How was your day?’

  ‘It was okay.’ Lily handed her the tray, making sure she wasn’t going to be able to spill it. Anna was wearing a white T-shirt which was spotted liberally with food stains. Lily longed, for a moment, to rip it off of her and throw it away.

  ‘Are you learning anything interesting?’

  Lily shrugged. She found it harder to talk to Anna than most people, perhaps because she found her vocalised parental interest so at odds with her behaviour.

  ‘Bet you have lots of homework, right?’

  Lily nodded and, taking this as permission to leave, went back downstairs, closing the door behind her as she went.

  She ate dinner at the kitchen table, sitting with her back to the patio doors. As she ate she sifted through the post, and was surprised to see her name, stamped across one of the letters in a semi-familiar scrawl: Miss L. Emmett. She opened the envelope carefully, and unfolded a single sheet of cream notepaper.

  Dear Lily,

  I’m so sorry it’s taken me this long to write to you. I was going to call, but I thought Mama or Dad might answer the phone, and I’m not ready to talk to them yet. You can let them know I’m okay, though, if you want. I suppose they’ve been imagining the worst.

  I’m in Germany at the moment. I hitched most of the way. Not sure why Germany – it just seemed like the easiest option. I was predicted an A in my German GCSE after all! It’s harder speaking the language here than it was at school, though.

  I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye. Stuff just got a bit weird – I’ll tell you about it when I get back. I did make sure you were okay before I left the country. You’ll have to tell me what happened when I see you next.

  I’m sure I’ll see you soon, once I’ve sorted out my head a bit. I’m working as a farm labourer at the moment, but that won’t last forever. I expect I’ll come back when my money runs out.

  Give my love to Dad. And to Mama if you want, I suppose. But keep most of it for yourself.

  Lots of love,

  Connie xxxx

  now

  Lily drifted in and out of sleep for a week and a half, dreaming fitfully and disconnectedly of things that might have once been real. Richard appeared often, sometimes alongside Esmeralda, whose arms were still striped with silvery blood, and child-Connie, who watched sternly and dispassionately from a distance and never spoke. When she awoke, frequently, to find Richard at her side and Connie on the end of the phone, she found herself unable to separate the two of them from their dream-selves, and struggled to talk to either of them.

  She woke once to find Connie in Richard’s usual chair. Richard was on the other side of the room, staring out of the window, and didn’t notice her wake up. ‘Hey, sleepyhead,’ Connie said, squeezing her hand. ‘We were just talking about coming to spend Christmas with you. What do you think? Proper family Christmas? We could get a tree.’

  Lily squinted at her, confused. Trying to remember the last time they’d spent Christmas together. ‘But we don’t do Christmas.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’ve always done Christmas.’

  ‘I’ is not ‘we’, Lily thought, but she didn’t dare say it aloud. ‘Where?’

  ‘At your place. Mama’s place.’

  Probably the last place they had done Christmas together, in fact. ‘Okay. Sure.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. We’re not doing anything else. Are we?’ She looked up at Richard, who was still looking out of the window.

  ‘Huh? Oh. No. Definitely no other plans.’ He smiled, but his face looked odd. As if the smile had shaped his face into a slightly irregular position. ‘We could get a tree.’

  ‘Yes. Connie said.’ Lily looked from one of them to the other, trying to work out what was wrong with the conversation. ‘Are the boys coming?’

  ‘Of course. I wouldn’t spend Christmas without them.’

  ‘No, I meant here. Today.’ She watched her sister’s face, but Connie was carefully composed, not even a twitch from her facial muscles.

  ‘Maybe later. They’re at school at the minute.’ She looked at her watch, constructed her face into an expression of surprise. ‘Actually, I should probably make a move. It’s just gone two.’

  ‘Nathan not picking them up?’

  ‘No, not today.’ Connie leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I’ll bring them with me later, if you like. They’d love to see you.’

  Lily nodded.

  ‘Right. I’ll see you both later, then.’ She hugged Richard, and then disappeared with a backwards wave to both of them.

  A child-shaped shadow followed her out of the room, unseen by Richard, and Lily closed her eyes to stave off the image.

  ‘They said you can go home tomorrow,’ Richard said brightly, crossing the room to sit next to her. ‘That’ll be good, right?’

  Lily nodded again.

  ‘Unless you don’t want to?’

  ‘Don’t want to what?’

  ‘Go home. Well, you know. Back there.’ Richard eyed her in
tently. ‘Would you rather go back to our flat?’

  An image, so sharp she could have reached out and touched it, of them playing Scrabble in their flat, exchanging words like gifts. Of the room glittering in tinsel and flashing multicoloured lights. Last Christmas, then. Lily with her feet tucked under a blanket, Richard next to her on the sofa, bottle of ruby wine nestled between them. Yes, she would like to be back there. But she shook her head, thinking practically of the tenants. ‘The house is fine.’

  ‘Even the garden?’

  ‘It’s winter.’

  ‘Well, it won’t always be winter. And you seem to have been out there the other day.’

  Lily touched the bandage on her head. Had she really been out there? She remembered unlocking the door, trying to catch the girl-shaped shadows on the grass. Or not catch, because of course she knew they weren’t real. But to follow them. To see where they might lead her.

  It must have been then that she collapsed.

  ‘It’s fine. We can go back.’

  Richard smiled, lifted her hand to his lips. ‘We’ll make it nice. For when the others come to stay.’

  Lily closed her eyes, and tried to imagine the house full of people talking, laughing, having a nice time. Maybe that was what was needed, to finally expel all the ghosts.

  Connie took the boys to visit Lily straight after school. They bought cheap burgers from the canteen downstairs and ate them at Lily’s bedside while she drifted in and out of sleep. Connie and Richard carefully avoided any mention of Nathan. Instead they focused on holiday plans and abstract discussions of the future. There was talk of going abroad in the summer, a trip away for all of them, which Richard tactfully did not mention he couldn’t afford.

  When Connie got home, it was to find that Nathan still hadn’t returned.

  She put the boys to bed, leaving Tom in charge of Luke, and switched the radio to Radio Two while she half-heartedly tidied the kitchen. They played songs she knew the words to, even though she couldn’t identify the song or the artist. Every third or fourth track they played something Christmassy, and she tried not to find the songs desperately sad.

  Tidying done, she poured herself a glass of wine and switched off the radio. Silence descended as soon as she sat down. There was no shifting around upstairs, no creaking as the boys tiptoed into each other’s rooms. She would check on them in a while, and they would be buried in blankets, soft-haired sleeping heads protruding tentatively into the night.

  She realised that this was what it would be like if Nathan never came back. Silence, stretching across everything. Only the chatter of anonymous voices on the TV and the radio to keep her company.

  She would die of loneliness.

  Dismissing the thought, she dug around in her handbag until she found the notebook she carried everywhere. It was her book of lists, and it was currently filled with Christmas-related collections of words and names. Her card list – almost all crossed off, now, with only two weeks to go. Her stocking-filler lists – the already-bought and the to-be-bought – the first of which would not be crossed off until each item was wrapped and in its proper place. Her food lists, which would now have to be altered to include six – impossible to think that Lily would provide the food or do the cooking, though Richard was usually enthusiastic enough. They had never spent Christmas together, but they always spoke on Christmas Day, and Richard was always in the kitchen when they did.

  She went through, making alterations here and there, feeling measurably calmer the more organised things became. She wondered how she had come to this point, this level of adulthood, where she thought about events more than ten minutes before they happened and felt happier for doing so. She tried to remember what it had been like to vanish into the world, with no one looking out for her and no idea what might happen next. Tried to remember the enjoyment that had come from not knowing, not being able to plan, and from having no one to care about or be responsible for.

  It was gone, now. Eroded by the intervening years. Her life, without responsibility for other people, would be no life at all.

  At nine o’clock she tiptoed upstairs to check on the children. Both slept peacefully, heads turned to one side, arms splayed above their heads. She wondered if she’d ever told them that they slept, separated by two walls and an ocean of unconsciousness, in identical positions. She wondered if they’d care.

  At half-past ten she drained the last of the bottle of wine and went to bed, falling asleep instantly. Two hours later Nathan slipped into bed beside her, and she didn’t stir at all.

  They took the bandages off Lily’s wrist and head at nine the next morning, exposing the bruised skin beneath, and pronounced her fit for discharge. Richard half-carried her to the car, placing her in the front seat as if she were a porcelain doll. He drove considerably slower than the speed limit all the way home, and Lily didn’t comment, watching the countryside crawl past the window in silence.

  They arrived home to find the house a mess, dishes piled on the sides and life debris scattered across the furniture. It had been two weeks since Lily had been there. Richard had been home every day, but only to sleep, and once to go to work. With normal routine suspended, there hadn’t seemed much point in things like cleaning.

  Now, though, Richard regretted not having done something about the place sooner. He’d had whimsical thoughts about them tidying the house together, abolishing the dirt and the remnants of the last few weeks in much the same way as they had when they’d first moved in. But of course she wouldn’t be capable of it. Of course she wouldn’t be able to do anything except lie down, watch TV, put her feet up.

  He settled her on the sofa and went to make a cup of tea. While the kettle boiled he collected dirty cups and plates from the table, opened old post, tried to create some semblance of order. He remembered the first time he’d been in this kitchen, months ago, laying out their tea bags, kettle, mugs, in an attempt to claim it as their own. Did it feel as though it belonged to him any more now than it had done then? Probably not.

  The thing that was missing from this house, he had come to realise, was Lily. She was just not here in the way she had been in their flat. Of course her things were here and there, scattered about, but she didn’t seem to use any of them. He had once spent his days deciphering her moods from the clues she left him, reading her scribbled mathematical notes while she wasn’t looking, flicking through the books she read when he wasn’t there. There was even a kind of joy in reading her half-finished crossword puzzles; seeing the answers that had come to her easily, the ones that were elusive to her. Trying to work out why she knew some things and not others.

  Now, there was nothing. She didn’t seem to do anything with her days, and so there was nothing to decipher. When was the last time she’d done any work? Read a book? Read a newspaper, even? If she did any of these things then it was secretly, out of his sight. She no longer left him any clues.

  Was it because she didn’t want him to know? Or was it, contrarily, because she did? Did she want him to talk to her instead of figuring her out on his own?

  Or was it simply that there was not as much to figure out as there had been before?

  He made the tea, absent-mindedly selecting their favourite mugs: hers a chipped white mug with cartoon rabbits on it (a present from her childhood, she’d told him once, though she didn’t remember from whom), his a dark brown mug with a blue flower on one side. He carried them through to the living room, thinking that maybe if they spoke, if he asked what was wrong rather than respecting her right to silence, then she would give him the answers he required. Find her way back into her life, and into his.

  In the time it had taken to make the tea, though, Lily had fallen asleep. Her delicate head rested on one arm of the sofa, blonde hair splayed across her face. Her hands were clasped tightly together in her lap, and, on the TV in front of her, Dick Van Dyke was solving murders in silence.

  then

  ‘Do your parents ever talk to each other about anything, ex
cept to argue?’

  Lily had been with Dr Mervyn for half an hour, and neither of them had spoken until now. Since Connie had left, their sessions had resumed their old format – they’d made no further forays into Lily’s memory, at her request. There was a change, though: since Connie’s departure something seemed to have been released in Lily, and she had found it easier to talk. This had made it easier for Dr Mervyn to ask questions, and their sessions had come somewhere close to resembling normal counselling sessions.

  Lily considered her answer for a minute, thinking back over the conversations she’d overheard recently, then shook her head. ‘No.’ She hesitated, wondering if she should offer more, and then: ‘They only talk about Connie, and they can’t talk nicely about her.’

  Dr Mervyn nodded. Presumably this was the answer he had been anticipating. ‘Do you talk to them at all?’

  Lily shook her head. She had been toying with maths homework for the last half-hour, in between bouts of staring out of the window, but now she turned the sheet of paper over and began sketching the bare branches of the tree outside. Dr Mervyn (or, more likely, the school) had installed new blinds recently, so the world outside the window was interrupted, cut into segments by harsh black lines. She focused on trying to get the three-dimensional effect of the lines being in front of the rest of the picture, rather than just periodic strike-throughs of the image.

  ‘Do they try to talk to you?’ Dr Mervyn asked. Again, Lily shook her head.

  They fell silent for a while, both of them occupied with their separate tasks. Outside the door, two women were having a loud and unnecessarily raucous conversation about the hopelessness of their husbands’ respective behaviour. The words filtered into Lily’s mind, though she didn’t want them there. Drunkard. Layabout. Waste of space.