Look What You Made Me Do

by Nikki Smith

You’ve picked me up every morning for the last two weeks. I know you get impatient when you have to sit in traffic, that you like the car temperature at nineteen degrees and you turn down the volume on the radio when I get in so it’s easier for us to talk. Until I met you, I never believed there was only one person for everyone, I’d thought fate was simply a construct devised by the strongest to give hope to those who had none. But you looked at me on Friday, really looked at me and I didn’t breathe until you blinked and looked away, breaking the connection between us, as fragile as a spider’s thread, my stomach falling, exploding into an infinity of stars at the endless possibilities. I know you saw it too. All those things I’ve wanted to say for the longest time and now I know you feel exactly the same way.

  SUNDAY

  Jo

  I’d expected to feel lighter, as if the burden of what I’d been carrying around with me for the past four weeks would somehow transfer across to my mother. I don’t know how to calculate how much weight you can attribute to a life. It’s not sufficient to equate it to the physical sum of skin and bones. Dad had only been ten stone when he died; a fragile paper husk compared to the person he’d been a couple of months earlier. The cancer diet isn’t for the faint hearted. It had stripped him from the inside, swallowing muscle and flesh as well as fat, draining every last drop of water out of his skin in a rabid thirst, never satiated, four stone in eight weeks, always wanting more. And the guilt I’m carrying feels far heavier than that.

  I’d thought the knowledge that I hadn’t been responsible would act as some kind of a release but nothing has changed. I still wake up in the morning, the first couple of seconds in blissful ignorance before the shame returns, tightening around my throat. Sometimes I wish it would stop me breathing. A life for a life; it’s what I deserve. I may not be technically responsible for his death but my intention was clear even if my mother had completed what I’d started. Or perhaps it’s nothing to do with Dad. Perhaps it’s because the guilt that is already there from lying to Paul expands to fill the space of what has been removed, a law in physics that I’d never learned.

  Paul looks at his mobile phone. ‘I need to go out for a bit.’ His once blue eyes are now a dull grey colour, and I realise I no longer have any idea what he’s thinking. I have an unfamiliar need to fill the silence between us, as if it will start to unpeel if I leave it, like flaking paint, revealing things I don’t want to see. ‘Are you going to be OK?’ he asks.

  ‘Fine. Why?’

  He stares at me. ‘You’ve been really quiet since you got back from your mum’s on Friday.’ I hesitate, wondering whether I should tell him what she’s done. Whether he’d understand that taking a life that consisted of nothing but pain and was only days or perhaps even hours from being over, was a true act of love. I don’t know whether he’d see it that way. Or whether he’d consider us both murderers. ‘Jo?’ he says, putting his arms round my shoulders and looking into my eyes. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? You’re not feeling ill? You’ve barely eaten anything in the past few days.’

  ‘I’m just a bit nauseous,’ I reply. He nods, thinking he understands. He moves as if he’s going to touch my stomach and I turn around so he can’t, picking up the dishcloth to wipe the counter. ‘Where are you going?’ I ask, as he grabs his car keys out of the bowl in the hall.

  He hesitates. ‘We need a couple of bits of stationery. Printer paper and some ink. I won’t be long.’ He walks across the drive and I can see him staring at his phone screen as he opens the car door, his eyebrows drawn together.

  Grace is sitting on the sofa in the snug watching television; still in her pyjamas. Last night I’d woken up disorientated, my heart racing as a loud noise had pierced the darkness. I’d staggered out of bed, across the landing into her room. She’d been fast asleep despite the racket. Buddy had been sitting on the rug beside her bed, growling at the empty chair that she’d left in the middle of her room. He’d whimpered when I’d walked in, pawing at her duvet. I’d gathered him up in my arms, his fluffy coat making him seem bigger than he actually was, and had carried him downstairs to the kitchen where he’d howled as I’d shut the door. When I’d tiptoed back into her room, Grace hadn’t moved, asleep with her mouth slightly open and her hands tucked under one cheek, like she used to do when she was little. I’d picked up her chair and had pushed it back underneath her desk, wondering why she’d left it out to start with.

  Her Head of Year had called to let me know she’s going to speak to her and the other girls involved at school tomorrow. I hope she has more success than I did in getting to the bottom of what they’d been fighting about. Grace still won’t tell me. Paul had tried to talk to her but she’d clammed up, telling him it wasn’t important. The Head had suggested Grace might find it helpful to see the school counsellor and as she won’t talk to us, I didn’t feel I could decline her offer. Part of me hoped Grace would refuse, that she didn’t need to talk to a stranger, but she’d agreed to the appointment, and the Head assured me any discussions would remain confidential. I’d understood what she had been saying. That Grace would be under no obligation to tell me what they’d talked about. More secrets that would end up being hidden between us.

  Paul had said we should go and speak to Anna to get Maddie’s perspective, but Grace had pleaded with us to stay out of it and I’d agreed, for the moment. She still won’t tell me what Maddie had told Katie, but as I’d told Paul, interfering in these situations generally makes things worse, and I don’t want Grace to be any more reluctant to go to school than she already is.

  I look at my daughter now, the dark shadows under her eyes still evident, her silent reaction to the cartoon playing on the screen a noticeable contrast to Livvi’s hysterical laughter. The thought of her finding out what my mother and I had done makes me shiver.

  ‘You need to get dressed, sweetheart,’ I say. ‘We’ve got to walk Buddy.’

  We cut down the path at the bottom of the road to take Buddy into the woods – there’s some shade under the trees and as Livvi refuses to wear a hat I want somewhere we can get out of the sun. It’s even hotter today; the glare feels uncomfortable even this early; it has an intensity like that first blast of heat when the oven door is opened. Buddy dashes ahead along the path at the side of the lake, jumping into the water as Grace throws him a stick and then leaping out, shaking the droplets of water out of his coat and all over Livvi. He turns to look at me, his tongue out, and I smile. It’s almost as if he’s laughing. I’m going to have a nightmare de-tangling his coat when we get back. I quicken my pace down the narrow footpath, Buddy scampering along in front of me, the girls following. The mud dries almost immediately on Livvi’s face where Buddy has splashed her, leaving her covered in tiny dots that blend in with her freckles. Grace complains she’s thirsty, and that her ankle is sore. I let out a small sigh of relief by the time we get home.

  I tell Buddy to sit and stay on the step as I open the front door and kick off my trainers, grabbing the old towel that we keep on the coat rack, letting him inside carefully, keeping him on the mat as I wipe his feet. He struggles and barks as I tell him I’ll be as quick as I can and he licks my face, still yapping when he looks in the direction of the kitchen. He wriggles so much that I let him go and he skids away from me, pushing the kitchen door open with his nose and running around the island in the middle of the room.

  ‘What’s got into him?’ Grace asks. He runs back to the front door and paws at it, whining.

  ‘Sorry, Buds, we’re not going out again,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve had your walk for the day. He barks a couple more times, like he does if there’s someone there. I open it again to check, holding his collar, but the driveway is empty. I rub the top of his head. ‘You’re such a daft thing, aren’t you? There’s no one here. See?’

  The sun is directly overhead now and so bright that I have to squint when I look across the gravel. I pull on Buddy’s collar to get him to come inside and peer at my car at the same time. There’s something on
the door. I screw up my eyes, but it’s difficult to see properly with the sun reflecting off the paint. I slip on my shoes and walk out towards it. Someone’s been here. With a spray can. I’m staring at the words YOU OWE ME that have been written in large white capital letters across the blue paint of the driver’s door.

  I retreat towards the front door, my skin prickling across the back of my neck. What if someone’s in the house? I try to grab my thoughts that threaten to spiral out of control and think logically. There’s no sign of a break-in. I walk into the kitchen, checking there are no broken windows as I get my phone out of my pocket and dial Paul’s number. It goes straight through to voicemail and I leave a message telling him to call me. The girls have taken their drinks outside and I can hear them on the trampoline. I walk upstairs, calling Buddy to come with me, padding as carefully as I’m able to in my socks across the floorboards.

  ‘Hello?’ I call out. ‘Is anybody there?’ There’s no reply. Buddy scoots off, barking, thinking we’re playing some kind of game of hide-and-seek.

  As I walk into Grace’s room I shiver. Someone has been in here. It feels different. As soon as I’ve had the thought, I tell myself not to let my imagination run away with me. Nothing looks out of place but when I close my eyes, the air seems to tingle against my face like a weak electrical current. I check my phone again, but there’s still nothing from Paul.

  I head back downstairs and look out of the window, the hideous white writing still visible. The girls haven’t noticed; I can hear an off-key version of ‘Shotgun’ coming from the back garden. A car pulls into the drive and the flutter of panic in my stomach recedes when I realise it’s Paul. He gets out of the car, empty handed.

  ‘Where’s the printer paper?’ I ask as he walks towards the front door.

  He frowns, hesitating. ‘They didn’t have any.’ My face hardens. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ve been trying to call you,’ I say. ‘Have you seen my car?’ He shakes his head, confused, as I point at it from the safety of the doorstep. ‘Someone’s spray painted on the side of it.’

  His eyes widen as he looks at the words scrawled across the door. ‘Jesus.’ He walks over to it and bends down, running his fingers over the letters which have dried quickly in the heat, now a permanent feature, not budging when he licks his finger and attempts to rub part of the ‘Y’ off. ‘Have you called the police?’ he asks.

  I shake my head. ‘We’ve only just got back from walking Buddy.’ He looks pale.

  ‘Shall I call them now?’ He doesn’t answer, staring down the drive. The pavement is empty. I follow his gaze, wondering if he’s looking at Anna’s house, something slipping in the bottom of my stomach. ‘Paul! Shall I call the police?’

  He mutters something I can’t hear. I lift up my phone as he walks towards me.

  ‘I don’t think we should.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They won’t do anything about it and we’ll have to hang around waiting for them to come out. I’d rather just get it booked into the garage.’

  ‘But shouldn’t we at least report it?’

  He shrugs. ‘You can if you want, but I honestly don’t think it’s worth the hassle. I’ll call the place we got the MOT done at to see if I can drop it in first thing tomorrow. Bloody graffiti bastards.’ He puts his arms around me and I stare at the words over his shoulder. They don’t make any sense. I don’t owe anyone anything. I think about the smashed window in my office, the two incidents happening too close together to dismiss as coincidence, feeling Paul’s hand tremble as he takes mine to walk back inside.

  Buddy reacts to the sound of the doorbell before I do, dashing to bark at the letterbox. I get up off the garden lounger where I’ve been lying for the last half an hour, the heat combined with our earlier walk making me dozy. Paul is playing swing ball with the girls, hitting the tennis ball backwards and forwards as they stand opposite him with their rackets poised; Livvi aiming in one direction and Grace the other. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look relaxed for days and for a moment I feel a pang of envy.

  I open the door to find Caroline standing on the doorstep.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’ she says.

  ‘Yes, sorry,’ I say hastily. ‘I’m just surprised to see you here.’ She walks into the hallway, staring at the photos above the mantelpiece. I’m trying to remember the last time she came over. The silence is broken by the sound of the girls shrieking from the garden.

  ‘They’re playing with Paul,’ I say, twisting my watch round on my wrist at the thought of how Grace is going to react when she sees my sister. Caroline nods.

  ‘I’m surprised they’ve got the energy in this heat. I couldn’t run when it’s like this.’

  I laugh. ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got a good excuse in your condition, haven’t you?’ She smiles as she asks the question and I turn away to walk into the kitchen. She follows me and I see Grace look at us through the open patio doors, frowning slightly as she tries to work out if it’s really my sister. I forgot that she hasn’t seen her with short hair. I watch as she drops her racket and heads slowly across the grass, Livvi calling after her to come back as she’s ruining the game. Paul puts his hand up to shade his eyes, trying to see inside the kitchen and the fear I saw earlier returns, casting across his face like a shadow.

  I brace myself for a confrontation as Grace walks over to Caroline, glancing into the hallway at the front door as if she’s expecting someone. My sister looks at her and opens her arms.

  ‘Hi, Grace. I’m sorry I upset you. Forgive me?’ Grace hesitates, then hugs my sister back. I force myself to smile, wishing she hadn’t let her off the hook quite so easily.

  ‘Do you want to come and play swing ball?’ Grace asks.

  Caroline smiles at her. ‘Not right now. I’ve got something to discuss with your mum. Give me a few minutes and then I’ll come out, OK?’ Grace doesn’t get a chance to reply before Paul steps into the kitchen, his tennis racket still in his hand, the muscles in his jaw relaxing when he sees Caroline standing by the sink.

  ‘Hi, Caroline. You all right?’ She nods. ‘Coming back out to play, Grace?’ he asks. ‘Livvi is annihilating me.’

  ‘Sure.’ Grace runs out of the door and Paul follows, pretending to swipe her with his racket but I can’t help feeling that wasn’t what he’d come in to say at all.

  ‘Is he OK?’ Caroline asks, watching him as he disappears into the sunshine.

  ‘He’s fine,’ I say, too quickly, and she catches the tone in my voice, turning to look at me.

  ‘He looks tired.’ It feels as if she’s studying my face, looking for the tiny signs that I am unaware of that will tell her what she wants to know. Things that no one else would notice but my sister can read me like a book, despite the years of being apart. I try to stop biting the inside of my cheek as she knows I do that when I’m lying, but there are too many clues that give my guilt away to hide them all. ‘I thought he was going to come in and whack me with that racket,’ she says.

  ‘He’s just a bit protective of me at the moment,’ I reply. ‘Someone graffitied my car.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she says.

  ‘Look.’ I pull up the blind from where I’ve drawn it almost all the way down to keep the sun out. Caroline peers through the glass, squinting against the brightness. ‘Someone did it when we were out walking Buddy. I’m worried it’s connected to what happened at the office.’ Now it’s my turn to study her as she turns my words over in her head but she was always better at this game than me, and if she had anything to do with this, she doesn’t show it.

  ‘You heard what the police said. They’re sure it was kids,’ she says. ‘No note with the brick. Nothing personal.’ I want to believe her but the coincidence keeps poking me, not letting me forget about it. She turns away from the window, tucking her hair behind her ear. ‘You left Mum’s in a hurry on Friday,’ she says, changing the subject.

  ‘I h
ad some things I needed to do. And you turned up late.’

  She doesn’t reply and there’s an awkward silence as she wanders down to the other end of the kitchen and into the snug where the floor is littered with Livvi’s toys.

  ‘Mum said you hadn’t made any final decisions,’ Caroline says, ‘about the business.’

  I hesitate. ‘Not yet. But I haven’t heard anything that makes me think I should sell it.’

  ‘What does Paul think you should do?’ she asks, picking up a couple of soft toys off the sofa, putting them back in the box on the shelf.

  ‘It’s not Paul’s decision,’ I say. ‘He’ll support whatever I think is best.’

  ‘But he’s not against you selling it.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ It feels as if she’s using my words against me, pulling them out of my mouth like a magician does with one of those silk scarves that end up being linked to a hundred more in a row that goes on forever. I wish she hadn’t come.

  ‘I just wonder what he’d think if he knew you were lying to him,’ she says. I reach out to put my hand on the back of the sofa. Please may our mother not have told her what we did. She wouldn’t have. She’d have known it would destroy her as much as me.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say, weakly.

  ‘I know you, Jo. And I know when you’re hiding something.’ I can’t bring myself to reply, not wanting to give her any more ammunition without realising it. ‘I knew it the moment I walked into Mum’s house.’

  I think back, desperately trying to remember our conversation. I’d left almost as soon as she’d arrived, needing to be anywhere else after my mother’s confession, feeling as if I had been submerged in ice-cold water.

  ‘You’d drunk almost half a bottle of Sauvignon. We both know Mum doesn’t touch the stuff. I don’t think you’d have done that if you really were pregnant, would you?’

  She walks over to me and hands me a couple more soft toys as I stand there, speechless, my cheeks burning as my carelessness rises up my face.