The Name I Call Myself

by Beth Moran

  November meandered along frosty footpaths into the twinkly lights of December. Choir rehearsals intensified, if that were possible, as Hester attempted to ready us for the debut performance at the Grace Chapel Christmas carol service. April, still hunting for work, allowed me to bring her along.

  Hester expressed her irritation at a newcomer showing up so close to the big night.

  “You can stay, but if you aren’t ready you won’t sing at the carol service.”

  April shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Now, repeat after me…”

  A clear soprano, I introduced her to some of the others at coffee time. She struck up a conversation with Rowan.

  “Enjoy it?” Rowan asked.

  “I wasn’t expecting to, but it was all right, yeah. It sounded good when you sang it that last time. Dead Christmassy.”

  “Will you come back then?”

  April nodded. “I think so. I might even see if my boyfriend’ll come to the service. He doesn’t really like Christmas.”

  “What? Why would anyone not like Christmas?”

  I stood, hovering, willing April to say something stupid so I could justify my annoyance at her intrusion into my family. Instead, she shrugged. “It’s complicated. Some bad memories. But this year’s a chance to make some better ones, I reckon.”

  Bad memories. You have no idea, I thought. Or did she? Did she know about the Christmases Sam spent in hospital? The squat? Perhaps even more miserable than those he wouldn’t remember at all. I usually worked Christmas Day, unable to turn away triple pay, and generally Sam spent most of it in bed with a bottle, or out seeking the hollow comfort of a stranger as lonely and depressed as himself.

  It looked as though this year I would be choosing between an Upperton Christmas, or cosying up with Sam and April. I couldn’t have imagined anything worse, until Perry suggested we combine the two.

  Maybe Marilyn had a spare place at her Christmas dinner table?

  My first scar, the four-inch slash beneath my collarbone, was a Christmas present from Snake. I don’t know the official name for what I had become – his girlfriend or lover? His victim? Whatever name I called myself, it didn’t disguise that I was sleeping with a drug dealer. A man who controlled me with his mood swings, his money, his raw power, and absolute supremacy. Occasionally his fists.

  Christmas Eve, he objected to me working so many hours over the holiday period. I objected to him having sex with all the skanky women who came round begging for handouts. He said he wouldn’t need to if I was around more, and ordered me to get undressed even though I had a shift in the pub.

  In my head, I knew this was wrong. I knew he treated me like a slave. He was a merciless man who had no more capacity to love me than a cockroach did. But he wanted me, for something, and in my twisted heart that felt better than nothing.

  However, some kind of survival instinct kicked in when he told me to skip work. It remained my one tenuous thread to a different reality, to a world where people sat down to eat Christmas dinner with their family, swapped presents, played board games, and talked about where they were going on holiday. He didn’t know that half my tips were stashed in a metal box the pub manager let me keep in her office.

  “No. I have to go to work.”

  He sneered at me. “What, because they couldn’t possibly cope without you to wash the pots? A monkey could do your job. And probably better.”

  “I need the money.”

  “I’ve got money. Look.” He pulled a wodge of notes out of his jacket pocket and thrust them in my face. “Oh no – you won’t touch my money, will you? Might taint that perfect white skin of yours. Too good for my money. Except when it pays your rent. Or the electricity. Or the food in your sexy belly.”

  I tried to push past him, to get my bag and go. He grabbed my hair, yanking me back into the bedroom.

  “I said, get undressed.”

  “I said, I’m going to work.” I could hear the fear in my voice, the hint of panic. Snake could hear it too. He laughed, grabbing my shoulders and slamming me against the wall.

  “No, darling. You’re going to do what I tell you.”

  I screamed, making him laugh even harder. The couple of people passed out downstairs wouldn’t dare intervene, even if they could hear me.

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  The phrase triggered something deep in my memories.

  You’re not going anywhere.

  I had heard those words before, many times, spoken by a snake in a different skin.

  I remembered what she said – that night – the night we packed our bags and so very nearly made it. We’re going, Rachel. Starting a whole new life. With a new name. Faith means strong. It’s being sure of what we hope for, and certain of what we don’t see. We can’t see it yet, but there’s a new life waiting for us.

  I didn’t understand my mother’s words. Not then, not now as Snake bored his crusted eyes into mine, daring me to resist him. But I knew, standing here with my back against the wall, what she would say. She died trying to free me from a life like this. She had died. Beaten and bloodied on the floor while her baby hid in the wardrobe under an old coat and her son begged the police to hurry.

  I thought about all the times Grandma found me hiding in my new wardrobe, my hands pressed against my ears in a vain attempt to shut out the memories. How she held me, rocking me through the night and telling me over and over again that I was safe now. This was a safe place.

  I glanced past Snake`s head at the wardrobe, old and battered now, and slowly brought a hand up to release one of the grips pinning my hair back. Then as Snake visibly relaxed, easing back a fraction, I raked the grip across his face as hard as I could, and ran.

  He caught up with me in the kitchen.

  I did not make it to work that day. I stayed a full week in hospital, sleeping in clean sheets and eating three square meals a day while I tried to piece myself back together. It felt like a holiday, despite having to repeat so many times the story Snake concocted to explain my injury. By the time I came home, Sam was back. One look at me and all his new resolve disintegrated. Life carried on as before, me taking care of my brother while we both tried to keep Snake happy. But I kept on working as much as I could. I smiled and filled up customers’ water glasses and remembered which one had ordered the medium steak and who wanted the gluten-free bread. The metal tin of tips grew fuller.

  Dylan came and said hello before I left rehearsal. We chatted about Christmas – his plans to visit family the week after Boxing Day, how I would be working as much as possible to pay for bridesmaid dress material.

  He asked if any of my family or friends would be coming to hear me sing. I mentioned April and Sam. He asked me where Sam lived, and what he did, and before I knew it I had told Dylan about my brother’s illness, stuck in a swamp of depression and going nowhere fast.

  I blame it on natural politeness (it would have been rude not to answer all those questions) or the post-rehearsal high. Maybe it was because he was a minister of the non-creepy variety and too easy to talk to. I hoped it wasn’t down to those gentle eyes; but for one, or all, of those reasons – or maybe simply because I felt so desperate to tell somebody, and he asked – I spilled more to Dylan about my situation than I had to Perry in the year we’d been together.

  Afterwards, feeling a flush of embarrassment at my outpouring, I said, “You won’t tell anyone, will you? For Sam’s sake. Are you bound by priest-type confidentiality?”

  Dylan pulled up his mouth on one side. “No, I’m not really.”

  “Oh.”

  “But, Faith – I’d like to think you know I wouldn’t speak about this because I’m your friend.”

  “Thank you. I didn’t mean to imply you would. I’m not used to having friends. Still learning the rules.” There I went again, spilling my secrets. I grinned, trying to lighten the comment but probably appearing like the kind of person that probably, no, doesn’t – and shouldn’t – have many friends.
r />   Whoops – try to look normal, Faith.

  “Well, I’m honoured you trusted me with this. And, actually, I was wondering if…”

  I never found out what Dylan wondered, as at that point my phone rang. Sam.

  “I can’t remember if I’ve taken my meds.” I could rate how Sam felt by whether he said hello to me or not. Half a second and I knew every time.

  My stomach clenched up in the conditioned response to his call.

  “It’s okay, don’t panic. We’ll figure this out. Have a look and see if you can find the glass of water you’ll have taken them with.”

  “I can’t! She’s cleaned everything away.”

  “Try to remember what you did this afternoon. What you had to eat, if you had a hot drink. Work backwards.”

  “I can’t remember!” His voice rose, hoarse with anxiety. “I had some with orange juice but that could have been yesterday.”

  “It’s all right, Sam. Try to calm down. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Just sit tight until then. Okay?”

  The phone hung up. I hurriedly apologized to Dylan and said goodbye before interrupting April’s conversation. “We need to go.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  I pulled her to one side, away from the group she’d been standing with. “Sam called. He can’t remember if he’s taken his meds today. Last time he did this we could count forward from the date he started taking the latest pack. If we can’t figure it out I’m not sure what we’ll do.”

  “He took them just before I left. I made sure ’cos he looked tired and I thought he might fall asleep. Anyway, I got him a thing where you put the pills in little compartments to mark off the time and the day. He should be able to check that and see, if he can’t remember. I’ll give him a ring.”

  “That’s great.” I slapped away at the jealousy poking its head out from behind my hurting heart like an ugly goblin. “You can phone him in the car.”

  “But we don’t need to leave if I call him, do we? I haven’t finished my coffee and Marilyn won’t want to go yet.”

  I gritted my teeth, stress levels surging. With all due respect, April, after a couple of months of playing nursemaid, do you really have a clue?

  “The problem isn’t the pills, April. Sometimes Sam panics when he’s on his own. He’s worked himself into a state, and if I don’t go, he’s going to find another way to calm himself down.”

  “So, what, you drop everything and come running whenever he calls you a bit upset?”

  I took a deep breath. “Yes. That is what I’ve been doing for the past six years. It’s called taking care of my very ill brother. If I didn’t, he’d be dead by now.”

  “Right.” April raised her eyebrows as she shrugged into her coat and hat. I resisted the urge to yank that stupid floppy hat off her mouldy dreadlocks and slap her round the face with it.

  As I said goodbye to Dylan, he looked at me steadily, creases forming between his eyebrows. “I hope Sam’s okay. I mean. I know he’s not okay. But, well. I’m thinking of you.”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, sure I would give something away about how I would no doubt be thinking about him, too. Not in an appropriate, concerned friend-type way, either.

  Chill out, heart. He’s doing his JOB. You should be ashamed of yourself, feeling mushy about a minister being kind to a friend – FRIEND – going through a tough time.

  I spent most of December picking up shifts at Christmas parties, waiting on the kind of people Perry wished I hung around with. In between serving sparkling wine and mini lobster thermidors, I practised “O Holy Night”, with and without the rest of the choir, answered Sam’s middle of the night and all through the day phone calls, walked miles along frosted lanes and crunchy footpaths, and tried not to think too hard about anything else.

  I’d just got back from a walk and was defrosting my toes in front of the fire when Perry called. “Are you coming to the firm’s Christmas do?”

  “When is it again? I might be working.”

  “You are not bartending at my Christmas party.”

  “When is it?” I repeated.

  “The eighteenth.”

  I checked my mental diary. “I’m not working. But I have a choir rehearsal until eight.”

  “Skip it.”

  “Can I come along afterwards? It’s only three days before the performance. I ought to be there.”

  “Maybe you ought to spend more than a couple of evenings with your boyfriend all month,” he said, voice tight.

  “You know I can’t afford to pass on the extra shifts. This is my busiest time of year.” I held back any comments about his frequent late nights in the office, numerous business trips, and weekends schmoozing clients.

  “I miss you, Faith. Come to the party. Drink champagne and slow dance with me. Let’s kiss under the mistletoe. I’ll wrap you in my tux in the taxi home so you don’t get cold. Let’s forget about responsibilities for one night and have a wonderful evening.”

  I thought about that, about which I found more wonderful: a choir rehearsal with a group of mixed-up, semi-crazy women and a drill sergeant for a director, or a night in an awkward dress and uncomfortable shoes making small talk with Perry’s work colleagues. I glanced down at the ten billion pound ring on my finger.

  “Okay. Yes. I would love to come to your work do. They can manage without me for one evening.”

  “What?! And how are we supposed to manage without you for the entire evening?” Hester barked. “You’re missing practice for a party? Ebony has already backed out. Something about her kids’ school play. Would anyone else like to skip rehearsal this week? How about the dress rehearsal on Saturday? How about none of us bother – we just spend the day Christmas shopping or eating mince pies or watching The Muppet Christmas Carol?”

  “I’m sorry, Hester. I promised my fiancé I’d go with him. We’ve hardly spent an evening together all month, and this is important.”

  She stared at me. “Important to him or to you?”

  “For us. It’s important for us. And me.”

  She nodded her head briskly before tapping the back of a chair with a baton. “Excellent. Good to see you standing up and making some choices for yourself. Your self-belief is growing. Have a wonderful time. Everybody stand!”

  The party went as I imagined – the swanky restaurant in Nottingham full of men with glowing faces in black tie, women in too short, too tight dresses, and overly bright smiles. I sat next to Eddie and Fleur, from the disaster dinner party, which made the meal bearable, and then Perry dragged me into his arms on the dance floor, and we swayed along to the swing band until we were ready to leave.

  He asked the taxi driver to drop us off at the end of my street and we walked the rest of the way beneath a sparkling canopy of December stars. He held my hand as we strolled in silence through the crisp night air, stopping at my front door.

  “Would you like to come in for a coffee?”

  Perry knew I meant a coffee, as I had mentioned months ago that an abusive relationship had left major trust issues, and I didn’t feel ready to sleep with him (let alone show him my scars). I basically considered myself damaged goods in that respect – I would share Perry’s bed as his wife, but I certainly didn’t expect to enjoy it. His willingness not to push the matter had been part of the reason I could contemplate him being my husband – although I wasn’t ignorant to the fact that our stalled sex life was a contributing factor in his haste to get me down the aisle.

  We could make a life together that would be better than anything I ever dreamed of, or deserved. I would do what needed to be done, out of gratitude if nothing more. Shooting stars and violins, trembling kisses and I-think-about-you-all-the-time – that wasn’t real life. That faded with putting out the bin and cleaning the bathroom, sleepless nights with screaming babies, and the onset of saggy skin. Didn’t it? What we had – friendship, mutual respect – didn’t that make just as solid a foundation for a lifetime together?

  A
s my future husband kissed me goodnight, his mouth warm against my frozen lips, I willed myself to lean into him. To wrap my arms around this choice I had made and embrace it.

  The afternoon of the carol service we met in an upstairs room at Grace Chapel. Perry having been called in to the office again, I had grabbed a last-minute lift with Marilyn. The air crackled and popped with built-up tension as the choir changed into the simple black dresses Rosa had whizzed up on her new sewing machine, adding thin silver belts and various different metallic shoes picked up for eight pounds each in a closing down sale. Rowan and Kim hastily curled or straightened hair, pinning in silver Christmassy ornaments. We giggled with bunched-up nerves, squeezed each other’s hands, and blotted sweaty make-up. There would be no more than eighty people in the hall below – maybe a few extras standing at the back – but it may as well have been eight thousand. “Does Rosa even have a dress for you?” Mags asked, somewhat bemused at Marilyn’s appearance.

  “She absolutely does,” Marilyn huffed. “I’m one of the choir, aren’t I?”

  “Well, technically yes. But you don’t sing. What are you going to do? Click your fingers? Play the tambourine?”

  “I’m going to demonstrate the fine art of lip-synching, my friend. Which is in many ways more challenging than actual singing.”

  “Why are you going to do that?” Uzma asked, turning around so Yasmin could zip her dress up over her green underwear decorated with glittery candy canes. “Isn’t it a bit deceitful? When people lipsynch it’s usually to their own song.”

  “You’re like the Milli Vanilli of choirs!” Yasmin said.

  “Or the four out of five members of most boybands,” Kim added. “There to look good and add some charisma, but with microphone not switched on. No offence, but I don’t think one extra person will make any difference. You aren’t that good-looking.”