See Me Not

by Janelle Harris

  I’m tired. Weary. But every time I close my eyes, I see Amber’s face. I reach for my phone from the bedside table and turn my back to Emma, so the light from the screen won’t disturb her. I open my messages and stare at the most recent one. The black and white picture Amber sent me a couple of hours ago blurs before my eyes as I forget to blink. I’ve never seen an ultrasound before. I can’t make anything out. I don’t see more than a greyish-black square with some darker shadows here and there. There’s a black oval in the middle, and I suspect that’s the baby. I guess it’s too early to tell. Amber hasn’t told me how far along she is, but if my maths is correct, she’s about eight weeks. I did some Google searching when Emma fell asleep, and it says a baby has a heartbeat by this gestation. A heart. Actually beating. I don’t know how far along Emma was when she aborted our kid. I’m guessing she’d have been around about where Amber is now. And our baby would have had a heartbeat too.

  I slide further away from Emma until I’m so close to the edge of the bed I almost fall out. I close my eyes and exhale until my lungs feel empty. For the first time in fourteen years, I allow myself to grieve. I’ve spent so long worried that Emma was losing her mind, I never realised I was hurting too. I grieve for my child. For the loss of a piece of me. I ache for a child who never stood a chance. I pine for the life we could have had. For the child who would be a teenager now. For the father I could have been. I didn’t tell Emma I understand about the abortion because I don’t think I could have looked her in the eyes and told her I forgive her. I don’t.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  AMBER

  I hate mornings. I’m not one of those chirpy ‘let’s greet the bright light of day with a smile’ types. And coffee sucks. Even when it’s strong and thick like treacle, it still doesn’t give me the buzz I need to face the day.

  I fall out of bed, my legs heavy with the weight of the day ahead. I pause before I get dressed and stare at my thighs. The worst of the scars have faded now. There’s no redness anymore. I run my hand over my bare skin. The dimpled flesh is soft, and some of the scars are small where I only jabbed a needle in once or twice. Other scars are not so subtle. The larger ones will never heal. The areas where the flesh was raw and gaping. The places where I’d jabbed the same spot countless times. One scar just above my knee is worse than all the others are. It’s where the needle once snapped, and I had to dig it out with a kitchen knife. I was so high I didn’t feel a thing. It was three days later before the infection was unbearable and I thought I’d lose my leg. They asked me in the hospital if I was an addict. As if the answer wasn’t written all over my skin.

  The scars on my flesh know I’ve been clean for five years. My skin is trying to heal as best it can. But the scars on my heart. No amount of time can help those.

  I pull on my clothes that are waiting on the end of my bed. I picked out my outfit the night before; I didn’t want to allow myself any time to change my mind. I dress the bed and open the curtains before I leave my bedroom. I stop in the doorway and take a look around, knowing this will be the last time I ever see this room.

  Downstairs, I make some coffee, even stronger than usual. I savour the warmth of the cup between my hands as I stare out the french doors into the garden. ‘I’m sorry, Will,’ I allow myself to say. ‘I really, really am sorry.’

  Minutes later, I slam my empty cup against the kitchen table. I take my time in the downstairs bathroom. The mirror above the sink is tiny, and the overhead light hasn’t worked in ages, but today, of all days, I need my makeup to be flawless. Today, of all days—my last day.

  Half an hour later, I’m ready to leave the house wearing my best clothes and with a face full of makeup. I stop just before I step outside and open the drawer of the hall table. It sticks a bit, and I have to tug with my full weight to pry it open. There’s a pile of crap in there. Random pieces of paper, an old phone book—stuff I’ve forgotten about. Stuff I haven’t seen in five years. I rummage, quickly finding the photograph I’m after. I roll my eyes and smile at the same time as I take in my pale face resting on Will’s shoulder. He looks equally as shit. We’re both way too thin, and his t-shirt has a large, noticeable hole just below his left collarbone. His dark brown hair is spiky and unwashed, and he has that just-rolled-out-of-bed look. We sit tucked up on a filthy sofa. I think it may once have been a pastel colour, but I’ve only ever known it as a brownish-grey thing. Will’s arm is draped behind my neck, and his hand is gripping my shoulder like he’s holding on for dear life. Maybe he was.

  I kiss the image of his face and slide the photo carefully into the zip pocket of my handbag.

  ‘See you soon,’ I whisper as I pull the front door closed behind me.

  An hour later, I’m walking familiar streets. I stop outside a three-story redbrick building. It’s shabbier than I remember. I definitely don’t recall bars on the downstairs windows. A part of me itches to turn around and pretend I don’t belong here. Pretend I never belonged here. But a larger part of me knows my heart has never left this place.

  I cast my eyes up to the third floor and count five windows across. The curtains are drawn on my old apartment. The steps leading to the main doors of the block are as dull and cold as ever. Some new graffiti is scribbled across the depressing, grey concrete. I grab the wonky handrail as I climb the steps, two at a time.

  I take a deep breath before I raise my arm and knock on the door. The pong from rubbish bins lining the street waiting for collection mixes with exhaust fumes from the traffic passing behind me. I wonder if it always smelt this repulsive. I don’t remember. I don’t remember much about this place. That’s probably for the best. But I do remember the day Will died.

  Mr Nowak opens the door as far as the latch and peers over his nose through the gap.

  ‘Yes. Can I help you?’ he says, his Polish accent as pronounced as ever.

  ‘I’m Amber Hunter. We spoke on the phone.’

  The latch chain rattles and he opens the door wide, revealing a long corridor behind him.

  ‘Yes. Miss Hunter. Good to make meeting you.’ He extends his hand.

  His fingernails are long and dirty, and I grimace as I force myself to shake his hand.

  ‘Come in. Follow me,’ he says, stepping aside to allow me past.

  The door slams behind us with a loud bang, and I twitch.

  ‘You see apartment now. Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ I swallow.

  He doesn’t remember me. I suspected as much, but I remember him. I remember how he’d pinch my arse when I would go upstairs to his apartment every Friday evening to pay the rent. Will and I paid weekly. I guess Mr Nowak didn’t trust us to go a whole month and still have cash left at the end of it to pay for the roof over our head. More memories accost my brain with each step forward, and I’m desperate to turn around and run away.

  We climb three flights of cold concrete stairs and turn right at the end of the corridor to stop outside a door that doesn’t sit in the frame correctly. The hinges are rusted, and the paint is chipped and flaking off in large clumps in various places. A door on the opposite side of the corridor opens behind us, and I turn, out of curiosity, to see who comes out. A man in his early twenties appears. He’s tall and clean cut. His clothes are respectable; slim-fitting jeans, tidy runners, and a black puffy coat. He carries a little girl on his hip. I guess she’s about three, four at most. Her blond hair falls in curls in and around the hood of her bright red coat. She’s smiling and giggling with the man I assume is her father. At first glance, they’re the picture of domestic happiness, but I can see further. The familiar signs are there. The dark black shadows that sit under his eyes like half-moons. The purplish-blue bruises that outline his lips. His gaunt face, with cheekbones so pronounced there’s scarcely a layer of skin covering them. My eyes drop to his hands that wrap around his adorable daughter’s back. The marks are raw and new. They could easily be mistaken for cigarette burns, and maybe some of them are, but the majority are the telltale signs of
a junkie shooting up.

  ‘Welcome to the neighbourhood.’ He smiles, the words rattling in his throat.

  ‘Thank you,’ I mumble.

  I can’t take my eyes off the little girl as he walks away. I wonder what will happen to her. What her future will be like, if she makes it that far. I shake my head. It’s unbearable to think about. My heart pinches, and I know I made the right decision five years ago. I had to give my child a chance at a future. A future without me.

  ‘Come. You see inside now, yes,’ Mr Nowak commands as he opens the door to the apartment where I once lived.

  I step into the open plan living area. I’m surprised to find it renovated since I was last here. A floral couch has replaced the slimy brown one I remember. It’s obviously still second-hand but a definite improvement. The fabric is patchy in places, but at least no springs protrude through the cushions. The cream kitchen presses have been washed or maybe even repainted. The colourful splashes from spilt alcohol and the odd blood splatter once so pronounced on the kitchen tiles have been washed away. It’s almost as if I was never here before.

  ‘One bedroom, one bathroom,’ Mr Nowak says. ‘There.’ He points.

  My body trembles as I make my way towards the bedroom. The heels of my shoes make a weird tapping sound against the timber floor, and Mr Nowak eyes me with uncertainty.

  ‘You clean?’ he snaps.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You heard me.’ His accent dilutes suddenly.

  ‘Are you asking me if I take drugs?’

  ‘Yes.’ He nods.

  ‘And if I do, do you really think I’d give you an honest answer?’ I snort.

  ‘Look, lady. You’re wearing nice clothes, no doubt expensive. And you’re polite. You don’t belong here. So I gotta draw the conclusion you’re either trying too hard to cover up your habit, or you’re a cop or something. I got nothing to hide. I’m not doing anything illegal here.’

  ‘Pretty good English for a guy who couldn’t string two words together when I first got here,’ I snap.

  ‘Lady, what is your problem? If you’re dealing, you can get out right now. I don’t want trouble.’

  ‘I’m not an addict, a dealer, or a cop.’ I shake my head. ‘I work in IT, actually.’

  ‘Really?’ He tilts his head to one side. ‘Then what are you doing on this side of town?’

  ‘I like the place,’ I say. ‘How much?’

  ‘For you …’ He licks me with his eyes, stopping for way too long to stare at my chest. ‘I say nine hundred a month.’

  ‘That’s bullshit. You said seven on the phone.’

  ‘I changed my mind. Anyway, it looks like you can afford it. Do you want the place or not?’

  ‘Let me see the bedroom first,’ I say, confidently opening the correct door.

  Mr Nowak follows me. He stands too close behind me, and I can feel the hiss of his warm breath reach the nape of my neck. I’d ask him to back off, but my memories have paralysed me. Everything about that day floods my senses as I stare into the room where Will and I once slept. And for a second, I think I’m going to lose control of my bladder.

  The room is exactly as it was five years ago. The creamy brown carpet with an array of vomit and urine stains smells as bad as ever. Someone has attempted to scrub them out, but their efforts were futile. The same duvet covers the double bed where we slept the day Will died. My breathing is laboured, and I wait for Mr Nowak to notice I’m having some sort of meltdown. But he’s too busy eyeing up my arse to notice anything else about me.

  Finally, I force myself to look at the curtain pole. It’s still warped in the middle where the weight of Will’s lifeless body, dangling like a puppet on a string, dragged it down. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, transported to that day.

  I had good news. News I couldn’t wait to share with Will. I’d gotten a job. It was bag packing in the local supermarket. The money wasn’t great, but it was enough to meet the rent and have some left over to put food on the table. I’d bought us some beers to celebrate. Will’s favourites. I put them in the almost empty fridge, and I unpacked some groceries I’d picked up. Some nearly out-of-date stuff I got on the cheap, but it was good enough to eat, and I planned to make us a celebratory dinner. It took me a while to notice the apartment was eerily quiet. I knew Will was at home. I had the only set of keys with me, and I’d been gone for hours. He wouldn’t leave with no way of letting himself back in.

  I felt my heart sink with each step I took closer to the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and I guessed the bedroom window must have been open a fraction because the door rattled ever so slightly on its hinges. I began to call his name. Softly at first but by the time my hand gripped the door handle, I was screaming for him to answer me.

  My knees had hit the carpet before I pushed the door back fully and my heavily pregnant belly slapped against my thighs, driving some acidy vomit into the back of my throat. I screamed. I remember because my throat was dry for days after. At the funeral, my voice was rusty, and I could barely get the words out to thank people for coming. Not that many people were there to thank at all.

  When I open my eyes now, I can still see the urine soaked body of the man I loved dangling from the curtain rod. I can still see the bedsheets wrapped tightly around his neck, masquerading as a silk scarf. Cotton bedsheets … who would ever think they’re a weapon capable of strangling the life out of a man?

  Mr Nowak places his hand on my shoulder, and I yelp like a wounded animal.

  ‘Sorry,’ I apologise, pulling my eyes away from the window and turning to face the man who was once my landlord.

  ‘So you taking the place or what?’ he says. ‘I’ve another viewing in half an hour if you’re not interested.’

  ‘Really?’ I straighten. ‘This place hasn’t been rented in five years, yet you have two viewings in one day. What a coincidence.’

  A whirlpool of anger gathers in Mr Nowak’s grey eyes like a winter’s storm. His rage stretches him by an inch, and he seems broader too. He’s still not as tall as I am, but that’s not unusual, even for a man. ‘You’re a fucking reporter, aren’t you? Out. Get out. What the hell is wrong with you people? I knew I sniffed you out as a bullshitter. Girls like you don’t belong here. Why are you dragging this story up after all these years? It’s disgusting. A man can’t die in peace these days without you monsters wanting to splash it all over the front page. Or even worse put photos on the internet. This world makes me sick. Sick, I tell you. Out. Out. Out.’ Mr Novak waves his hand above his head, and his efforts to seem assertive or aggressive are almost comical.

  I’ve already corrected his misconception about my occupation, so I’m not prepared to waste my breath further.

  ‘Did you know William Burke took his last breath in this room?’ I ask.

  Mr Nowak scrunches his nose and rolls his shoulders. ‘Yeah. Years ago. But the guy was a drug addict.’

  ‘It wasn’t an overdose,’ I quip.

  ‘But it was suicide.’ Mr Nowak snorts.

  ‘Suicide isn’t a crime,’ I snarl.

  Mr Nowak shrugs, and his cold, indifference makes me want to push him out the window behind us.

  ‘Will’s life in this shithole just didn’t seem worth living,’ I mumble. ‘Not even with a wife who loved him and a baby on the way.’

  ‘Did you know William Burke?’ Mr Nowak asks, and finally, I see a spark of recognition in his eyes.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why are you really here?’ he asks, squinting as he studies my face.

  ‘I told you. I would like to rent this apartment.’ I snort.

  Mr Nowak shakes his head, and before he asks another stupid question, dancing around the truth I know he’s already figured out, I cut across him. ‘William Burke wasn’t just some junkie who took his life here.’ I point at the window as if Will’s body still dangled there for us to see. ‘He was my husband.’

  ‘Jane?’ Mr Novak blurts as if I’ve just slapped him roughly
on the back with a crowbar. ‘Jane Burke, is that really you? You look fantastic. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Hello, Eddie.’ I groan as I relax, and my natural, gritty inner-city accent makes its first appearance in five years. ‘I missed you.’ I grin.

  ‘The years have been good to you,’ he stutters, and I sense fear. ‘What brings you back here?’

  ‘Unfinished business.’ I nod wide-eyed and breezy.

  Eddie Nowak shrinks again, and I can tell the weight of his anxiety is crushing him. I catch him pull his mobile out of his back pocket. I really wish he hadn’t done that.

  ‘Who you going to call, Eddie?’ I snarl.

  ‘I wasn’t going to call anyone.’ He slurs his words as nervous saliva gets caught between his teeth and his bottom lip.

  He disgusts me, and I want to slap the jabbering bastard across the face, but I wouldn’t touch his vile skin with my bare hands.

  ‘I need to use this apartment for a few days, Eddie,’ I chortle. ‘A week tops. So what do you say? For old time’s sake, yeah?’

  ‘I don’t take on short-term lettings, Jane. You remember. I’d need you to sign a lease.’

  My eyes narrow. ‘Can’t you make an exception?’

  Eddie shakes his head.

  ‘Come on. You can do a favour for an old friend.’ Sarcasm and hate lace my words.

  ‘Jane … I … I …’

  ‘Oh Eddie, fuck this,’ I growl, losing patience. ‘I need this apartment, okay. And you’re going to give it to me. Or would you rather I go upstairs and have some words with your wife. I’m sure she’d love to know all about the little junky girl you fucked on the rooftop.’

  ‘I never touched you.’ Eddie jerks away.

  My eyes widen, and I roll my bottom lip between my thumb and fingers.

  ‘It’s dangerous up there. There’s no railing and the wind would rip the arse off you in the winter.’ Eddie darkens, his eyes darting to the ceiling. ‘I never go up there.’