The Second Life of Amy Archer

by R. S. Pateman

  I put my hand against the wall, will my heart not to burst, try not to succumb to the shock, the impossible, illogical hope that this is Amy finally come home. She stands motionless at the gate, her face lost in the hood of her coat. Libby says something to her and she turns her head. Her profile is indistinct, misted by white puffs of breath.

  Breath. She’s breathing. Alive.

  ‘Amy?’

  The name falters from my mouth. She walks towards me, slowly, my heartbeat louder with her every step, louder still as she lifts her hands to pull back her hood.

  I’m too scared to look. Scared of what I might see. Scared of what I might not.

  The hood slips back.

  Her hair is loose. Long and blonde. It falls around her face like a veil. She scrapes it back and her sweetly pink lips push into a tentative smile. The blue of her eyes is a shade or two short of azure, their expression vaguely sad and enquiring, yet alive and excited.

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ she says.

  I catch my breath. Feel confusion creep across my face like a stain. It isn’t Amy. Not exactly. But, but . . .

  There is something familiar about her. Something altered, like when a deep tan would make a stranger of Amy, or when illness pinched her features, shifting their symmetry off kilter.

  The similarity is unsettling, slowly overwhelming me until my legs give under its weight. I sink to my knees, see my hand reaching out towards her, wanting to touch her to prove that she’s real, but scared my touch might make her vanish, like a toddler bursting a bubble.

  I’m powerless to resist as the girl runs towards me and presses her cheek against mine. I catch a rush of almonds about her, sweet and heady. I breathe in her scent, feel the firmness of her body against mine.

  Amy. My Amy. She’s solid. Real. Here.

  Her proximity winds me. Instinct flutters, tentative but thrilling. I want to fight it – she can’t be Amy, isn’t Amy – and yet, and yet . . .

  Libby walks down the path towards us. Her expression is hard to fathom. Relief. Regret. Sympathy. Jealousy.

  ‘We need to talk,’ she says, her tone half conciliatory, half begrudging.

  I start to nod, then catch myself. This is ridiculous. Impossible. Capable of finally tipping me over into the madness I’ve fought off for so long. This girl is too young to be Amy, and my desperate wish for her to be my daughter is not enough to make it so. An illusionist’s trick only works if the stooge is halfway to believing in the first place, so they see what the trickster wants them to see. As much as I want this girl to be Amy, I know that she can’t be; logic ruptures my dream.

  ‘No.’

  I push the girl away from me. She looks up, her startling blue eyes wet, her gaze reproachful.

  ‘Get away from me!’ I hiss. ‘You are not my daughter.’

  ‘But Mum . . .’

  How I have longed to be called Mum again. To have that label. That connection. But not like this, from the mouth of a stranger. The word sounds ugly and false, taunting. They sound beguiling and intoxicating too.

  ‘Don’t you dare call me that,’ I say.

  But now I’ve heard it once, I ache to hear it again.

  ‘Mrs Archer, please,’ Libby pleads, placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘She’s just a child. She’s been through so much to get to this point. So have I. Please . . . go easy on her. I’m begging you . . . one mother to another.’

  I blink.

  ‘She’s . . . she’s your daughter?’ I say.

  Libby nods and blots her tears with a coat sleeve.

  ‘Please, if you’ll just listen—’

  ‘No,’ I say, throwing my hands up. ‘You said yourself she’s your daughter. She can’t be mine too. How could she be? And anyway, she’s too young.’

  ‘She’s the same age as Amy.’

  ‘As Amy was. Or has she been in a time warp? Overlooked by the last ten years?’ Sarcasm drips from me.

  ‘You’re closer to the truth than you think,’ Libby says.

  ‘Get out!’

  I nudge the girl away and she stumbles down the doorstep and on to the ground.

  ‘Mum!’ she wails. ‘Don’t send me away. I am Amy. I’m your little girl. The one who did this. Remember?’ She scrambles to a corner of the doorstep and points to a scratched mosaic tile. ‘See?’

  Her finger traces two faint and shaky letters etched into the tile: AA.

  ‘Amy Archer,’ she says. Her finger glides to the monogram on the neighbouring tile. ‘DB. Dana Bishop. My best friend! You slapped us both on the legs for doing this.’

  I gasp, unable to speak, my heart rushing.

  The girl stands up, pushes past me and peers into the hallway. Her face lights up with recognition.

  ‘That statue on the shelf,’ she says. ‘The little boy with the fishing rod. Dad got that for you for Christmas. Only he broke it one day when you were out so we dashed to Oxford Street to get another. They only had one left. Dad said it was a second. I laughed and said it was our second one too, but that’s not what he meant. You look. It’s got some colour missing on its back heel. Dad said you’d never notice the difference, and you didn’t.’

  I step inside and pick up the figurine. My hands are shaking. I’m half hoping the heel isn’t discoloured but appalled and excited by the hope that it is. I hesitate to turn it round. The phlegm colour is consistent – apart from a splodge of white on the left heel.

  It could have been like that from the start; I never really looked that closely, never really liked it. Even so, I need both hands to put it safely back on the shelf.

  ‘I . . . I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘It’s just . . .’

  ‘What?’ Libby says, stepping into the hallway. ‘Coincidence? It would be easier for all of us if it was. But there’s more to it than just a lucky guess.’

  ‘That’s exactly what it is,’ I say, nodding my head for emphasis.

  ‘No it isn’t!’ the girl says, tears brimming in her eyes. ‘I promise. I wouldn’t lie to you. You always told me it was wrong to lie, didn’t you? And I never did. You’ve got to believe me, Mum.’

  ‘I told you not to call me that,’ I say, forcing my eyes from her tear-streaked face. I always hated to see Amy crying, and this girl’s tears look and sound like hers. It’s all I can do to stop myself putting my arms around her and telling her it will all be all right.

  ‘Even someone good at lucky guesses runs out of luck at some point,’ Libby says, shifting her weight so that she is standing firm and upright. ‘Esme won’t.’

  ‘Ask me something, Mum,’ the girl says. ‘Anything you like. I bet I get it right.’

  ‘This isn’t a game!’

  ‘I know. And I’m not playing. Honest.’

  Libby tilts her head to one side, as if daring me to take the challenge but hoping that I won’t. I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose. Playing along will bring this nonsense to an end and they will have to leave me to my vigil for Amy. The real Amy.

  ‘All right. What was my husband’s nickname for me?’

  ‘Which one?’ the girl says, without hesitation.

  Her nonchalance rocks me as much as her knowing I had two nicknames. Brian would call me Pookie when he was drunk, wanted sex or to get his own way, but most of the time he called me Dabs. It was meant to be light-hearted, but it had a quiet criticism. Dabs. Fingerprints. Shorthand for stop interfering and leave me alone.

  I’m so surprised she knows there were two names, it barely registers when she gives them both correctly.

  ‘Another lucky guess?’ Libby says, her eyebrows raised as if daring me not to believe what I’ve heard.

  The girl gives a relieved smile and nods towards me.

  ‘Next question,’ she says.

  ‘How did Amy break her leg?’

  Again there is no hesitation in her answer, no trace of doubt in her voice.

  ‘I didn’t. But I broke my arm when me and Dana were climbing the trees behind the tennis courts in the park. I
fell. Dana ran home to get you.’

  Her eyes shine. At first I think it is defiance, but there’s something else too: a plea to be accepted.

  I bite my lip, bend down and look into her eyes. They are the same colour and shape as Amy’s; speaking eyes, I always called them. Now they are even more eloquent, shaded by a nuance I do not understand and have to struggle to resist.

  ‘What happened to you?’ I say.

  ‘You?’ Libby says. ‘Does that mean you believe her?’

  I ignore her, keep my eyes on the girl and repeat my question. Frowns cloud her face.

  ‘I . . . can’t remember exactly,’ she says. ‘But I think I must have died.’

  Her words rip into me. Although she isn’t Amy – she can’t be – hearing my worst suspicions confirmed by a mouth that looks so much like Amy’s is too much for me to bear. I’m torn between holding her to me and pushing her away.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t believe in ghosts.’

  ‘Esme’s not a ghost as such,’ Libby says, putting her arm around the girl’s shoulders. ‘She’s Amy. Reincarnated.’

  The clock in the hall strikes midnight.

  Balls of sparks and embers burst through the sky, exploding with a roar that makes the ground shake. Light and darkness chase each other across the sky, into the park. The spindly fingers of the bare-boned trees stretch into the light until they are lost in the blackness once more.

  In the hinterland of shadows I catch heart-stopping flashes of Amy. In between, I see Esme’s face looking up at me, wide-eyed, beseeching, happy.

  I feel her rush past me and into the hall. I’m too shaken to stop her as she darts into the front room for a few seconds, then reappears, bolting up the stairs.

  ‘I want to see my room!’ she squeals.

  Libby steps into the hall, slams the door behind her and runs after Esme.

  ‘Esme! Please,’ she calls. ‘You promised. We’ve got to do this slowly.’

  But Esme doesn’t stop. She turns right at the top of the stairs without hesitation, making straight for Amy’s room. I hear a door open; a yelp of delight is quickly followed by a grunt of disappointment.

  I stand blinking and immobile in the hallway, resting my hand against the wall for support. Confusion swarms and I struggle to catch my breath. Esme shouts down the stairs.

  ‘You changed my room! It’s like I never lived here.’

  I push myself away from the wall, gulp in air and climb the stairs as quickly as I can.

  ‘Please. Stay out of there, I beg you.’

  Libby is standing at the bedroom door, as if scared of intruding. I squeeze past her and see Esme lying face down on the bed, one hand punching the pillow, the other throttling the threadbare Bagpuss. The drawers in the chest are open and the wardrobe doors ajar.

  My indignation at seeing Amy’s room being violated is fused with the shock of a living, breathing blonde girl lying on her bed. The combination roots me to the spot.

  ‘Everything’s gone!’ Esme sobs into the duvet. ‘Where are my posters? My CDs? All my clothes? You’ve painted the room. I don’t even like beige.’ She looks up. ‘It’s like you couldn’t wait to get rid of any sign of me.’

  ‘Esme, please,’ Libby says. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t like that. Let’s all calm down, eh?’

  Esme turns over and sits up, her face scrunched by tears and anger.

  ‘How could you do it, Mum?’

  I sense Libby wincing as much as I do.

  ‘I . . . didn’t know,’ I say in a whisper. ‘I couldn’t keep . . .’

  I can barely believe I’m trying to explain myself, but her outrage is just an echo of mine when Brian cleared the room. Guilt makes me flounder.

  ‘At least you kept this,’ Esme says. She sweeps Bagpuss into her arms and smothers it with kisses. ‘You got me this when I had chickenpox.’

  She’s right. I find myself nodding, mouth open but mute. Esme scoots along the bed and rests her back against the wall, cradling the toy on her knees. I see Amy – sick, vulnerable, in need of my care – and shudder.

  ‘I hated chickenpox,’ Esme says. ‘Not because they were scratchy but because they were spots. I wanted stripes. Like Bagpuss.’

  She’s right again. Her accuracy rocks me on my heels. She can’t possibly remember these details and yet they fall from her lips so easily. How can she know these seemingly trivial but incredibly personal things? Her knowledge is shocking, terrifying and too, too precise. I’m as scared of who Esme is as much as I am scared of who she might be. It’s impossible, ludicrous, but . . .

  ‘Let’s go downstairs, shall we?’ Libby says, taking my arm. ‘It might be easier for all of us if we talk there.’

  Esme leads the way into the front room and sits down on an armchair, Bagpuss clutched to her chest. Her eyes dart around the room, greedy and inquisitive, as if doing a ‘spot the difference’ puzzle. Most of it has changed – the decor, carpet and sofa – but her eyes seem to rest on the things that have stayed the same: the worn patina of the coffee table, the pewter figure of a Georgian flower seller, the broad sweep of the windows, the glossy black fire grate.

  What holds her attention, though, is the photo of Amy on the mantelpiece. She smiles.

  ‘I loved it in Zante,’ she says. ‘Except for the jellyfish. And the sea urchins. Dad had to pee on my foot to stop it stinging.’ She shudders at the thought and frowns. ‘Where is Dad?’

  ‘He’s . . . we’re not . . .’ I shake my head. Brian is not her father. Unlike her, I don’t have to explain anything. My tone hardens. ‘So you know all about the little things, but not about my husband and me? I don’t understand. Surely your . . . supernatural powers . . .’

  I reach for the sofa with my hand and slowly lower myself into it, not taking my eyes from Esme.

  ‘I don’t think it works like that,’ Libby says, taking off her scarf and unzipping her coat. ‘Not that I’m an expert on reincarnation, of course. But I have done some reading around it since Esme convinced me who she really is.’ She coughs drily. ‘I think I knew even before she was born that she was different. But I didn’t know why . . . not for definite. Not until a few months ago.’ She coughs again. ‘It wasn’t easy. It still isn’t. Took a while to sink in. It will be the same for you.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it will. I mean . . .’

  Libby puts her coat and scarf on the back of the sofa and sits down next to me.

  ‘Look, I know this is hard,’ she says. ‘Believe me, I’ve been there.’

  ‘Believe you? I . . . How can I? Reincarnation? It’s impossible.’

  ‘There are millions of Buddhists who’d say differently. They build their whole lives around their belief in it.’

  ‘Maybe faith makes fools of us all.’

  I sound like Brian when he scorned my trust in psychics. But psychic powers at least seem possible; science hasn’t explained away strange phenomena, not entirely. It hasn’t proved them either. In between there is room for manoeuvre. For interpretation. Hope.

  There is nothing to prove the possibility of reincarnation. But there is nothing to debunk the idea either. Not conclusively. Not as far as I know, anyway.

  The subject cropped up at a dinner party I went to years before Amy was born. Someone said that reincarnation was impossible because if everyone who’d ever lived on the planet was able to come back, there wouldn’t be enough room for them all. Someone else suggested they took it in turns. The notion of a great celestial waiting room brought hoots of derision.

  Esme spots the box of the CD I was playing when Libby first knocked at my door.

  ‘Yay! The Spice Girls!’ She stands up and grabs it. ‘Can I listen to it?’

  ‘Not now, love,’ Libby says. ‘Me and Beth need to talk.’

  ‘I’ll take it up to my room, then.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I want you to stay out of there.’

  Esme grimaces like Amy used to when she couldn’t get her own way, a mix of petulance, ‘poor me’ and res
ignation.

  Then, the flash of guile, a gift for negotiation that Brian said marked her out as a future politician.

  ‘Can I listen on those headphones, then?’ she says, nodding at the set tucked into a gap in the bookcase.

  At least it means I can keep an eye on her and she won’t be able to interrupt. For the next hour she sits in a chair, miming the words, twitching with suppressed dance moves. Like Amy used to. I shut the thought out and keep my head turned away from her while Libby tries to explain what all this is about.

  ‘The Spice Girls were Amy’s favourite too, weren’t they?’ she says, wriggling further back into the sofa.

  ‘Yes, but that’s not unusual. It doesn’t prove anything.’

  ‘No, but it is unusual for a young girl today to like the Spice Girls rather than, say, Lady Gaga – although she likes her too.’ Libby sighs. ‘They were all about girl power. Which is what this is all about, I suppose, one way or the other. Girls, our girls. And power – inexplicable, unearthly power.’

  She says she was never aware of it before, but looking back, its faint pulse was there from the start. From the moment Esme was conceived.

  ‘I was only sixteen. Or about to be. When I was a kid, I used to hate having my birthday on New Year’s Day. Everyone was always partied out and suffering from the night before. It was so quiet. Dead. Boring. But that changed the older I got. Suddenly the parties on New Year’s Eve were all for me.’

  Never more so than in 1999, it seems, when the last day of the old millennium put her on the brink of a notable rite of passage. At the stroke of midnight she would become – officially – more adult than child, and rowdy crowds around the entire world would celebrate it with her.

  A group of her school friends were spending New Year in Edinburgh, and she’d nagged her parents into letting her go too.

  ‘We dumped our bags in a dreary bed and breakfast near Leith and spent the rest of the day crawling from bar to bar. I was well gone by the time we got to Princes Street. People all around us just kept passing bottles along. Vodka, champagne, cider. You name it, I had it. My head was fizzing. The boy beside me was dead generous. The schnapps in his bottle burned as it slid down my throat.’