‘I don’t know what to think. To be honest.’
‘This isn’t about David, Emma. It never has been.’
‘Than what, Jane? What the hell is it that you want?’
‘I found my father again when I was in my early twenties,’ Jane sharpens. ‘He’d been right under my nose all those years, working at the local train station. Crazy, I know, right? I reached out to him, and we talked sometimes. Or at least, we tried to, but it was always strained. I couldn’t forgive him for walking out on me. And he couldn’t forgive me for turning to addiction just like my mother. He was ashamed of the woman I had grown up to become. Can you believe that? He left me, and he had the nerve to expect me to be something better than a mess. He blamed William. Of course, he would. It was easier to blame my husband than blame himself.’
‘Was it William’s fault?’ I whisper.
Jane’s face sours. ‘Is it David’s fault you’re a screw up?’
It takes a lot of strength to hold back and not slap her. But it takes even more strength to fight the feelings of disgust that bubble inside my stomach because I understand the point she’s making. David was never to blame for my regrets, but I tortured him nonetheless.
I see some of myself in her, and it scares me. We have the same eyes. Hazel. And her lips are thin on top and full on the bottom, just like mine. David said she’s around our age, but she looks so much older than we are, and I wonder if that’s what years of drink and drugs do to you. Of course, there are differences too. I’m short, and she’s unusually tall. Probably as tall as David is, and he’s taller than most other men I know. But our most common ground is the regret and sadness that I see in her eyes. It resonates somewhere deep inside me. I wish I could scrape it out and throw it away so I could tell myself I’m nothing like her. But it’s as much a part of me as my heart or lungs.
‘I know what it’s like to grow up without a father,’ I say.
Jane eyes me sceptically.
‘My dad died when I was six months old. I don’t remember him.’
Jane snorts loudly. ‘Is that what your mother told you?’
‘Yes. Of course,’ I dismiss. ‘She doesn’t talk about him much. I guess it’s too hard. I don’t even know where he’s buried.’
‘I do.’ Jane gargles.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You heard me.’ She snorts as her eyes glass over, and her head falls to one side like a puppet with a broken string.
‘Jane, what exactly is going on here?’ I ask, placing frustrated hands on my hips.
‘I watched you, you know. Watched you all the time.’
‘I know.’ I stiffen. ‘I screenshot all those messages. So even if you delete them now, I still have proof that you trolled me on the internet.’
Jane shakes her head, and the corners of her lips twitch. She’s either about to cry or laugh, and she’s so damn unpredictable, I can’t tell which it will be.
‘Seriously. That’s what you’re worried about?’ she spits. ‘A stupid internet troll? Can’t you see the bigger picture?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t understand anything that’s going on here. I know you hate me; that’s obvious. I thought it was because I was David’s wife. I thought maybe you were jealous. But you say this isn’t about him. Then what, Jane? What have I done to make you so angry? Tell me, please?’
‘I tried so hard to break you, you know. I headhunted your husband to come work with me. I batted my eyelashes and flirted shamelessly for weeks. He never even noticed. His heart was so consumed with his new marriage and his broken fucking wife. You’re all he ever cared about. Ironic really, isn’t it. Because you’re the one person who doesn’t see how very much he worries about you. Maybe, I never had to break David. Maybe, you would have done that all on your own. The online stalking was accidental. It was supposed to be just a photo; one photo to set up the affair with your husband. It was supposed to just be photographic evidence to plant the seeds of infidelity in your head. But it quickly became addictive. I began to think I could tip you over the edge. If you killed yourself, then I wouldn’t have to get my hands dirty. It was a perfect plan. But you just wouldn’t succumb to it. You just had to keep bloody fighting. You had to make things messy.’
Jane swirls past me and slams her back against the door with a loud slapping sound. Although she doesn’t flinch, I know it must have hurt. Her eyes sit on me like an anvil, and her height seems more pronounced suddenly. My heart races so furiously that if it wasn’t for the noise of the traffic on the road below us, I think I might actually hear it beat like a drum.
‘O-okay,’ I stutter, ‘this is becoming ridiculous. I shouldn’t have come here. I think I should leave now.’
Jane slides to the floor and sits cross-legged, but her back remains pressed firmly against the door.
‘I want to leave now,’ I insist, unable to keep the tremor out of my voice. ‘Now. I want to go, Jane. Let me out.’
Jane tosses me a half smile, and her eyes narrow and glisten like glazed almonds. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention like obedient soldiers, and I realise the traitorous situation I’ve put myself in. I’ve always accepted human mortality. Whenever I lost consciousness because I hurt myself, I always embraced the darkness. The silence soothed and calmed me. And oftentimes, I was disappointed when I opened my eyes and discovered I was still here. But right now, I’m afraid. I’m terrified that Jane will see out what I never could. I genuinely believe Jane Burke is going to kill me.
‘You said you want answers, Emma, but you don’t want to stay and listen. Tut, tut. Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s rude to interrupt your host?’
‘Okay, Jane.’ I swallow, my eyes shifting around desperate to find another exit, but we’re three floors up, so I don’t have many options. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Like I said, I watched you. I watched you all the time, and you never even knew I was there. I’m not talking about the internet crap; that was just for fun. I mean I really watched you. You and him and your fucking cups of tea and giggles at the station. He never offered me tea. Never.’ Jane pauses and takes a deep, exaggerated breath. ‘I like tea.’
Jane’s face twists with hate, but her words are laced with a poignancy that is unmissable. Her heart is breaking; I can hear it.
‘I watched you confide in him. Your smile so bright as you both chatted like you’d known each other all your life. And the way he looked at you …’ Jane claws at her neck as if her skin is stitched on too tight. ‘I mean you could see in his eyes how much he loved you. It makes me sick just to think about it.’
‘Jane,’ I rasp, taking a step back, not because I’m afraid of her, but so I can get some space to gather my thoughts. ‘Are you talking about Danny? Danny Connelly from the train station? You are, aren’t you?’
‘He was so fucking proud of you. Never me. Always you. He forgave you for murdering your unborn child, but he couldn’t forgive me for my addiction. An addiction he drove me to. It’s not fair, Emma. He shouldn’t have loved you more than he loved me.’
I drag my hands through my hair and tug a little. Jane’s words are attempting to strangle me. It’s as if I can’t breath as I try to piece her ramblings together.
‘Danny Connelly drove you to addiction,’ I repeat the words tasting ludicrous in my mouth.
Jane plunges up and forward. She’s towering over me before I have a chance to blink. ‘Yes! The day he left my mother for yours.’
I shake my head, but the movement makes me dizzy, and for a second, I think I might black out. ‘Too far, Jane. You’ve just gone way too far. Seriously? Do you really expect me to believe any of that nonsense?’
Jane points at the scan photo I’m still holding in my shaking hands. ‘Look at the date, Emma.’
There are some letters and digits in the top left corner, but my eyes are tearing, and it’s like trying to see out frosted windows. I close my eyes and dig the base of my palms into my sockets. Opening my eyes again, I c
heck the date.
‘This is six years old,’ I heave.
‘Yes.’ Jane smiles, and I can tell the memory is dancing in her mind. ‘It’s my son. William’s and my son.’
‘You have a child?’
‘Marley,’ Jane says.
My hands open and the scan photo slips past my fingers and pirouettes to the floor like a leaf swaying in an autumn breeze.
‘Marley,’ I echo, the child’s name shockingly familiar.
‘Yes, Emma. Marley was my son. Danny’s grandchild.’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Why not?’
‘I … I …’ I can’t gather my thoughts. They race in my mind like horses on a track. ‘You’re Danny’s daughter.’ I point. ‘It can’t be. It just can’t.’
‘You know it’s true, Emma,’ Jane softens. ‘You believe me. I can see it in your eyes.’
‘Oh. My God. Oh, my God. That’s why you were at his funeral. That’s why you visited his grave. You weren’t following me. You were just there too?’
‘Sometimes.’ Jane tosses her shoulders. ‘But I followed you too. I wanted you to figure everything out on your own. I wanted you to go looking for answers, the way I did. But you’re so fucking self-consumed that you couldn’t see past yourself. It’s always about you. How you feel. How you hurt. How your days have gone. Sometimes, I actually pity David. It can’t be easy being married to damaged goods.’
‘I did figure everything out,’ I protest, pressing my fingertips against my closed eyes. ‘I found you, didn’t I?’
‘You found me because I wanted you to, Emma.’ Jane grins, smugly satisfied.
There’s nothing to say back to that. She’s right.
‘Keep digging,’ Jane suggests. ‘You’re getting close.’
‘Getting close to what?’ I spit. ‘Enough with the mind games, Jane. Jesus. I don’t want to play. I never have.’
‘How many times have you said, Danny’s just like a father to me?’ Jane mimics. ‘Didn’t you ever stop to think about how comfortable that sounded? About how you loved to say it.’
My eyebrows narrow, dragging my forehead to meet my nose. ‘It’s an expression, Jane. Just a term of endearment.’
‘Oh, come on, Emma. Even you’re not that gullible.’
Jane’s hazel eyes scorch into me, but I don’t miss delicate tears glistening in the corners. She covers her inner turmoil with an icy exterior. She works hard to make sure it’s so frosty and thick that it’s almost impenetrable, but to me, it’s paper thin, and I can see right through it. I know how it feels to be so conflicted. How it feels to have your head and your heart constantly at war with one another. Jane’s hatred for me is matched by her genuine grief for Danny. It should be our common ground. We both loved the old man with all our hearts. But Jane can’t get past her jealousy.
‘Your father left your mother for another woman, you say?’ I grunt, reluctantly processing.
Jane nods slowly.
‘And that other woman … that other woman is my mother.’
Jane nods again, her eyes a little wider now.
‘The woman he got pregnant?’
‘Yes, Emma. Come on, spit it out.’ Jane gallops.
‘So that baby …’ I pause, feeling ill. ‘That baby …’
‘Is you.’
My eyes roll, and I know for certain I’m going to throw up if it doesn’t come out the other end. Or both.
‘Hello, sister.’ Jane grins so widely I can see all her teeth and part of her gums.
Chapter Forty
EMMA
On the rooftop, the wind whips around us like wild bears clawing at their lunch.
‘Jane, this is crazy. It’s freezing up here,’ I protest.
The snow-speckled rooftop is slippery and dangerous. It spans two apartment widths across, and we walk slowly along the centre, but I’m not good with heights. My nerves are struggling to cope with being three stories up without any sort of railing or fencing around the perimeter. I’m surprised I agreed to come up here at all, but I couldn’t think of any other reasonable way of leaving Jane’s apartment or of calming her down. I hoped the fresh air might soothe her, but the surge of icy wind seems to have fuelled her madness even more.
Thick overhead clouds do their best to block out natural daylight, and it’s dull and depressing up here. Jane links my arm and skips from one foot to the other like an excited child. She jerks her head towards me and growls with her eyes when I don’t follow suit. Jane’s mood sways like a metronome beating out a rhythm I somewhat recognise. One moment, she’s venomous and aggressive like a bird of prey, and the next, she’s bright and soaring like a beautiful swallow. Jane’s behaviour is unpredictable and terrifying. It’s hard to anticipate her next move when I know even Jane doesn’t have control over what she will do next.
I understand the clinical definition of bipolar. I read all the goddamn pamphlets I could get my hands on when I first started showing signs of the disorder fourteen years ago. But seeing a manic meltdown play out in front of me like a dodgy B-list movie is terrifying. The scariest part is it’s like looking in the mirror.
Doctor Brady diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder when I was twenty-three, and the wounds I had carved into my chest were so deep, there was talk of needing a skin graft to repair them. He sat on the edge of my hospital bed and took my hand in his. He spoke calmly and softly as he broke his diagnosis to me. I snorted and blew a raspberry in his face. The illness has many triggers, and he told me it’s genetic. It wasn’t my fault, he promised. It’s in my genes. I was made this way. I barely had the strength to breathe, but I raised my middle finger with pleasure and told Doctor Brady to go fuck himself because there was nobody crazy in my family. I guess I was wrong.
‘Jane, we need to go back inside. You need to calm down.’ I shiver. ‘It’s not safe for us to be up here, and the falling snow is getting heavier.’
‘Oh, Emma, stop whining. Don’t you remember what it’s like to be a little kid when it snows?’
‘Of course. But I’m not a little kid anymore, and it’s cold and slippery up here.’
‘I thought you were fearless.’ Jane tosses an eyebrow.
‘No. Just stupid sometimes,’ I confess.
‘C’mon, Emma.’ Jane unlocks her arm from mine and reaches her open hand out to me. Let’s pretend we’re kids. Let’s have an adventure.’ Jane looks at me with heartbreak heavy eyes, pleading with me to take her hand.
I wonder if she’s daydreamed about enjoying sisterly bonding all her life. I grew up with a younger sister, but it certainly wasn’t a relationship to be envious of. Lucy and I have never been close. Lucy is spoilt and indulged, and my mother favours her shamelessly. I always thought I was the problem. I guess I understand my mother’s struggles somewhat better now.
‘C’mon. C’mon,’ Jane bosses. ‘Give me your fucking hand.’
I don’t reach for her, and Jane can’t hide her mounting frustration at my lack of cooperation. She tosses me a dirty look and twirls around on the spot. Her boots slip and slide effortlessly on the snowy ground. Jane’s forced laughter is cumbersome and fills the air. She purposely slaps me with her hand as she spins by, like a sulking child. The child she never had a chance to be. In another life, I wonder if we could have been friends. Fear and hate are momentarily replaced with the sense of loss for something I never really had.
Jane’s feet slip out from under her, and she lands flat on her back with an unmerciful wallop. She lies still with her eyes closed, and I hold my breath. Maybe, I could make it to the rooftop door before she picks herself up to chase me. I weigh the option in my head—I should go. I should run away right now and call someone. David. Kim. Anyone. Let them know where I am. Let them know I’m safe. But I find myself hurrying, as much as the icy rooftop will allow me, to check on her. I skid and slide and almost fall over too. I crouch beside the woman I’ve only known as my sister for less than an hour, and I check if she’s
okay.
Her breathing is heavy and laboured, and I can tell she’s unconscious. I drop my face into my hands and allow myself to scream. Watching Jane spiral out of control, not knowing when or if she’ll stop, is torture. I don’t know how broken Jane’s mind is, or if she’ll stop at nothing to destroy me. Every bone in my body is telling me to get the hell off the roof. I can call for help then. But my conscience won’t let me leave her. Jane isn’t a monster, I remind myself. She’s ill. Surely, I should understand that better than anyone does. I can’t leave her up here alone. She’ll get hypothermia or something. I drag my phone out of my pocket and cry with frustration when I discover my battery is dead. Suddenly, I weigh so much. I’m like a broken ship sinking under the waves. Jane stirs, and I slide my arm behind her neck and raise her head a little. I saw in a movie once that you’re not supposed to move someone who’s had a bad fall in case they’ve broken their neck. I might make things worse, but she’s struggling to breathe lying flat on her back, and I’m struggling just as much to think straight. The change of position seems to help, and Jane sighs and her breathing improves. She seems a lot better now, so I think she’ll open her eyes soon, and when she does, I don’t want her to see me. I lay her back down gently and skulk away slowly, my feet struggling to get a grip on the ever-tricking snow
I glance over my shoulder at the shabby door leading off the roof. The snow won’t allow me to run, but I reckon I could powerwalk over to it in a matter of seconds. Before I have a chance to spin around and point my body in the right direction, Jane’s hands suddenly collide with my chest, and she pushes with such force I’m the one on the flat of my back now. I scream as agony darts down my neck and out my shoulder. I yield to the pain as I drag myself to stand back up. My arm hangs loosely by my side. The rough rooftop surface has bitten my hand and re-opened the cut across my palm. I twist my arm around and gaze at my fistful of strawberries and cream as crimson blood soaks through the white bandage. I curl my fingers, attempting to protect the wound, and tuck my arm tight across my chest.
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