The Girlfriend

by Sarah Naughton

There are no cabs out here, so I wait at the bus stop, the strip of leg between my trouser cuffs and my sneakers getting colder by the second because I haven’t worn socks.

  By the time the bus arrives, there’s a crowd of us trying to get on, and with no attempt to follow the famous English queue etiquette, I only just manage to squeeze in. I’m wedged by an enormous Asian woman in a sari. Her fleshy armpit as she clings to the strap above us is just centimeters from my cheek. It smells of stewing meat.

  Eventually, I get a seat and stare out the window at the filthy shop fronts and broken windows.

  On impulse, I take out my phone.

  “Daniel,” I say when the voicemail kicks in. “It’s Mags. I don’t know if you’re still in the UK, but if so, I was wondering if you fancied a drink. Or lots of them. I could seriously do with getting shit-faced—and not on my own for once.”

  I hang up, then spend the rest of the journey bitterly regretting the message. I sounded completely pathetic—and alcoholic. Hopefully, he’ll have more sense than to call me back.

  Jody is at Abe’s bedside, in the middle of a hushed conversation with the fat nurse who doesn’t like me. On my approach, they immediately stop talking, and the nurse waddles off.

  I pretend I haven’t noticed as I join Jody by the bedside.

  Abe’s facial swelling has gone down, and my brother’s features are starting to emerge from the puffed, bruised flesh. At the moment, he looks a little like our father, and I want to lift his eyelids to check the irises are brown, not that searing ice blue. I can’t, of course: I couldn’t bear to touch that waxy flesh. Jody has no such qualms. She is stroking his flaccid cheek and murmuring a song into his ear.

  I watch her from the corner of my eye. She plays the role of devoted martyr perfectly. Did she know Abe had been busy getting himself an STD behind her back? Or perhaps they enjoyed shooting up together. No, Jody doesn’t look like a junkie, and there are none of the telltale bruises on her arms. More likely he was having an affair. But surely, he could do better than the woman in flat 7.

  Though if not her, then who?

  My phone buzzes. Daniel has replied. I’ve booked the Ivy for 8. Hope that’s OK. Stodgy old British food but fun celeb spotting.

  My heart jumps, and like a lovestruck fourteen-year-old, I can’t stop myself replying straightaway.

  Gr8. See you there, I type, a serious frown on my face, as if it’s a professional conversation.

  For a seemingly interminable stretch of time, we sit there in a silence broken only by the machines, our breathing, and the rustling of my clothing as I cross and recross my legs.

  Jody is staring at my brother’s face with such intensity, I wonder if she’s attempting some kind of telepathic communication.

  His eyelashes flutter.

  Jody gasps, and I admit it’s an uncanny sight. I can accept that the lower brain stem being intact means that he can still make reflexive movements, but without any in-depth medical knowledge, I can’t help wondering why a message would even be sent when all conscious thought is gone.

  A sudden and surprising bubble of hope swells in my chest. Perhaps they’re wrong; perhaps there will be a miracle. Abe and I will get the chance to know each other again—this is the gift we always needed.

  “Abe?” Jody leans across my brother’s body, a look of rapture on her face. “Can you hear me? Give me a sign, my darling. Squeeze my hand if you can.”

  He gives no response. Of course he doesn’t. He’s brain-dead.

  But that little futile burst of hope has shifted something in my mind. For the first time, seeing her in the full grip of this self-delusion doesn’t inspire contempt in me, but pity.

  She has been through so much, been let down by so many people, and now, it seems, even by my saintly brother. I can never tell her my suspicions; she must go on believing this fantasy of the perfect romance. Without thinking, I lay my hand on her arm.

  She looks back and smiles at me. “Did you see?”

  I manage to smile back. “Yes. I saw. I’ll go get us a coffee.”

  The fat nurse is sitting at her workstation outside the doors. I remember that whispered conversation. Has something happened that they’re not telling me? Again, that bubble of hope.

  “What were you two talking about when I came in?” I say to her.

  She opens her mouth and shuts it again.

  “I’m his sister. I have a right to know.”

  It’s clearly distasteful for her to speak to me, and her lips purse so much, she can barely squeeze the words through the sphincter of her mouth. “Jody is very anxious that Abe’s life support should carry on for the foreseeable future.”

  The bubble deflates. Disappointment brings a rush of anger.

  “You can override that, though, even if I wanted it too, right? You can go through the courts to get permission if the doctors thought treating him was pointless.”

  She looks at me with eyes threaded with burst blood vessels. “He’s your brother, Miss Mackenzie.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Jody loves Abe very much.”

  “What, and I don’t?”

  “Yours is not the typical way of expressing love.”

  My hands close into fists at my side. The nurse audibly exhales as I take the side exit out into the memorial garden and stamp up the steps to the sidewalk that runs alongside the main road. I stand there panting.

  What the hell were you doing making me your next of kin, Abe? Didn’t the fact that I left you to Dad’s tender mercies tell you that I was a callous bitch?

  I need to go home. I’ll book the tickets as soon as I get back to my computer, and Jody can take over with the doctors. Poor, sweet, kind Jody, the saint to my villain, who will at least give Abe a fighting chance at recovery.

  I hail a cab and am back at St. Jerome’s by midday. Letting myself into the main door, I glance at the piles of mail. There’s another sheaf of leaflets for Abe, fastened with an elastic band. But peeping from the garish yellows and reds of the takeout menus is a corner of white that might be a personal letter. I slide it out.

  A blank white envelope. Probably another flyer.

  I open it and unfold the single piece of paper.

  For a moment, I just stare at it. Then somewhere above me, a door opens. I screw the paper into my pocket and pass through the inner door, ducking my head as I hurry up the stairs, not pausing until I am inside the flat with the door securely closed behind me.

  Written on the paper are just three words.

  She is lying

  17.

  Jody

  Our English teacher used to say that cavemen had invented stories to make sense of a brutal and chaotic world. She said that was where God came from. I don’t believe that—I have faith—but I do believe stories are important to make sense of things we can’t understand. Like dreams.

  Dreams can come true.

  That was another song from my childhood. I would lie on my bed in Abbott’s Manor, eyes closed, dreaming of the future I would make for myself. The past wasn’t the truth; it wasn’t even a dream. It was nothing, gone, forgotten; only real if I let it be. Like the fairies in Peter Pan who die when you stop believing in them.

  Today at the hospital, I believed so hard that you were going to wake up—and then your eyes opened! Just for a moment, but it showed me that all I have to do is believe harder and I can make it happen. Like us. I believed we would be together, and now we are.

  You’ll open your eyes again, and this time, your beautiful brown irises will drift over to my face. It will take a moment for you to recognize me. At first, you’ll think I’m just part of the strange dream you have been dreaming for weeks. Then you’ll remember. Or perhaps you won’t. Perhaps you’ll just understand in your heart that I love you, that you’re safe, that I’ll never leave you.

/>   When I get back from the hospital, I draw a picture of you in the hospital bed, but I draw your eyes open, and when I get to your mouth, I make your lips parted, as if they are just about to speak my name.

  Jody? Is that you?

  It’s not very good, even though I’m copying it from a photograph, but it doesn’t have to be. I know your face so well that I can picture it happening. I can hear the crack in your voice because it’s been so long since you’ve spoken, the whisper of your hair against the pillow as you turn your head to look at me.

  But just then, as if she’s doing it deliberately to ruin my perfect moment, my phone rings. Though I deleted her number long ago, I still recognize it at once. I let it ring and ring until I can’t stand it and press my hands over my ears and scream silently. Then abruptly, it stops, leaving echoes like the waves of pain after you stub your toe.

  I stare at the phone for what feels like ages but still jump when it lights up with a message. I can’t delete it until I’ve listened to three seconds of it.

  “Hello, Jody. I’ve got a birthday present for you, but it won’t fit through the letter box so I thought I’d drop—”

  Message deleted.

  Why won’t she leave me alone? Why must she force herself back into my life every year, like tearing open the scar of a freshly healed wound? I don’t want to think about her, about any of them. I try to push them away by thinking about you, but I can feel the dark waters rising and rising, and then I can’t stop them, and they break over me.

  18.

  Mags

  What does it mean?

  Is the she Jody? Or the junkie? Or could it be Mira?

  And what are they supposed to be lying about? Abe’s fall?

  But then what possible reason would this writer have for sending a note to me rather than going to the police?

  I pick up my phone to call Constable Derbyshire, then change my mind.

  I’m living in a church full of the damaged and mentally ill. Perhaps this is just malice, or delusion, or plain old racism. Someone with a grudge against one of these women. A jealous lover? Before I go to the police and stir up any trouble for them, I need to at least make an attempt to get to the bottom of who sent it.

  The handwriting is neat—possibly female?—but there’s no full stop, which could suggest the writer is poorly educated.

  There was no name on the front of the envelope, which suggests that the person who wrote it slipped it inside the rest of Abe’s mail. This means either they managed to get into St. Jerome’s to do so or they were already in. A resident. Letting myself quietly out of the flat, I go back downstairs and out the main door. Huddled against the wind that races around the building, I study the entry panel of names. None of the handwriting seems to match the note, but some of the labels are printed, and others might have been written by partners. It occurs to me that I’ve never seen Mira’s husband, only heard their door shutting quietly late at night. She must be very lonely.

  Lonely enough to seek comfort with my brother? Surely, not right on Jody’s doorstep—literally. Plus, she’s married and, judging by her dress, a devout Muslim. Get a grip, Mags.

  As I trudge back upstairs, it occurs to me that perhaps the note wasn’t intended for me at all but for Abe. Could there be others?

  Back in the flat, I forage through the chaotic box of papers but find nothing aside from bank statements, bills, and receipts. Then I notice the laptop, tucked on top of a stack of shoe boxes, its charger still plugged into the socket at the back of the cupboard. Green. Fully charged. And when I open the lid, the screen springs to life.

  A stroke of luck, but also more evidence that he didn’t intend to commit suicide? Unless there’s a note or email.

  His email account is open, and I find an inbox stuffed with junk and mailings from theaters and listings magazines. There are a few messages from Sunnydale reminding him about time sheets and a drug recall, but not much else—certainly no suicide note and, weirdly, nothing at all from Jody. When I’m seeing someone, I seem to spend half my time composing clever texts and emails. But it wouldn’t surprise me if Jody didn’t even have a computer. Abe’s is a pretty battered old Dell model. Maybe she can’t afford one. The phone would have been more revealing—I know she has one of those—but it’s locked, and I can’t exactly ask to look over her sweet nothings.

  Minimizing the email, I notice that his wallpaper is a picture of a Disney-style castle against a background of misty lilac hills. It seems oddly impersonal. Mine features me and Jackson knocking back tequila shots with a movie star friend of a client.

  Then it hits me: the castle is called Eilean Donan. Abe and I went there on a school trip. The whole of the lower school went, seventy-five of us, in two coaches. My best friend was sick, so I agreed to let Abe sit next to me on the bus, mainly because my other girlfriends thought he was adorable. This meant that though he was in the year below, they still fancied him but had to pretend they only wanted to mother him.

  We traveled north, skirting endless stretches of dark loch studded by tiny islands that held a single tree or ruined farm cottage. Abe gazed out the window. When we went under an avenue of trees, his reflection swam up into the glass, dark eyes meeting mine, then looking away. He answered my girlfriends’ questions but never offered any of his own thoughts.

  We riffled through his packed lunch and took the bits we wanted, leaving him our cheese triangles and pieces of fruit, which he took without complaint.

  It must have been autumn or spring, because the sun glared through the bus windows, reddening our faces, but when we finally got out in the parking lot, we stamped our feet and swore and wished we hadn’t been too vain to bring our coats. My girlfriends carried on complaining as we traipsed out of the parking lot, and the weary teachers allowed them to go straight to the visitor center.

  But I didn’t go with them.

  I had never seen anything so beautiful in all my life as that castle shimmering into view out of the loch mist.

  I followed the younger kids on the tour, through tartan rooms filled with antlers and thirteenth-century books, and then out to the battlements.

  When everyone else had gone off to eat their packed lunches, I was still standing there, looking out to the western sky, shot with red as the early sunset crept across the hills.

  I became aware of Abe standing beside me. Just the two of us beneath that vast, uncaring sky.

  We stood in silence until the sun started going down behind the hills and the cold seeped into my bones.

  When I turned to leave, I saw he was crying.

  The tears had been caught by the setting sun and turned to little droplets of blood on his cheek. Something about the place, its beauty and stillness and silence, loosened my heart just a little bit, and I put my arm around him. I had never done it before, and I never did it again, but for a few minutes before the sun disappeared behind the hills and the air grew numbingly cold, we stood together as brother and sister, realizing, perhaps for the first time, that the world was beautiful.

  How could I have forgotten?

  Then we got back on the coach and went home. Thinking about it now, I wonder if that trip was the moment things changed, when we stopped trying to get the other one into trouble, started lying for one another, warning each other when our father was on the warpath.

  Perhaps. It all seems so long ago.

  When I try to blow it up, the image pixelates into meaningless blocks of color.

  Then I spot a folder in the corner of the screen called People. I click on it.

  It’s divided up into five subfolders, and each file name is a surname: Bridger, Khan, Okeke, Perkins, Lyons. I click on the first, and a Word document comes up titled Freddie Bridger. He’s eighty-three, with diabetes and early-stage dementia. There’s a photograph of a slack-jawed, bald man in a tank top, alongside an address and a list of dates Abe visi
ted and the medicines he administered. I close it and glance through the other five folders. Aroon Khan: sixty-five, prostate cancer and Parkinson’s. Kone Okeke: seventy-nine, diabetes and deafness. Molly Perkins: sixty-eight, arthritis and incontinence. Lula Lyons: ninety, rheumatism, heart disease, and high blood pressure. Lula’s photo must have been taken in the fifties. She has flame-red hair and scarlet lips and wide, green eyes framed by impossibly long lashes. God knows what she must look like now.

  Then I see her address.

  Flat 1, St. Jerome’s Church, N19.

  The creepy old lady from downstairs. And according to the file, he visited her twice a week, sometimes spending more than two hours with her. She must have known him very well. Well enough to be able to tell me more about his state of mind?

  Then I notice, in the corner of the screen, another folder. This one with a more unusual surname: Redhorse.

  I double-click.

  Instead of Word documents, this folder contains a series of JPEGs. I click one.

  It is an image of two men. They are naked. The man standing is big and muscular, his skin whitish pink and glistening with perspiration, his pubic hair dark blond. On his hip is a tattoo of a red horse.

  The man kneeling in front of him, elegant fingers splayed around the other’s buttocks, mouth stretched wide to receive his cock, is my brother.

  19.

  Jody

  The panic attack goes on for an hour. I try to be as quiet as possible, but I can hear the church listening.

  Afterward, my stomach aches with the pain of crying so hard but also with hunger. I haven’t eaten all day. I should go out and get something. Tabby always says it’s important for me to eat properly because blood sugar affects your mood, but if I went out now, I’d have to cross the grass in the dark.

  If I still had your keys, I could make myself a sandwich with some of the seeded bread you keep in the freezer. It’s half-finished, so I know you’ve touched it. I think of what I would order if we were going to Cosmo tonight, of what you would have, the wine you would choose, the way we would clink glasses, looking over the rims at one another. How we would come home together, helping each other up the stairs, a little bit tired and giggly from the wine.