The Twist in the Branch

by Melanie Smith

  ‘Don’t be such a bitch Seph … honestly … anyway he rang me earlier to say he’d seen you in the village and that you were ok. He is your uncle after all.’

  38

  I’M WONDERING HOW I’M going to get through the day, trying to put off getting up, making it real.

  Thoughts of Evan poke their way in every now and again, adding strange feelings of excitement and longing into the mix.

  I miss him.

  I didn’t realise how much I would, and it brings unexpected tears to my eyes.

  The morning is icy – I can tell, even though I haven’t left my bed yet. A gentle knock at my door interrupts my thoughts.

  ‘Merry Christmas love.’ Her voice wanders into my room like a ghost. She comes in and sits on my bed and I sit up to return her embrace. I feel her lashes against my skin as her eyes close, as if they are holding something back, and feel my own eyes doing the same. She feels warm and safe, as I curl up into her.

  It’s as if we don’t want to make the journey downstairs. Not alone. Then it would be real. Nevertheless, I wait for her to say the words, ‘Let’s see who’s been,’ before going down to the Christmas tree, even though I am not a child anymore. Even though for years I’ve turned my nose up at those childish gestures. Now, more than ever, it would be nice to hear those words.

  Instead she says, ‘I’ll go and see if Gabe is awake,’ and then she is gone, and once again I am alone in my bed.

  After a while I decide that it’s time to go downstairs. There’s no use in putting this off any longer. I can feel my mother’s attempts to warm the living room with the fire. Light bounces off the Christmas tree, revealing more parcels and presents underneath that she must have put there last night. I can hear her moving about in the kitchen and she smiles as she sees me appearing at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘I’ve just been putting the kettle on. We’ll just wait for Gabe then we can open some pressies.’

  But he doesn’t arrive.

  The clock ticks away, picking at my nerves. I can feel my mother getting anxious. Worrying about him. Worrying about me. The air is thick with it.

  Stifling.

  It gets too much for her and so in the end she says, ‘Let’s make a start.’

  It’s a relief. A relief to get it over and done with. A relief to not have to sit there – with him – looking grateful and happy – with him. Without my father. With him replacing my father today. Me, Mum, Gabe. My stomach heaves.

  The unwrapping begins, starting with the stocking, ‘because you’re never too old.’ Make-up and bath salts and socks and …

  Try Seph.

  Then the presents under the tree. Clothes. Books.

  ‘Here’s the last one … hope you like it. If it’s the wrong one, don’t worry we can change it.’

  I take the box from her and peel away the paper. An iPhone. I feel overwhelmed and start to cry.

  ‘It’s great Mum, thanks.’

  ‘Come here.’ She takes me in her arms, and we both sit and cry. Next to the Christmas tree. Alone.

  Eventually I wipe my eyes on my dressing gown and try to return to Christmas morning. Under the tree a few presents still sit, unwrapped. My presents for her. Her presents to Gabe. My present from Evan.

  ‘This one’s for you Seph, from Evan. Go on open it up!’ The excitement in her voice is obvious as she hands me the small perfectly wrapped box. The red ribbon falls open in my hands and I tentatively pick at the paper. It’s too beautiful to tear open. I want to leave it as it is. Perfect. Unspoilt. I don’t want to look inside. I’m happy for whatever is inside to stay there – cocooned, tucked away.

  I pick at the wrapping until it is gone. The box inside is black, and my heart heaves as I snap it open to see my name in silver, cushioned against the black velvet, dangling from a chain. A card inside, in a boyish scrawl reads: ‘To the girl with the funny name.’ My chest opens and my stomach flips. It is beautiful. I can’t help but smile as I think of the trouble that he has gone to with this gift.

  A dark shape catches my eye, and there he is at the bottom of the stairs.

  39

  MY NAME HANGS AROUND my neck.

  The silver shines and glints back at me in the mirror. It is beautiful. It seems strange to appreciate my name – to want to wear it. But something uncomfortably familiar ripples through me. Something that makes it impossible to stare back at my own reflection in the mirror, and smile.

  I’m used to that feeling now.

  I wonder who I would even be without it?

  40

  CHRISTMAS DINNER IS AN uncomfortably silent affair. The scraping of plates as cutlery moves against it. The shuffle of a chair. The drip, drip, drip, of water from the kitchen tap, that never stops.

  Even my mother has given up. Moved inwards. Downwards. No chatter. No Christmas carols. Just the three of us – all in our own worlds – like lonely planets orbiting a black sun.

  Once the ordeal is over I offer to clear the table. There is enough food left over to last us the whole week. None of us has an appetite – for the food, for Christmas – for anything it seems.

  I clear the leftovers first, covering it up for when we are hungry. There is so much that it can’t possibly fit in the fridge. I scrape the plates and rinse them, stack the pots and pans for last, and fill the sink with hot soapy water. I hear the front door close, and guess that Gabe has gone out. Always escaping. Running away. He has guilt written all over him.

  How will he cope when it’s him in a locked room – for years? Imprisoned. Locked up.

  I don’t feel bad for thinking it. It’s only what he deserves.

  You can’t run away for the rest of your life Gabriel.

  Something wrenches my stomach. Mum’s heart will be broken, again. It stabs and tears.

  I’m so sorry Mum. I’m so sorry.

  The dish rack is full. Knives, forks, plates, saucepans. I scrub the roasting tin, peel off the charred remains of the meat. Scrub at the stain. I scrub and scrub, but still it stares back at me.

  41

  Her voice scratches through my head, and I feel a sharp tug of a bony hand on my wrist, long claw-like nails digging into my flesh.

  Long grey hair covers her face, and her body that is shrouded in dark clothes hunches over slightly at the shoulders. She’s pulling me now, dragging me along through the forest, as the black crows watch silently from the noiseless trees. She’s shouting at me, ‘Come on girl,’ and then pulls me out into a clearing. There in the middle stands an old black tree. Her voice is getting louder, but I’m not sure what she’s saying. I’m focussing as hard as I can.

  Yes, I can hear now.

  ‘Take it!’ and I don’t know what she means, until she pushes me forward, towards the tree. I can see something – catch a glint of something shining, hanging from one of the branches. A key hangs from red thread, and the drip-drip-drip of dark liquid that runs from it stains the forest floor.

  ‘Take the key. Use the key,’ she’s saying.

  It’s high up, and I’m straining as hard as I can to reach, and at one point – as my fingers stretch up to the sky – I almost manage to touch it.

  42

  I CAN HEAR SHUFFLING and his shoes meeting the wood of the floor.

  His room.

  It has come alive. Alive with him. It is only now that it dawns on me – I’ve never been in there. Months in this dump, and not once has it entered my mind to cross the threshold over into that space.

  Should I?

  Just thinking it sends my pulse racing, taking me to that place of sickly anxiety. My heart won’t stop pumping. If I have no intention of going in there then I would not feel like this. The feeling will not go away, driving me half-crazy with nausea.

  The shuffling stops and turns into heavy footsteps, as the door closes, and the knock-knock of his shoes can be heard outside my room, and then on the stairs.

  Moments later I hear the van starting up, and from my bedroom window catch it revers
ing out of the yard. He’s gone.

  I take off my shoes, quietly placing them on the floor, and open my bedroom door with as little noise as possible.

  A few steps and I am there.

  That’s how much separates me from him at night.

  A few footsteps…

  The latch is cold to the touch. It clicks, and the old wood creaks open, brushing over the floorboards and sticking slightly at the corner where they slope downwards, due to age and disrepair. The room is empty. More or less. A shell containing a bed and some crumpled clothes.

  The air is uncomfortable. Thick and heavy. Damp eats at the corners of the windows, and the wall and ceiling above. Dust motes dance in the small rays of light that are able to work their way in through the window.

  A wardrobe stands against the wall – similar to my mother’s. Dark wood, old and heavy looking. Two doors are closed together and held shut by a small lock. In it rests a key. Small, dainty – not with the scrollwork that my mother’s has – but still intricate. Three loops, twisted and fused together. It almost calls to me.

  Reaching to take it I have to steady my hand with the other. The sickness comes in a big wave.

  What might I find in here?

  Pump. Pump.

  My chest. My ears. My stomach turns.

  The thumping gets louder and louder as the key is in my hand. But it’s not just coming from me. It’s the knock on wood, of shoes hitting the stairs, and in the panic my hand pulls the key and it drops to the floor. I bend down to pick it up but it is slippery and drops to the floor again.

  Pump. Pump.

  It’s covered in something. It must be oil or polish or something… but no.

  As I take it into my hands, it oozes. I rub at it but it won’t stop bleeding.

  My hands are red.

  I drag them over my thighs, leaving crimson smears over my jeans.

  The knocking is getting closer.

  I drop the key and get out.

  As I emerge from his room my mother looks up at me, shocked.

  ‘Jesus Christ Seph – you nearly gave me a bloody heart attack!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What are you doing in Gabe’s room?’

  ‘What? I … I … it was cold … he left his window open in December for some reason.’

  I march back into my room, slipping down to the ground with my back against the door to take a look at myself.

  My jeans are spotless.

  My hands are perfectly clean.

  43

  IT MAKES ME WONDER what happens in my brain when I hear words like I’ve just heard, and there is no response. The numb stillness that takes over. The distance between me, and it.

  I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror, expressionless. Is that me, looking back at me? Where have I gone? Mirror mirror, on the wall, who is the craziest girl of all?

  ‘It’s not a big surprise that he’s moving back in really … and we shouldn’t get under each other’s feet that much.’ She keeps going on about it.

  Gabe’s moving back in. Gabe’s moving back in.

  I keep saying it in my head, but still nothing.

  Mum looks happy. No – not happy – content. Her two most important people under the same roof. Her family. My family.

  Her voice skips through the room, lighter than it has been in a while, irritating my skin like an annoying insect.

  The distance is closing now, and the stillness twists and blackens.

  I feel myself darken, turning to her like she is the one to blame for everything. I feel the venom flowing and the need to spit it out at her. Instead I swallow it down.

  ‘What’s with the face?’ she asks, still smiling.

  ‘I’m going upstairs to try and get my phone working.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I might go out and meet Beth later.’

  I traipse off upstairs and find the box that contains my new phone. Still no signal. I put it in my jeans pocket and go back downstairs, pull on my shoes and coat, and shout, ‘I won’t be long!’ as I close the front door behind me.

  The cold hits my face – sharp and bitter – but still I’d rather be out here than in there. Something squirms in my belly, so my hand presses into it to kill the sensation, at the same time taking a sharp intake of air over my teeth.

  I reach into my pocket for my phone and make my way hastily down the driveway towards the road, not taking my eyes off the screen. As I pass the tree the signal returns. The icon flashes up, growing in the corner until it is full and I can hardly believe it. I’m dialling the number and the phone is ringing and I can breathe now.

  ‘Hey! Is this you Seph – or am I dreaming?’

  ‘Funny. What you up to?’

  ‘Nothing much – watching the Christmas crap on TV,’ says Beth, ‘you?’

  ‘Getting outta the house … fancy getting pissed or something?’

  ‘Erm, excuse me I’m not that type of girl.’ I can almost hear her lips move into a smile from down the other end of the phone. ‘Come to mine, the folks are out.’

  ‘Ok, be there soon.’ I don’t wait for the answer, or to even say goodbye.

  ***

  Beth pours the wine into the glass. It is dark and thick. I can’t say I particularly like it but it’s my second glass and I feel myself getting used to it, enjoying the effect that it is having on me. She curls up on the other end of the sofa that I’m sitting on.

  ‘So he gave you that necklace?’ she says.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘It’s really nice – looks like he made a bit of an effort.’

  The words are bitter-sweet, reminding me of Evan, and of the fact that I didn’t get him anything.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So why’ve you got a face like a slapped arse?’

  ‘I dunno … I just feel bad because I didn’t get him anything. I just didn’t think-’

  ‘Look, don’t give yourself a hard time about it. It’s been a tough one for you this year. It’s no wonder.’

  I swish the red liquid around in the glass, watching it spiral its way downwards and then to a stop. She’s right. I know she’s right.

  ‘When’s he back?’

  ‘Couple of days I think.’

  ‘So – when you doing the deed? Or have you already?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I know, I’d have got it out of you already if you had.’

  A small unexpected laugh makes its way out, a surprise even to me. Must be the drink. I chug back half of the glass as Beth looks on.

  ‘Someone’s on a mission.’

  ***

  My mother’s face looks like it’s dancing in front of me. The eyes changing position in her head. Her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. I can feel the tight grip in my armpit, of a hand that is doing its best to hold me up. But my legs are like jelly, and the ground is doing its best to pull itself away from my feet. I hear a few words like, ‘Thank you,’ and ‘I’m so sorry John,’ and then, and then…

  ‘Sephone. Sephone!’

  My chest heaves as my stomach convulses, and I can feel everything moving upwards and chunks of food getting stuck in my throat and mouth.

  ‘Let’s get these bloody clothes off. I can’t believe this – honestly – what were you thinking?’

  I’m led through to the bathroom, where I collapse in front of the toilet, holding onto the rim as I throw up the rest of the red liquid – spraying the white ceramic – until finally I feel some relief, rolling over onto the floor, with my head splitting in two and my mother pulling at my clothes.

  We manage to get them off, and my dressing gown on, and Mum wipes my mouth like I’m a baby, pulling my hair back over my shoulders and forcing some cold water down me.

  I feel a bit steadier on my feet but all I want to do is sleep. Sleep and never wake up.

  ‘I’d rather you sleep down here on the sofa for a bit until I know you’re ok. I don’t want you choking on your own sick.’

  I
couldn’t give a shit. Just lay me down now. I trudge towards the sofa, Mum holding me up, and collapse onto it.

  ‘Lay on your side love.’

  I feel a blanket being placed over me, as my heads spins around and around and I hear the front door close and Mum say, ‘Hiya love,’ and then I remember.

  Gabe’s moving back in.

  44

  THE STABBING PAIN CUTS through my head, sharp and hot, and my mouth feels dry, and tastes of sick.

  Tap, tap, tap. Coming from outside. Even though it is quiet and distant, each knock is a nail driven into my skull. I feel stiff from sleeping on my side, the sofa pressing against my skin and bones awkwardly, like it does not want me there.

  The living room is cold and dark, even though it is morning, the thick curtains still pulled tight across the window. As I sit up my head spins. It is heavy, like it does not even belong to me.

  God, I’ve never felt this rough … ever.

  As the thoughts and memories start to stir, my stomach also starts to spin. Embarrassment. Guilt. The shame of having done something like that in Beth’s house. Not really remembering everything. Being sick in Beth’s parent’s car. Did I? Oh god.

  The tremble in my hand nearly knocks over the glass of water that Mum must have left for me on the table.

  Oh no, Mum.

  She is going to go ape-shit. I’m never going to hear the end of it.

  Beth creeps into the mess. Will she be ok? Is she speaking to me? What did I do? What did I say to her? Did I spill any of the crazy shit? It just gets worse.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Three strikes, a perfect rhythm. It’s definitely coming from outside.

  I kick a plastic bowl as I get up to have a look, luckily it’s empty. The stone floor is cold and the chilled morning air nips at my bare ankles and legs.

  The Christmas tree feels depressing. Used, empty, and unlit. Stepping around it to get to the window I pull back one of the curtains. It resists as the old hooks dig in, but I manage to tug it free. The grey-white sky hangs above, folding over the hills and trees, claiming anything that it touches.