Seven Lies (ARC)
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small bald patch had erupted by her left temple. She shivered all the
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time, constantly cradled in layers of jumpers and blankets and socks.
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She had a cough that she couldn’t shake.
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But I couldn’t admit any of this because I couldn’t stand to confront
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that reality. And my mother knew that. She knew, too, that Emma
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didn’t have the strength to be much better and that, at best, she was
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suffering.
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My mother danced her nails across the wooden armrest and then said:
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“John?”
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“Jonathan?” I asked.
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“Tomorrow,” she replied.
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She pointed toward the calendar hung on her wall. I had bought it
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for her a few Christmases earlier, a generic calendar with dates but no
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days, with photographs of flowers, a different image for each month.
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She had been frustrated by her inability to remember significant
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events— our birthdays, for example— and so we sat and filled in the
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most important ones. Jonathan had been dead for a couple of years and
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yet his dates were still my dates and I had written them in as though
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they were my own.
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I stood up and approached the calendar. Each morning, my mother’s
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carer moved a small yellow sticker onto the day’s date. There was little
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use knowing when the important moments would fall if she had no idea
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where she stood.
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The next day would have been Jonathan’s birthday.
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I had forgotten.
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In another life, I would have been preparing for weeks, if not for
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months— with gifts and a cake and a card and balloons. I might have
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booked a table at a nice restaurant or organized a surprise party. I
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might have looked for wrapping paper that matched his personality—
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decorated with bicycles or cricket bats or animals— or collected crois-
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sants from the bakery.
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And— even a couple of years ago— I would have been approaching
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this day with lungs about to burst from the most insurmountable grief.
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I would have been anxious and panicking, watching the days roll for-
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ward, thinking of all the things I’d be doing if he were alive and the
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things that I wasn’t because he was dead.
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“Yes,” I said, wanting her to think that I’d remembered, that I al-
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ready knew, because what sort of wife forgets her husband’s birthday.
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“I’ll probably visit him. At the cemetery. First thing. Before I see Emma.
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I’ll take some flowers, I think. Maybe a balloon. No, not a balloon.”
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She nodded. “Dad?” she asked.
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She sometimes— more often than not— forgot that he was no longer
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a part of her life. She thought that he came to see her and, occasionally, 29
she told me about his visits. She told me that he brought flowers, al-
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though there were never any in her room that hadn’t been brought by
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me, and that he had put up the shelves at home, although she had asked
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him to for years and he never had. He was well, she said, and I knew
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that he was, but that he was well some many miles away with some
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other woman who was not my mother.
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Once, when we’d been squabbling about our shared responsibility,
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Emma suggested that I visited so regularly, not because this was my
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mother and not because of some sense of familial duty, but because I
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envied my mother’s ability to forget. She didn’t know that the person
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she loved most was no longer around.
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I tended to avoid having this conversation with my mother where
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possible: I either ignored her questions or replied with something ter-
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ribly vague, something that suggested that he might visit sometime
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soon without actually making a promise to pass on a message or to pop
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in and see him myself.
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Perhaps she had never tried to remember my father’s absence. Per-
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haps she was happy to forget.
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“Marnie?” she asked instead, with a smile.
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“She’s doing really well,” I said. “Audrey’s doing great, too. She had
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a checkup a few weeks ago. She’s putting on plenty of weight. Although
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I haven’t seen much of her these last few weeks. They seem to be
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so busy.”
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“Motherhood,” said my mother, and then she yawned, as though
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that, too, was part of our conversation.
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“I know,” I replied. “But friendships are important as well. I’ve been
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thinking that I should surprise her.”
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My mother nodded her approval enthusiastically.
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There was a clatter from next door and then a frustrated groan as
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my mother’s neighbor dropped something onto the floor. We heard the
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fast slap of shoes on tiles and then two nurses rushed past the door to
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assist.
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“I thought I might make her dinner,” I continued. “Do you remem-
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ber that we used to have dinner together once a week? I’m thinking I
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should reinstate that. It would be nice to have a way to stay in touch.
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What do you think?”
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In other places, with other people, the absences were filled by other,
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louder voices. But here mine was the only one.
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“I’m thinking of leaving work early next Friday,” I said. “It’s fine, re-
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ally. Everyone seems to be sneaking off after lunch, what with the
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weather and them all wanting to get away for the weekend. We have
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fewer people to answer the phones, but— so what? The phones are ring-
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ing less because everyone everywhere has buggered off on holiday. Any-
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way, I know that Marnie meets up with some other mothers at three
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o’clock on Fridays— she makes time for that weekly commitment— so I 11
know that she won’t be home. I’m planning to let myself in and cook
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something incredible, something that even she will be impressed by.”
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My mother frowned.
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“I have a key,” I said. “So, no, don’t get the wrong idea. I wouldn’t be
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breaking in.” I laughed and it felt awkward.
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My mother began to shake her head.
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“She gave it to me,” I said. “What’s the matter with you?”
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“No,” she said, and her head shaking became more vigorous. “No.”
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“Don’t be like that,” I said. “It’s a good idea. It’ll be a nice surprise.”
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“A key,” she insisted.
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“Yes, a key,” I said. My mother stopped shaking her head and stared
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right at me.
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I was the responsible adult in my family and yet she still occupied
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this traditional omniscient mothering role with eyes that sharpened in
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the way that only a mother’s can and a head tilt that demanded an-
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swers. It took her weeks to accept that my father had really left— we
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were sure he was bluffing— and when she finally did, she fell apart. He
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sent us a postcard from a Thai beach explaining that he had a new
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number now and that he wouldn’t be sharing it with us but that he
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thought we ought to know that he was no longer ignoring our calls and
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messages but simply not receiving them. She cried and drank too much
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and shut herself in her bedroom, and I went in regularly to leave water
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bottles on her bedside table and load microwave meals in the fridge.
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She hadn’t been much of a mother then.
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“It’s fine,” I said. “Don’t get all worked up.”
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She slapped her hand against her wooden armrest, hard, and she
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flinched, snapping it back against her chest, trying to shake out the pain.
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“Stop that,” I said. “Stop that right now. What are you doing?”
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She slapped her other hand against her face and then knocked her
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beaker of water onto the floor from the standing tray beside her.
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I jumped up and rushed over. “What’s wrong with you? Stop mak-
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ing such a mess.”
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“Key,” she hissed.
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“I’ve only just been given it,” I said. Which was the truth. “This isn’t
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about— This hasn’t got anything to do with— ”
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A nurse paused in the doorway. My mother and I turned to stare.
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“Morning, Jane,” she said to me. “Morning, Helen,” she said to my
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mother. “What’s all this about?”
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My mother slapped her hand against her thigh again. She stared at
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me, wanting to say something but unable to, incapable of finding the
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right words to express that want.
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“What’s the matter now? Your daughter’s here to visit you. It’s a
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lovely treat.” The nurse knelt on the floor in front of my mother and
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took her hands, holding them together so that the slapping ceased.
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“Key,” groaned my mother. “Key.”
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The nurse looked at me and I shrugged.
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“I’m afraid I’ve no idea what’s set her off,” I said.
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“Oh, dear,” said the nurse, assuming responsibility for the chaos.
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“Well, I’m afraid I’m not sure either. What on earth’s got her so upset?
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Why don’t you take a few deep breaths, sweetie?” Her voice was sooth-
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ing. “There you go. We’ll work this all out in just a minute, but let’s get 32N
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you all sorted first. Because we’ve had a lovely week, haven’t we? The
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hairdresser’s been in and this is looking glorious now, isn’t it?” She ges-02
tured toward my mother’s hair with a wild sweep. “Did you tell Jane all
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about that, did you? We’re all ready for visitors, aren’t we, so we are?”
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“Key,” my mother insisted, still glowering at me.
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“Right, all right, then,” said the nurse, sitting back on her heels.
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“What do you need? You want a key? Do you want me to open the
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window, is that it?”
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She was thinking the worst of me: that I’d had the key all along, that
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I was lying to her now.
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My mother slammed her hand against the tray and the whole con-
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traption toppled to the floor, sending her tissues, her water jug, and her 12
framed picture spinning across the room.
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The nurse looked at me. “Perhaps we should— ”
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“That’s fine,” I said, standing up. “Not to worry. I’ll be back next
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week. Perhaps a bad night’s sleep or something.”
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I was losing it, losing control, making mistakes.
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I had told her before that I didn’t have a key. And— worse than
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that— I’d said that if I did have a key, I’d have used it to save his life.
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Which was nonsense. I’d used that key to take his life, and she now
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knew it.
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I wasn’t lying now, but I’d lied before, and she’d caught me in my
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own web.
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“Dad?” said my mother, and I turned to face her. She was asking for
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him because she needed him. She wanted him to step in, to be my fa-
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ther. She knew not to trust me, and she knew that she was too weak,
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too frail, to put this right.
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“You know he’s not coming,” I said in my most sympathetic voice.
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“We’ve talked about this. He doesn’t live here anymore. Do you re-
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member? He hasn’t been part of our family for years.”
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And then I left.
>
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k
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It was only afterward, on my way home, that I found myself wondering 04
if she wasn’t reprimanding me at all, if she wasn’t trying to punish me,
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if she wasn’t angry but afraid. Was she protecting me instead? Was she
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warning me, telling me to be more careful, to watch myself, to not get
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caught?
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Because isn’t that what a mother would do?
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She was frightened for me. She had looked inside me and seen that
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something was broken, noticed my fractures, and acknowledged that I
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might not be the very best version of myself. And, despite that, she still 12
wanted to protect me.
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Chapter Thirty- Eight
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W
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hen I arrived home, I called Emma, but she didn’t answer
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and so I watched three movies and ordered takeout and
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then went to bed. I called her again the following morning and there
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was still no answer, and I thought nothing of it because she was proba-
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bly asleep— she was so weak and often exhausted— and because she
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often isolated herself when things felt overwhelming.
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I called her again on Monday after work and she still didn’t answer,
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and I decided to head over to her flat with some fruit— she’d occasion-
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ally eat a few slices of apple, even in her very worst weeks— and to re-
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mind her that I loved her and that I wanted to help.
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At no point over those three days did I for a moment consider that
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she was in trouble, in danger, that something was wrong.
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I arrived and knocked on her door. There was no response.
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The police later asked me if I could smell anything at this point and,
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although I’ll never forget that repugnant stench, I didn’t notice it then.