Take Me Home

by Daniela Sacerdoti

  “Maybe. Hey, Inary, give the guy a break. You said you only wanted to be friends. He’s trying to move on. Sorry, don’t mean to stir things up. Just, Alex is trying to deal with things too.”

  I nodded. She was right.

  Lesley gave me a hug. “Anyway, enough about boys. I never asked you about your writing! How is Cassandra?”

  Cassandra is no more. Deleted.

  “Seriously? That’s a shame!”

  No it isn’t.

  “So . . . you taking a break from writing? I mean, with all you’ve been through . . .”

  Yes. A sort of break. Maybe indefinitely.

  “Oh, no . . . Honey, that’s a waste! You’ve got to write. Promise me you will . . .”

  I don’t know.

  “Promise you won’t give up,” she repeated. “You have to make your dream come true.”

  At that moment, the softest hint of a tingle filled my limbs, and I felt like I’d just put my ear to a shell, because I could hear a low whisper, like waves breaking on a shore far away.

  Emily.

  Lesley’s words had echoed Emily’s: you have to make your dream come true.

  “So, she’s away,” Logan said to me as I stepped into the shop.

  I nodded.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I glanced at him. He was busy over a pile of invoices, so I thought the conversation was over. I began tidying up the cycling accessories, half-heartedly. For three years Lesley had been the first person I said hello to in the morning and the last person I saw at night. We’d shared toothpaste, three break-ups (one mine, two Lesley’s) takeaways and hours of TV dramas on our living-room sofa with a tub of Häagen-Dazs between us. She cooked for me, I proofread her press releases; she kept me awake telling me all about her latest crush, I inflicted on her my out-of-tune singing in the shower; she let me lean my head on her shoulder whenever bad news about Emily had broken me, I went with her to the hospital when her dad needed an urgent operation. And now, once more, a whole nation stretched between us.

  “Do you miss your life in London?” Logan said, mock casually.

  Oh, I see. We were having The Talk. The one I’d seen coming for a while. Whether or not I was going to stay in Glen Avich for good. This required some more than nodding or shrugging. God, this not-talking thing was taking its toll.

  Yes, I suppose I do.

  “So when are you going back?” His tone was harsh, but there was a note of vulnerability in his voice.

  I don’t know if I am. Alex seeing Sharon wouldn’t be a strong enough reason to uproot myself again – but it did sway me . . .

  “Right. Inary, listen.” Logan looked straight into my eyes. “You must do what’s best for you. If you want to go . . .”

  Was it really Logan speaking? How things have changed.

  For a moment I hesitated – but from over Logan’s shoulder I could see the Glen Avich hills framed in the window, a shroud of soft mist veiling them. Holding their breath, just before fully falling into spring . . .

  I don’t want to go, I wrote, and then looked at the page in amazement. It was true. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to go away from Glen Avich, and I didn’t want to leave my brother.

  “Oh. Okay then. I suppose I’ll have to put up with you,” he said abruptly, and walked off to sort out something in the stock cupboard. But before he turned away, I noticed the look of relief on his face.

  I smiled, a smile of genuine joy.

  Decision made.

  It’s my turn to look after you, Logan, like you always looked after us, I thought. But I didn’t write it down. Some things would never be put in words.

  Dear Alex,

  Lesley was here. She told me about Sharon.

  Just to say, I wish you happiness.

  Inary x

  I switched my laptop off, and my phone too. They would stay that way for a while, until I was ready to face this new world, the world where Alex had a girlfriend and I’d messed it all up.

  36

  523 miles

  Alex

  Sharon’s skin looked even darker against the white sheets, and her sleeping form was as inviting as warm water. She loved sleeping late at the weekend, while I was always up early. Inary was a lark too. Sometimes we’d get together with Lesley to have a Chinese and watch a DVD, and Inary was asleep on the couch by ten.

  There. She’d come into my thoughts twice already, and it was barely nine o’ clock. No doubt there would be more thoughts of Inary when I’d make breakfast in bed for Sharon – granola and yoghurt. Inary hated granola, she loved a bacon sandwich on a Saturday morning. Then it would be time to go to feed the ducks in Hyde Park, and Sharon would take an hour to get ready – Inary brushed her hair and she was ready; she never wore make-up, except for a night out. And so on, and so forth, and so totally and completely wrong.

  “Hello . . .” Sharon was resting her head on her hand, and was looking at me. “Been awake long?”

  “No . . . just an hour or so,” I said, and I sat on the bed to give her a kiss. Thank God thoughts are silent and they don’t hang over our heads in big speech balloons.

  Hyde Park was beautiful, sun rays dancing in the trees and happy people everywhere, on bikes, lying on blankets, playing with frisbees and feet. Spring had come to London, at last. Scotland was over its cold snap, but still a bit chilly, my sister told me – there was no way that Inary would wear her summer dresses, yet . . . But I had to concentrate on there and then. Sharon had slipped her hand into mine, and her deep, musky perfume was in the breeze around me.

  We strolled on the grass and then sat to eat the picnic we’d prepared. Sharon had made some tiny apple tarts, fragrant with cinnamon. The last time Inary had made a cake, it could have bounced off the floor – I grinned at the recollection. Weird thing was, she never gave up: she kept cooking, disaster after disaster. I remembered eating plastic roast beef and burnt potatoes just to make her happy. I loved her spag bol. Or spag bog, like Lesley called it. It was terrible, but it tasted of home, somehow.

  Sharon was breaking bits of a slice of bread and throwing them to the ducks. I shook myself from my thoughts and imitated her. Except I’d been so distracted, I kept the slice of bread and threw the loaf instead, plastic wrapping and all. It hit a duck on the bum and there was a flurry of feathered panic.

  “Oh God! I’m sorry!”

  “Oh no, Alex . . . poor duck!” said Sharon, but she laughed, and her whole face lit up. She really was beautiful. My stomach knotted up, because in the middle of all this, right in the middle of mine and Inary’s mess, was a woman who had showed me nothing but kindness. A generous, sweet, funny woman who did not deserve to be my rebound girlfriend.

  “Sharon . . .”

  “Yes?” she replied. Her face fell when she saw mine. “Is everything okay?”

  “It’s just that . . .”

  Her eyes clouded over, mirroring my solemn expression. I couldn’t bear it.

  I couldn’t bear to spread more hurt, like there hadn’t been enough of that already.

  “It’s just that I was hoping you’d stay tonight as well. At mine, I mean.”

  “Sure,” she smiled, all the worry melting away from her face.

  I hated myself. Inary had hurt me, but she’d done so unwittingly; she’d never asked for me to be in love with her. Instead, I was hurting Sharon while knowing very well what I was doing.

  *

  On the way home, in passing, I checked my email. There was something from Inary. My breath caught as I read her words . . .

  She knew about Sharon.

  Of course, she was bound to find out sooner or later. I should have told her.

  I should have told her because I had nothing to hide, did I?

  Rage bit me suddenly, unexpectedly – because of her tone, betrayed, as if I’d done something wrong, as if I’d broken a bond between us. When she’d been the one keeping me at arm’s length, sleeping with me and then saying it was a mistake, telling me we could on
ly be friends.

  But I still wasn’t allowed to see anyone.

  “Don’t tell me you’re working . . .” Sharon’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

  “Sorry. I’ll switch off, now.” And I did. I switched the phone off and resolved, in my red-hot anger, not to deign to reply.

  But later that night, of course, I gave in.

  From Alex.McIlvenny@hotmail.co.uk

  To Inary@gmail.com

  Inary,

  It was three in the morning and I couldn’t sleep. All the things I wanted to say to Inary whirled in my head, and I couldn’t silence them. They had to come out of me.

  You and I are not together, are we? You don’t want us to be together properly. You’ve had three years to think about it. Yes, I’m seeing Sharon. I couldn’t keep playing your game. I’m so sorry for all that happened and I swear to God if I could make it better for you, if I could help you . . . if you’d allow me to be there for you . . .

  You push me away. And then you look for me and I always answer. I’m sorry, but this can’t keep happening. But don’t act all offended if I’m seeing someone who’s not you.

  Of course we can be friends. It’s up to you. But I won’t stop seeing Sharon to keep having this weird thing with you where we both end up alone.

  Alex

  37

  Rapture

  Inary

  I’d been in Glen Avich for nearly four months. Spring was there at last, and with it came change. I could feel my life moving forward, every part of my heart and soul wrapping themselves around new possibilities. Everything was shifting, as inevitably as the drift of continents over the ocean. But two things stayed the same: Emily’s absence burnt as sore as the day she died, and my voice showed no sign of returning. Writing what I needed to say, or miming it, had become second nature.

  Maybe silence didn’t feel that bad after all. I was strangely comfortable in my bubble, even if it made the simplest things more complicated.

  And there was something that made me fearful of my voice returning. My voice had gone just when my Sight had come back, like one sense had been swapped for the other. What if when I regained my voice, the Sight went away again? Before I could see Emily?

  I couldn’t risk it. Even with everybody insisting I should go back to Dr Nicholson, I would bide my time and keep my silence. I had become a secret person, whose thoughts and feelings couldn’t just be blurted out – they had to be translated, taken out of my throat with pen and paper, carried into the world with time and effort. If you have to write everything you need to say, you’ll end up omitting most of what you would have just spoken without thinking. What used to be on the surface had burrowed deeper, and as I sunk into my world of silence, so many things started getting clearer and clearer. Lies and illusions began to melt as I got slowly closer to my core, closer to the essence of me.

  A secret and silent person. Not someone I’d ever thought I would be, but it suited me. After all the pain of Emily’s loss, it was impossible to still be frightened. I might have filled a river with my tears, but sooner or later rivers flow into the sea, and what hurt, what cut you to the bone, becomes a memory.

  I was editing when Mary came to me next. It was early afternoon, and the noise and movement of life were all around me – Mary’s presence melted with the present seamlessly. There were children playing football outside; the occasional car driving up St Colman’s Way; the soft noise of the radio seeping from downstairs; and Mary, sitting at my dressing table. She was at the centre of my perception, stronger and more real than anything else. Calm, silent tears were rolling down her cheeks – there was no more anger in her devastation, like there had been when she’d thrown Robert’s letters into the loch. She was resigned.

  The words she wrote resounded in my mind as clear as if she’d spoken them.

  Dear Robert,

  I thought you might want to know that I’m getting married. He’s a kind man and he loves me, and nothing else matters. I suppose we’ll never know what could have been, we’ll never know if you and I would have been happy. But after all, does anyone know?

  I was on the loch the other day – the sky was perfect blue and the sun was shining, and then, all of a sudden, black clouds came over me and the heavens opened. It was so sudden, so harsh a contrast between before and after, it made me think of us. We were together; you were my life. Then all of a sudden you were gone.

  Like the sky goes from sunny to stormy in the space of half an hour, joy turns to sadness so quickly – but the opposite happens too. There was no written path for us, Robert, life would have been what we made of it.

  I often wonder about the life we would’ve had. After what happened to my family, after what happened with you, I often feel like I’m broken and I’ll never be whole again. It looked as if I had nothing to lose, while your whole life was at stake. But that’s not true. I could drown – and I did. And I think I should stop now, in case I say too much.

  I wish you all happiness and joy and a long, peaceful life with Anna. Please give her my love, whether she accepts it or not. She must be due soon. I hope it won’t be long before Alan and I have good news soon too – I am sure it’s the only way to bring some joy back into my life. And I do hope that life has some happiness in store for me, even if it seems impossible now, that today’s tears will be just a memory. I hope the years will take my pain away. But I can promise you something: I’ll keep you in my heart forever, whether you like it or not. Whatever happens, you will not fade from me.

  I see no reason to write more: it’s just words and more words, isn’t it? And we’ve had so many. Just one thing. Robert, if you turn you and me into a poem, make it a happy one. Make it about you and me that day on the loch shore, in May, remember? No more sadness.

  Listen to the words unspoken and you’ll know how I would sign myself, if I could. But all I’m allowed to say right now, is

  I wish you much happiness,

  Mary

  When she went, every ounce of strength left me and I fell to my knees on the wooden floor, drained. Her state of mind had left me grey, listless. There was no hope left for Mary and Robert.

  Or for Alex and me.

  Except Mary hadn’t deserved it; she hadn’t done anything to bring all this sorrow onto herself. But I had, by lying about my feelings for so long, to Alex, to everyone and, most of all, to myself.

  For the first time in days, I switched on my laptop and my phone . . . Among the dozens of emails I’d accumulated, there was the one I wasn’t expecting. From Alex.

  . . . You push me away. And then you look for me and I always answer. I’m sorry, but this can’t keep happening. But don’t act all offended if I’m seeing someone who’s not you.

  Even though his words stung, he was right.

  I wondered if it was serious between him and Sharon, or if he was simply in lust (the thought killed me) or if he was doing it out of spite after what I’d done to him.

  Or if he was in love. That was the most painful scenario: that he was in love with her. That he’d look at her like he’d looked at me, the night we slept together.

  It hurt. Suddenly, I was angry.

  Alex,

  I know I messed up. I’m sorry. But it didn’t take you long to find someone!

  I pressed ‘send’, my chest heaving with rage. Why was I furious with him? He didn’t deserve it. Maybe I was furious with myself.

  I sat staring at the screen, hoping he’d be there – and he was.

  I can’t speak like this. Switch on your Skype.

  As soon as I logged on to Skype, an instant message came through.

  It didn’t take me long? Three years, Inary. Three years!

  To my dismay, I felt a tear trickling down my cheek, and I hated myself for it. It was exactly the kind of situation I’d fought so hard to avoid – to be involved again, to be hurt again.

  I can’t explain why I am this way. I have no words to tell you why every time I get close to you, I run away.

>   I typed. I felt the truth welling up in my heart, threatening to overspill into my fingers. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him everything . . .

  Alex: Find the bloody words, for God’s sake! You’re a writer!

  Me: Right. Fine. You want to know what really happened? Lewis left me because he thought I was a freak. And maybe I am.

  Alex: ?

  Me: What if I told you that I see ghosts?

  Alex: What?

  Me: Alex, I see ghosts.

  Alex: ~What?~

  I took a deep breath. I would have given anything to be able to speak.

  Me: Have you seen The Sixth Sense? Well, my life is a bit like that. Only less scary (mostly). I actually see dead people, excuse the cliché. My granny was the same. It runs in my family. It really is like a sixth sense . . . it feels normal when you’re born this way. It started when I was six, but then stopped when I was twelve years old because I got a huge fright, and the trauma took the Sight away. A bit like losing Emily took my voice away. Anyway, I told Lewis and he thought I was crazy. I think that scared him enough to break up with me. I don’t know for sure, but I think that’s what really pushed him, in the end. No one else knows except my family. And now my voice has gone but the Sight is back. I was hoping to see Emily. I looked for her everywhere, but I couldn’t find her. So this is it. Now you’ll think I’m crazy.

  Long, long minutes I waited for his reply. He was probably in shock.

  Alex: You’re pulling my leg.

  My heart sank. He thought it was a bloody joke.

  Me: No, I’m not.