by Emily Elgar
11
Cara
Down on the beach the police put a tent over her. They won’t tell us anything. The crowd jostles around me. Whispers of “What’s happened?” or “Is it the disabled girl?” make me want to hide. I need to leave, I need to be with Mum. My body moves robotically, getting me first to the car and then driving me to the salon, to Mum.
The salon is only slightly less busy than it’s been all week. There’s a small group of people outside on the pavement in front of the photos of Grace and Meg on display in the window. I don’t know most of them but I spot Brian from the pub; I know he sees me, but I don’t acknowledge him. I just need Mum. It’s busy inside but the atmosphere is heavy, it’s like walking in to the end of a disappointing party. There are balloons around the corners of the room, tied to the dryers and stuck onto the mirrors. People I know and some I don’t stare and nudge each other when they see me. Dennis the butcher is standing by the door, with Barry and Marie. Dennis puts a heavy arm around me and says, “Martin called us from the Point. We’re so sorry, love,” into my ear. I picture him in his white apron, hands inside a pig’s ribcage, smell the iron tang of blood and instinctively pull away.
Either Zara or Mum have stuck search maps of the local area on all the walls, but no one is looking at them anymore. What’s the point? Everyone’s exhausted, their Find Grace T-shirts are crumpled now—some of them have been up for the last three nights looking for Grace. Some of them, like old Dr. Parker, are so shattered they look numb, and are perhaps secretly relieved that their searching might be over. Others, like Zara, are wet-faced and angry. She calls “Cara!” when she sees me and pulls me towards her thin but strong body.
“Your Mum’ll be so pleased you’re here, babe.”
She holds my hand firmly, the way Meg used to, as she leads me past Molly, who smiles at me as she rocks Zack in his pram, past the farmer Mr. Leeson, past Sylvia, who squeezes my arm, past the vicar who prayed at the vigil, and past others I don’t know until we get to Mum, who sits at the head of a trestle table. Mum sits still and upright in her chair; her makeup’s been wiped or cried away. She looks more herself than usual, more beautiful despite her tear-stained face. I want to fall on her, drop my head into her lap, but something stops me. Mum is trying to hold herself together; she knows that if she gives in to sorrow everyone else will too. There’s a pink cake in front of her; only a few slices have been taken. David from the Wishmakers sits next to her, his head in his hands.
Mum’s hand trembles as she reaches for me.
“Cara, love, I’m so glad you’re here.” She sees me looking at the cake.
“Zara made it for Meg’s birthday today. Meg never celebrated when she was alive, it was always overshadowed by the anniversary of Danny’s death. We thought . . . oh, I don’t know . . . we thought it would be a nice surprise for everyone. We thought it’d be something positive we could do, you know, keep people’s spirits up. Silly really.” As well as the cake there are sandwiches, and crisps laid out in bowls, untouched on the table. I think of Danny, of Grace, and standing there, holding Mum’s hand and staring at Meg’s birthday tea, I realize this is it: we’ve almost run out of hope.
“Mum, I’ve just come from the Point.” Mum closes her eyes, she doesn’t want to hear it.
“We know, love. Zara’s cousin Remi is dating a police officer. He told Remi that they found a body, that they’re trying to identify who it is. He said they’re moving quickly, there were crowds there, he said, they don’t want it getting out on social media before they’ve released a statement.”
An older woman in a Barbour jacket starts gently crying in the corner and David stands to comfort her. Mum looks at her and says to no one in particular, “Poor Maggie’s been up all night searching.”
Mum rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. We both watch as David whispers something in Maggie’s ear, and Zara inspects Molly’s cuticles while Dennis takes a huge bite of cake.
I realize none of these people knew Grace, who she really was. We all act like we did, of course, but did any of us really know her or did we just like to think we knew the sweet girl in the wheelchair? We didn’t want to think her life could be complicated—not simple, smiley Grace. Grace who made all of us feel better about our own lot.
“I know it’s an awful thing to say”—Mum talks in a whisper, more to herself than to me—“but a part of me is glad Meg isn’t here, that she can’t go to Grace’s funeral, that she doesn’t have to go through the agony of losing another child.” My stomach plunges. Has she already given up on Grace? If she gives up, then so will everyone in this room, so will I. But then Mum squeezes my hand harder, shakes her head again, and at last looks at me.
“Your hands are freezing, love!” Mum gestures to David’s empty chair. “Come on, sit down with me so I can warm you up.”
I pull the chair closer to Mum, who uncrosses her legs and starts rubbing both of my hands between her own. Neither of us says anything. We look each other in the eye and I feel like I see her clearly now, know her better somehow than before. I’m devastated for her, but I’m also prouder of her than I’ve ever been. My mum, who is so much more than what most people see. She keeps her voice small, her words just for me as she says, “You know, Car, whenever you and I had one of our bust-ups I’d always go to Meg for advice, she’d always know what to do. Even though Grace was younger than you, it was like she knew how to raise a teenager. She was always so wise, so calm when it came to Grace.”
We both stare at our hands as she rubs warmth, life, back into me. If I don’t take my eyes away it’s almost like we’re alone.
“Did you and Meg always tell each other everything, Mum?”
“She was my best friend, love. I never kept anything from her.”
“But did you ever get the feeling that there was stuff going on with Meg, stuff from her past that she didn’t tell you?”
The words are out of my mouth before I even knew I was thinking them. Mum stops rubbing, pulls her hands away. I look up at her, her lip reddening as she starts to bite it again.
“What are you talking about, Cara?”
“It’s just, you were saying that Meg knew about teenagers. I was wondering if Grace ever seemed older to you?”
Mum is looking at me like she doesn’t recognize me, like I’m a stranger to her.
“What do you know that you’re not telling me?” she asks, her voice shrill, her numb state giving way to panic. “Cara, I don’t know what you’re trying to get at, but I’m only just holding it together so please don’t—”
Mum stands so suddenly her chair falls with a clatter behind her. The noise shocks us both. People turn to stare. She says “Sorry, sorry” but her words are muffled because she’s covering her face with her hand. Martin moves forward to pick up her chair and Mum says, “No, it’s all right,” more to herself than to Martin, “I’m all right,” before she breaks and starts crying into her hands, really crying, the deep, guttural kind that’s rarely public. She makes noises like I’ve never heard before: raw, animal.
Zara drops Molly’s hand and moves towards us. The whole room seems to hold its breath, everyone waiting for what will happen next. I’ve never seen her like this, so stripped back, so exposed. I want to go to her, hold her, but I don’t because this is my fault. I’ve upset her, I’ve made things worse, by being here I’ve made things worse. I shouldn’t have come, I have to get out of here. As I turn to leave, someone moves forward and tries to take my arm to stop me but I shrug the hand away. I don’t want to be touched, they don’t feel like the hands of a friend. People stand back from me as I stumble, blinded by my own tears, towards the door. Outside, the air feels thick with rain. I scramble in my bag for Mum’s car keys and run without looking across the road. A car screeches to a halt just a few feet away from me. The driver beeps his horn and a man calls out of the car window, “You bloody idiot!” but I hardly hear him. I feel as though the whole world is staring at me as I drive away.
Not knowing where else to go, I start driving back to the Point. I want to feel the same wind Grace felt, hear the same waves hitting sharp rocks. I want to know that real, solid world—to get away from the horrifying freefall of Mum’s agony.
But when I stop at a crossroads, about to turn right, a road sign pointing left catches my eye: PEACEWAYS CREMATORIUM AND CEMETERY. I must have driven past it hundreds of times but I’ve never turned left here. Danny’s buried there, I’m sure of it. No one’s mentioned Danny all day. It’s as though he’s quietly died a second death through his mum and sister. Grace told me once about visiting his grave, how Meg had bought the plots surrounding it. Grace said it was weird to think that one day she’d be buried there, next to her brother. She showed me a photo on Meg’s phone. I only glanced at it for a moment; the stuffed toys they’d left propped up next to the headstone sent a cold shiver straight through me. I try hard to remember anything else from the photo but all I can see is a weeping willow tree in the far corner.
I turn left and drive down a long, well-kept road, and park next to an empty hearse. I don’t take my phone with me, I need some peace. Clouds have gathered again, like an avalanche in the sky. They look swollen with rain so I grab Mum’s red raincoat from the passenger seat as I step out into the chilly air. I shiver: even June feels like winter here. The graveyard is made up of a series of different areas that seem to go on forever, a maze of death and decay. Some of the older graves, green with moss, have collapsed on one side over the years. The newer ones stand proud and sturdy, like whoever lies below is still trying to fight off death. The red-brick paths are slippery and so are the steps that join up the different levels. Everywhere I look there are routes leading to more graves. I feel like the only living person for miles. I walk randomly, stopping to read any headstones that catch my eye.
I put the hood up on Mum’s raincoat, but the patter of raindrops on it is too loud. Drip, drip. I pull the hood down again, let my hair get wet. The air is thick, it smells of freshly cut grass and fungus; a few seagulls scream in circles above. The rain clouds have darkened the sky so much the day seems forced into early twilight and I’m suddenly aware that I’m in a graveyard, on my own. Usually I’d be spooked, but I feel oddly calm here amongst the graves and I realize how exhausted I am, how much I’d love to lie down on the soft, damp grass and join the endless sleep for a little while.
It’s starting to rain harder now so I head for the edge of the graveyard, to shelter in the line of trees there. A raindrop runs, like a finger, in a cold stream down my back. I shiver and pull the hood up again. The light is a sickly yellow now, the day slowly being smothered by the gray clouds. I look back at the crematorium for reassurance. The building looks like a tiny model from here; another car is in the parking lot, the headlights on already in the murky light. I decide to turn around, but as I turn back towards the parking lot something familiar hooks my eye. I recognize the gentle shape, the drooping branches in the strange light. There could be a hundred willows in this graveyard, but this one’s not much further down the path—it marks the beginning of a small wood on the edge of the graveyard. Now I’m here, I want to find Danny’s grave. I need to see the place where Grace might soon be buried too. I bite my bottom lip as I feel the tears build, but I don’t want to cry now.
As I walk closer, I know it’s his grave. It’s on its own, adrift from the others, looking strangely lonely, cast out. As I walk towards it, I feel an uncomfortable pressure in my back, a prickle like I’m being watched by hundreds of silent eyes. The rain falls harder now but I don’t stop. My feet slip about in my flip-flops, mud bubbles between my toes. The rain sounds like thunder in my ears, hits my eyes like tiny wet darts, and the gulls scream. I keep my head down as I walk. It’s only when I’m close that I look up, and that’s when I see them. A person is kneeling just to the side of Danny’s stone. They’re being careful not to put any weight on his tiny grave, as though worried they might hurt him. A small hand, mucky with earth, strokes the curve of the headstone. They’re wearing a too-big man’s raincoat. I stop still, but my mind cartwheels. They’re distracted, running their hands back through the earth and whispering to Danny, so they don’t see me for a few seconds, until they feel me staring and their eyes snap up to mine. In the second our eyes lock the world I thought I knew disappears forever because I know those eyes. I’ve seen them laugh and I’ve seen them raw with tears and pain. Grace. She stands, her mouth becomes a snarl. She is Grace, but she’s also not Grace. She’s not afraid of me; she doesn’t even seem to recognize me. Her eyes are hard. The rain slices the distance between us and, with a shake of her head, the girl they said would never walk turns and runs away.
15th December 2018
David from the Wishmakers sent the charity’s minivan to pick us up from the hospital and take us home. I watched the driver while Mum stared out of the window. Mum thinks David blames himself for introducing us to Jon Katrin, that everything that’s happened since is his fault. I heard Mum talking to Lola about it on the ward as she gathered up all our Christmas cards from our friends at the hospital.
“David’s even looking into allotting some of their fundraising money to getting us our own car, big enough for the wheelchair.”
“So he should. Honestly. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t suggested that reporter in the first place.”
Mum went quiet then. I don’t think she blames David, just Jon. Like she said to Dr. Parker after “the incident,” David didn’t force Jon to get drunk and smash up our house. That was all Jon’s doing.
I knew the minivan was coming for us, but the people standing in our sitting room raising steaming plastic cups of mulled wine was a surprise. Everyone we knew from the street and some we didn’t were there. Susie, Zara, Martin, and Sylvia. Someone had hung up a WELCOME HOME MEG AND GRACE banner in the place where our front window used to be, like a pretty eye patch over the hole the journalist made with his golf club. A Christmas tree vibrated with bright fairy lights in the corner by the kitchen, hurting my eyes, and “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” was playing too loud. I knew from the way Mum was looking at me that she knew about the party. I felt sick. I wanted to go to bed. But Mum held my hand, squeezed twice: “Don’t worry, I’m here,” her hand told mine.
Everyone cheered when I wheeled myself into the sitting room. Then no one really seemed to know what to do. I hadn’t actually done anything they could congratulate me on, apart from staying alive again and it’s hard to say “Well done you for not dying again” without sounding mental. Susie came up to me first, looking like a doll in her Santa hat, and replaced my beanie with a scratchy elf hat before kissing my cheek.
“Welcome home, babe.”
I love Susie, but it was Cara I wanted to see most. I asked if she was coming later.
“Ah love, she’s at college, English mock A-level today,” Susie said, holding up crossed, manicured fingers.
Standing behind a plate of mince pies, Dr. Parker waggled his gray eyebrows at me and Mum squeezed my hand. I smiled. And then everyone else pressed their lips against me, like I was some lucky symbol they all wanted to touch. But it was all right because Mum kept holding my hand, so I knew I was doing OK.
David called Martin a hero because Martin had been watching from his and Sylvia’s house when the reporter went crazy. Martin saw him stagger out of his car, heard him shout Mum’s name, and then Martin called the police. Martin seemed to be enjoying the party, liked being congratulated. Whenever anyone asked him what happened, the words bubbled out of him like a shaken-up can of Coke. He put his hand on the back of my neck while a photographer—not Ben—took our photo, with Mum holding my hand on my other side. The Cornish Chronicle is running' an apology for printing the article. Susie said the editor should’ve been fired but Mum is glad he’s getting a second chance—he has a young family, apparently. Everyone apart from me ate cake and drank fizzy drinks, and everyone talked about what a bastard that journalist was. Mum kept squeezi
ng my hand and looked pretty and happy.
Sylvia, Zara, and Susie cleaned up after the party while Mum, at last, helped me to my room. Cookie was asleep on my bed, like she’d been waiting all along for me to come home. While Mum unpacked my things and got my syringe of food and medicine ready I looked at the Christmas and Get Well Soon cards people sent while we were in the hospital. A lot of them were from people we’ve never met. They were all open so I knew Mum had already read them. She’ll have put any money sent safely in our red box at the back of her wardrobe, like always. Banks scammed Granddad out of loads of money, so we don’t trust them anymore. The cards said the usual stuff, how brave we are, that they’re sorry our lives are so hard. Some say their dad or husband used to be violent. They tell us stories about how they used to be hit with frying pans; they’re trying to tell us they know what it’s like, that we’re the same. But none of them say their dad killed their brother. So none of them know what our lives are like. They really don’t.
Once I was ready for bed, as a treat, Mum asked me to log into our Meg and Grace Facebook page, to post a thank-you for all the nice things people have said online. Over three thousand people have subscribed to our page and Mum says they’ve been really supportive. It’s how she does a lot of our fundraising.
Home at last! Thank all you lovely people for your help. It means the world to us both during this really tough time. Biggest thank-you of all to my mum, who is always by my side. Merry Christmas, everyone!
I added I love you, Mum at the end without her even asking. I knew she’d like that.
The phone started ringing then. Neither of us said anything. It’s better to pretend it’s not happening. But he wouldn’t stop ringing and ringing, and Mum shouted at the phone to leave us alone and I hated him even more for making her upset when she had been so happy.