by French, Tana
“Hm,” says Dad, examining the potato chunks. Holly can feel him being careful, looking over his answer from every angle. “You know, sweetheart, it’s not actually as unfair as it looks. If anything, the system’s weighted towards the defense. The prosecution has to build a whole case that stands up beyond a reasonable doubt; the defense only has to build that one doubt. I can swear to you, hand on heart, there’s a lot more guilty people acquitted than innocent ones in jail.”
Which isn’t what Holly means, at all. She’s not sure whether Dad not getting it is irritating or a relief. “Yeah,” she says. “Probably.”
Dad throws the potatoes into the casserole dish. He says, “It’s a good impulse. Just take your time; don’t get fixed on a plan till you’re a hundred percent definite. Yeah?”
Holly says, “How come you don’t want me to do defense?”
“I’d be only delighted. That’s where the money is; you can keep me in the style to which I wish to become accustomed.”
He’s slipping away, the nonstick glint coming into his eyes. “Dad. I’m asking.”
“Defense lawyers hate me. I thought you were going to do your hating me around about now, get it out of your system, and by the time you were twenty or so we’d get on great again. I didn’t think you’d be just getting started.” Dad heads for the fridge and starts rummaging. “Your mother said to put in carrots. How many do you figure we need?”
“Dad.”
Dad leans back against the fridge, watching Holly. “Let me ask you this,” he says. “A client shows up at your office, wanting you to defend him. He’s been arrested—and we’re not talking littering here; we’re talking something way out on the other side of bad. The more you talk to him, the more you’re positive he’s guilty as hell. But he’s got money, and your kid needs braces and school fees. What do you do?”
Holly shrugs. “I figure it out then.”
She doesn’t know how to tell her dad, only half of her even wants to tell her dad, that that’s the whole point. Everything the prosecutors have, all the backup, the system, the safe certainty that they’re the good guys: that feels lazy, feels sticky-slimy as cowardice. Holly wants to be the one out on her own, working out for herself what’s right and what’s wrong this time. She wants to be the one coming up with fast zigzag ways to get each story the right ending. That feels clean; that feels like courage.
“That’s one way to do it.” Dad pulls out a bag of carrots. “One? Two?”
“Put two.” He has the recipe right there; he doesn’t need to ask.
“How about your mates? Any of them thinking of law?”
A zap of irritation stiffens Holly’s legs. “No. I actually can think all by myself. Isn’t that amazing?”
Dad grins and heads back to the counter. On his way past he lays a hand on Holly’s head, warm and just the right strength. He’s relented, or decided to act like it. He says, “You’ll make a good barrister, if that’s what you decide on. Either side of the courtroom.” He runs his hand down her hair and goes to work on the carrots. “Don’t sweat it, chickadee. You’ll make the right call.”
The conversation’s over. All his careful probing and all his deep serious speeches, and she slipped right past without him laying a finger on what she’s actually thinking. Holly feels a quick prickle of triumph and shame. She chops harder.
Dad says, “So what do your mates have in mind?”
“Julia’s going to do journalism. Becca’s not sure. Selena wants to go to art school.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. Her stuff’s good. I meant to ask you: is she doing OK these days?”
Holly looks up, but he’s peeling a carrot and glancing out the window to see if Mum’s on her way. “What do you mean?”
“Just wondering. The last few times you’ve had her round, she seemed a little . . . spacy, is that the word I’m looking for?”
“She’s like that. You just have to get to know her.”
“I’ve known her a good while now. She didn’t use to be this spacy. Anything been on her mind?”
Holly shrugs. “Just normal stuff. School. Whatever.”
Dad waits, but Holly knows he’s not done. She dumps the bits of leek into the casserole dish. “What’ll I do now?”
“Here.” He throws her an onion. “I know you and your mates know Selena inside out, but sometimes those are the last people to cop that something’s wrong. A lot of problems can show up around your age—depression, whatever we’re supposed to call manic depression these days, schizophrenia. I’m not saying Selena’s got any of those”—his hand going up, as Holly’s mouth opens—“but if something’s up with her, even something minor, now’s the time to get it sorted.”
The balls of Holly’s feet are digging into the floor tiles. “Selena’s not schizophrenic. She daydreams. Just because she’s not some stupid cliché teenager who goes around screaming about Jedward all the time doesn’t mean she’s abnormal.”
Dad’s eyes are very blue and very level. It’s the levelness that has Holly’s heart banging in her throat. He thinks this is serious.
He says, “You know me better than that, sweetheart. I’m not saying she has to be Little Miss Perky Cheerleader. I’m just saying she seems a lot less on the ball than she did this time last year. And if she’s got a problem and it doesn’t get treated fast, it could do a pretty serious number on her life. Yous are going to be heading out into the big wide world before you know it. You don’t want to be running around out there with an untreated mental illness. That’s how lives end up banjaxed.”
Holly feels a new kind of real all around her, pressing in. It squeezes her chest, makes it hard to breathe.
She says, “Selena’s fine. All she needs is for people to leave her alone and quit annoying her. OK? Can you please do that?”
After a moment Dad says, “Fair enough. Like I said, you know her better than I do, and I know yous lot take good care of each other. Just keep an eye on her. That’s all I’m saying.”
A key rattling in the front door, impatient, and then a rush of cool rain-flavored air. “Frank? Holly?”
“Hi,” Holly and Dad call.
The door slams and Mum blows into the kitchen. “My God,” she says, flopping back against the wall. Her fair hair is coming out of its bun and she looks different, flushed and loosened, not like cool good-posture Mum at all. “That was strange.”
“Are you locked?” Dad asks, grinning at her. “And me at home looking after your child, slaving over a hot cooker—”
“I am not. Well, maybe just a touch tipsy, but it’s not that. It’s—My God, Frank. Do you realize I hadn’t seen Deirdre in almost thirty years? How on earth did that happen?”
Dad says, “So it went well in the end, yeah?”
Mum laughs, breathless and giddy. Her coat hangs open; underneath she’s wearing her slim navy dress flashed with white, the gold necklace Dad gave her at Christmas. She’s still collapsed against the wall, bag dumped on the floor at her feet. Holly gets that pulse of wariness again. Mum always kisses her the instant one of them gets through the door.
“It was wonderful. I was absolutely terrified—honestly, at the door of the bar I almost turned around and went home. If it hadn’t worked, if we’d just sat there making small talk like acquaintances . . . I wouldn’t have been able to bear it. Dee and I and this other girl, Miriam, back in school we were like you and your friends, Holly. We were inseparable.”
One of her ankles is bent outwards above the high-heeled navy leather shoe, leaning her lopsided like a teenager. Holly says—Thirty years, never, we’d never—“So how come you haven’t seen her?”
“Deirdre’s parents emigrated to America, when we left school. She went to college there. It wasn’t like now, there wasn’t any e-mail; phone calls cost the earth, and letters took weeks. We did try—she’s still got all my letters, can you ima
gine? She brought them along, all these things I’d forgotten all about, boys and nights out and fights with our parents and . . . I know I’ve got hers somewhere—in Mum and Dad’s attic, maybe, I’ll have to look—I can’t have thrown them away. But it was college and we were busy, and the next thing we knew we were completely out of touch . . .”
Mum’s long lovely face is transparent, things blowing across it bright and swift as falling leaves. She doesn’t look like Holly’s mum, like anyone’s mum. For the first time ever, Holly looks at her and thinks: Olivia.
“But today—God, it was as if we’d seen each other a month ago. We laughed so hard, I can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard. We used to laugh like that all the time. The things we remembered—we had this silly alternative verse for the school song, ridiculous stuff, dirty jokes, and we sang it together, right there in the bar. We remembered all the words. I hadn’t thought of that song in thirty years, I’d swear it wasn’t even in my mind any more, but one look at Dee and the whole thing came back.”
“Getting rowdy in pubs at your age,” Dad says. “You’ll be barred.” He’s smiling, a full-on grin that makes him look younger too. He likes seeing Mum like this.
“Oh, God, people must have heard us, mustn’t they? I didn’t even notice. Do you know, Frank, at one stage Dee said to me, ‘You probably want to get home, don’t you?’ and I actually said, ‘Why?’ When she said ‘home,’ I was picturing my parents’ house. My bedroom when I was seventeen. I was thinking, ‘Why on earth would I be in a hurry to get back there?’ I was so deep in 1982, I’d forgotten all of this existed.”
She’s grinning through a hand pressed over her mouth, ashamed and delighted. “Child neglect,” Dad says to Holly. “Write it down, in case you ever feel like dobbing her in.”
Something skitters across Holly’s mind: Julia in the glade a long time ago, the tender amused curl of her mouth, This isn’t forever. It snatches Holly’s breath: she was wrong. They are forever, a brief and mortal forever, a forever that will grow into their bones and be held inside them after it ends, intact, indestructible.
“She gave me this,” Mum says, fishing in her bag. She pulls out a photo—white border turning yellow—and puts it down on the bar. “Look. That’s us: me and Deirdre and Miriam. That’s us.”
Her voice does something funny, curls up. For a horrified second Holly thinks she’s going to cry, but when she looks up Mum is biting her lip and smiling.
Three of them, older than Holly, maybe a year or two. School uniforms, Kilda’s crest on their lapels. Look close and the kilt is longer, the blazer is boxy and ugly, but if it weren’t for that and the big hair, they could be out of the year above her. They’re messing, draped pouting and hip-jutting on a wrought-iron gate—it takes a strange twitch like a blink before Holly recognizes the gate at the bottom of the back lawn. Deirdre is in the middle, shaking a raggedy dark perm forward over her face, all curves and lashes and wicked glint. Miriam is small and fair and feather-haired, fingers snapping, sweet grin through braces. And over on the right Olivia, long-legged, head flung back and hands tangled in her hair, halfway between model and mockery. She’s wearing lip gloss, pale candy-floss-pink—Holly can picture the mild distaste on Mum’s face if she wore it home one weekend. She looks beautiful.
“We were pretending to be Bananarama,” Mum says. “Or someone like that, I don’t think we were sure. We were in a band that term.”
“You were in a band?” Dad says. “I’m a groupie?”
“We were called Sweet and Sour.” Mum laughs, with a little shake in it. “I was the keyboard player—well, barely; I played piano, so we assumed that meant I’d be good at the keyboard, but actually I was terrible. And Dee could only play folk guitar and none of us had a note in our heads, so the whole thing was a disaster, but we had a wonderful time.”
Holly can’t stop looking. That girl in the photo isn’t one solid person, feet set solidly in one irrevocable life; that girl is an illusive firework-burst made of light reflecting off a million different possibilities. That girl isn’t a barrister, married to Frank Mackey, mother of one daughter and no more, a house in Dalkey, neutral colors and soft cashmere and Chanel No. 5. All of that is implicit in her, curled unimagined inside her bones; but so are hundreds of other latent lives, unchosen and easily vanished as whisks of light. A shiver knots in Holly’s spine, won’t shake loose.
She asks, “Where’s Miriam?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t the same without Dee, and during college we grew apart—I was terribly serious back then, very ambitious, always studying, and Miriam wanted to spend most of her time getting drunk and flirting, so before we knew it . . .” Mum’s still gazing down at the photo. “Someone told me she got married and moved to Belfast, not long after college. That’s the last I heard of her.”
“If you want,” Holly says, “I’ll have a look for her on the internet. She’s probably on Facebook.”
“Oh, darling,” Mum says. “That’s very kind of you. But I don’t know . . .” A sudden catch of her breath. “I don’t know if I could bear it. Can you understand that?”
“I guess.”
Dad has a hand on Mum’s back, just lightly, between her shoulder blades. He says, “Need another glass of wine?”
“Oh, God, no. Or maybe; I don’t know.”
Dad cups the back of her neck for a second and heads for the fridge.
“So long ago,” Mum says, touching the photo. The fizz is fading out of her voice, leaving it quiet and still. “I don’t know how it can possibly be so long ago.”
Holly moves back to her stool. She stirs bits of onion with the point of the knife.
Mum says, “Dee isn’t happy, Frank. She used to be the outgoing one, the confident one—like your Julia, Holly, always a smart answer for anything—she was going to be a politician, or the TV interviewer who asks the politicians the tough questions. But she got married young, and then her husband didn’t want her to work till the children were out of school, so now all she can get is bits of secretarial stuff. He sounds like a dreadful piece of work—I didn’t say that, of course—she’s thinking of leaving him, but she’s been with him so long she can’t imagine how she would manage without him . . .”
Dad hands her a glass. She takes it automatically, without looking. “Her life, Frank, her life isn’t anything like she thought it would be. All our plans, we were going to take the world by storm . . . She never imagined this.”
Mum doesn’t normally talk like this in front of Holly. She’s cupping one cheek and looking into air, seeing things. She’s forgotten Holly is there.
Dad asks, “Going to meet up with her again?” Holly can tell he wants to touch Mum, put his arms around her. She wants to as well, to press in against Mum’s side, but she stays back because Dad is.
“Maybe. I don’t know. She’s going back to America next week; back to her husband, and the temp work. She can’t stay any longer. And she’s got all her cousins to see before then. We swore we’d e-mail this time . . .” Mum runs her fingers down her face, like she’s feeling the lines around her mouth for the first time.
Dad says, “Maybe next summer we can think about taking a holiday over in that direction. If you want to.”
“Oh, Frank. That’s lovely of you. But she’s not in New York or San Francisco, anywhere that . . .” Mum looks at the wineglass in her hand, bewildered, and puts it down on the counter. “She’s in Minnesota, a smallish town there. That’s where her husband’s from. I don’t know if . . .”
“If we headed to New York, she might come up and join us. Have a think about it.”
“I will. Thank you.” Mum takes a deep breath. She picks up her bag off the floor and tucks the photo back into it. “Holly,” she says, holding out an arm and smiling. “Come here, darling, and give me my kiss. How was your week?”
That night Holly can’t sleep. The house f
eels stuffed with heat, but when she kicks off the duvet a chill flattens itself along her back. She listens to Mum and Dad going to bed: Mum’s voice still rising faster and happier, dropping suddenly now and then when she remembers Holly; the low rhythm of Dad adding in something that makes Mum laugh out loud. After their voices stop, Holly lies there in the dark on her own, trying to stay still. She thinks about texting one of the others to see if she’s awake, but she doesn’t know which one, or what she wants to say.
“Lenie,” Holly says.
It feels like stretched hours before Selena, face down on her bed reading, looks up. “Mm?”
“Next year. How do we decide who shares with who?”
“Huh?”
“Senior rooms. Do you know who you want to share with?”
A thick skin of rain coats the window. They’re stuck indoors; in the common room, people are playing a nineties edition of Trivial Pursuit, trying out makeup, texting. The smell of beef stew for tea has somehow made it all the way up from the canteen. It’s making Holly feel slightly sick.
“For fuck’s sake,” Julia says, turning a page. “It’s February. If you want something to worry about, how about that stupid Social Awareness Studies project?”
“Lenie?”
Senior rooms hang over the whole of fourth year. Friendships go down in flames and tears because someone picks the wrong person to share with. All the boarders spend most of the year edging carefully round the choice, trying to find some way to navigate it undamaged.
Selena gazes, lips parted, like Holly’s asked her to fly a space shuttle. She says, “One of you guys.”
A flutter of fear catches at Holly. “Well, yeah. Which one?”
Nothing out of Selena; empty space, echoes. Becca has felt something in the air and taken out her earbuds.
“Want to know who I’m going to share with?” Julia asks. “Because if you’re going to start getting hyper about stuff that isn’t even happening yet, it’s definitely not you.”