Lacey's House

by Joanne Graham

  They spoke and I heard them, but when I look back the only thing I can remember is the crushing weight of their words. They were heavy, solid things; I felt them in the air all around me as they were pushed into my ears by Diane’s sobbing. I felt myself shrinking beneath them and I turned and ran, my feet flying across the carpet and up the stairs two at a time until I burst through the door of my room and threw myself onto that beautiful patchwork quilt. Sharp words like machine gun fire cracked from below me, followed by gentle footsteps on the stairs and the red, distraught face of my foster mother as she came into my room to pull the jigsaw apart.

  “Breast cancer,” she said. “Unsuitable parents,” she said, and I sat and listened and broke. I felt my own cheeks wet beneath the fingers I tried to cover my face with. I don’t know how long I had been crying. But when she told me I had to go with the strangers, that I couldn’t live with them anymore, I became hysterical, slapping at the hands of the social workers who were stealing me away.

  My life was quickly thrown into bin bags. The sense of belonging that had taken years to complete was dismantled in minutes by careless hands. The clothes had my name on them this time, they had never belonged to anyone else, but did it really matter? The end result was the same, my new life was torn apart around me and I knew then that it had never belonged to me. I had merely borrowed it for a while.

  As they drove me away I banged against the window until my hands hurt, pleading to be let out, screaming and begging the strangers to take me home. I watched as Diane and Richard clung to each other, their faces desolate as we drove away and they got smaller and smaller through the glass. I reached for the door handle but was roughly pulled away from it and told to stop being so silly.

  Eventually I had fallen silent. My tears had dried, my feelings shrinking into a hard mass that sat at the bottom of my chest. I felt everything inside me wither, and pulled a mask down over my face until I felt invisible, encased in stone. I stared at the headrest in front of me and never once looked out of the window, not caring where I was being taken. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t home. As the car ate up the miles and the two halves of my life grew taut and snapped apart, I sat silent. I stayed still as the car moved onwards to the outskirts of Birmingham, before being swallowed up among the huge buildings and concrete spaces.

  We pulled up outside a house in a leafy suburb and still my eyes didn’t move. I stared in front of me and didn’t look around even as I was half lead, half pulled from the car by emotionless fingers that left a red mark. I walked the corridors and ignored the sounds of other children, another life. The old, familiar smells rushed up my nose and pushed tears to the corners of my eyes; it was all too real and at the same time too far removed from what my life had become. Everything closed around me and I shut myself away from them. I lost myself in the dark places inside me where I felt nothing.

  For a long time I was sure it was my fault. I had no right to a family of my own. I should have left things as they were and then the authorities wouldn’t have asked the questions about Diane and Richard’s health. They wouldn’t have found out about the breast cancer, they would have left me with my family. If they had been my real mum and dad the authorities couldn’t have taken me away, I would have stayed there with them and faced whatever was to come.

  But, as time went on and I settled into the new home, my feelings began to change. Within two weeks I received a letter with my home address on the back. I stared at the lovely curling script. It looked soft and gentle; so familiar, the same writing and the same envelopes that had always sat on her desk in a neat pile. In that moment it seemed that nothing had changed for them. Everything about their day remained the same. It was only me that had been torn apart by my removal, only me that stared at four bare walls and had no colour around me.

  I could picture her sitting at her desk, ankles crossed, looking to the window as she thought about what she could say. How dare she write to me and remind me of all I had left behind? How could she print the old address on the envelope without a thought as to how it would torment me? A bitter resentment began to flourish. I tore that letter to pieces without reading it, and the ones that followed met with the same fate.

  As time passed the letters came less frequently and the anger festered inside me every time I saw one of them. I was hurt and eventually I wrote back. Four little words shaped by grief. Four little words that built a barrier that looked like concrete, but was nothing more than smoke. Aren’t you dead yet? I posted it before I could change my mind. I didn’t receive any more letters.

  Chapter 31 ~ Lacey

  The room is cool and calm and she feels as if she has been here forever. The walls are closing in and as the hours pass she is sure that the room is becoming smaller. She wonders what is happening outside and, ignoring the aches in her muscles and bones, moves to the window. She thinks that if she focuses really, really hard she will be able to hear the stream that runs through the field. It has rained a lot and the water is higher than it should be. It would soak through her dress if she walked through the meadows.

  She thinks that if she holds her breath until her head goes dizzy, if she holds it past the point where her senses shift, then she will be able to fly. She can hover over the wet grass and be with the birds. Then she will see for herself how high the water is.

  She draws the air in deep, deep, deeper still, until the blood rushes in her ears. She holds fast, holds tight and hears her heart loud inside her head. It sounds like a drum and her fingers move to her lap, her head begins to nod and her fingers tap along with the beat. She begins to hum softly in the back of her throat, forgetting about holding her breath, forgetting that she meant to learn how to fly.

  Her closed eyes open quickly as the door to her room crashes against the wall. Her father stands there, his expression cold. She has mastered the art of pretending to look at him while her gaze is turned inwards, away from his orders, his demands, his scathing bitter hatred. She does it now and he is a ghost to her, standing in the doorway, invisible, nothing more than a current of air that bends in the shape of a man.

  “Give me your arm.” He barks like a dog and she wonders why he never wags his tail, why he never seems happy. But while she questions this, she doesn’t question his orders and she holds her arm out, it looks mottled blue, bruised like an apple. She does as she is told, she is a good girl. She feels the sharp stab and winces. She wonders at it, looks at it and then her vision fades out into a blackness that is total and complete, where she doesn’t fly.

  When she opens her eyes again he is not there, but there is pain in his place. She tries to sit up but as she does so a burning, tearing sensation rips through her.

  She catches sight of towels in the corner, they are white stained red. She lies back down and wonders how long the pain will last. It comes in waves like the ebb and flow of the tide and she wonders if she counts them, which wave will be the biggest. She drifts away and dreams that she is a bird hovering above the ocean.

  Chapter 32 ~ Rachel

  I stood beneath an early morning sky that grew ever more overcast and looked across an empty stretch of sand towards the horizon. Far in the distance I could see two jet skiers crossing each other and from my vantage point, they seemed to be perilously close to colliding. I moved my eyes away and stared out to where the sea was empty and growing darker.

  Perhaps it was inevitable that sooner or later I would stand here again, the place where I had buried my childhood happiness in the sand. The temperature was cooler than the day before and a spiteful breeze caught at my trousers, whipping them against my skin.

  There were no families playing as there had once been, just a couple in their twilight years strolling hand in hand by the water’s edge as their dog ran in and out of the breaking water.

  This time, when I drove along the road towards Exeter, I had turned at the sign for Dawlish, I had followed it and looked for the familiar in the trees that rushed past the windscreen. As I stood halfway between t
hen and now, I felt shame crawling beneath my skin. For the first time I saw past my apparent abandonment, to the Diane and Richard I had known then, the warmth on their faces, the hugs and the kisses they had swamped me with, the subtle emotions reflected in their expressions that I hadn’t understood then.

  How awful I had been, how self-absorbed. I looked out at the sea and blinked against the sudden downpour as the clouds broke and sent hissing, spitting raindrops into the parched ground. The distant couple moved quickly away from the water’s edge but I stayed where I was, the rain drenching my clothes and plastering them to my skin.

  I had been so angry, so beyond rationality. I could look back with adult eyes, and see I should have done things differently. I had been too young to know better. I was hurt. I wondered if the solitary life I had lived was a product of the person I had been then. If my childhood had set me up for nothing more than a life of holding people at arm’s length for fear they may leave anyway.

  I watched the clouds roll across the sky and felt the weight of my anger draining into the cooling sand. I looked at the emotion behind it, examining the strands and threads that had bound my mouth and prevented me from asking the questions I should have asked years before. I let my adult-self step into the space vacated by the grieving angry child.

  I could acknowledge that behind all the anger, there was fear. What if I wrote to them and discovered that Diane had succumbed to her illness? What if I found it was too late and there was nothing I could do to make things right? It was so much better to embrace that fury in ignorance, than to find out I had to grieve for her, knowing I could never say sorry.

  I thought of Lacey and the loneliness, the isolation she had lived with. Of the loss she had faced with such courage. I wondered if Richard too had been left alone to face life without the person he loved. Or was Diane still alive and healthy? Were they both alive? Or both dead? Did they both lie beneath the ground in the graveyard I could see from my old bedroom window? Suddenly I found that I desperately wanted to know.

  I returned to the car and drove back to Winscombe. The rain had stopped but the clouds still hung low and threatening over the hills. It was still early when I let myself into the house and there was no sign of Jane, she was probably still sleeping off the night before. I spooned honey into hot milk – a taste from my youth – and stepped out barefoot onto the cold rain-drenched grass.

  I thought of Lacey and the way she had talked the night before. She had lost herself in her past, holding each moment as though it were a precious jewel. It helped me look back with different eyes. As I moved across the lawn, I saw in the dark trails I left behind me a snapshot of the last time I saw them. Richard’s arms around Diane as she sobbed and turned away, the devastated look on his face as he watched the car disappear down the road, a broken man trying desperately to console his devastated wife.

  How had I buried these images so effectively? How could I have pushed them to one side until they no longer existed for me? I was slowly spinning, looking at the sky and the way the clouds blurred as I turned. I was trying to work out how I could get in touch with them again when Jane called to me from the door.

  “What the hell are you doing, you mad bitch?”

  I stopped mid turn and took a final sip from my almost empty cup before bowing theatrically. “Reminiscing and dancing like an idiot, is that okay with you?”

  Jane smiled at me. “Of course, do you want a cup of coffee to wash down those memories?”

  In answer I twirled across the garden and handed over my mug, which was received with a faint head shake and a single raised eyebrow. I smiled and realised that I felt lighter than I had for years.

  Over coffee and toast I told Jane about my foster parents. I didn’t go into all of the details, I didn’t share with her the insignificant things that had made the couple a family to me. I talked about how I had felt, about how I had belonged. She sat and listened without interruption, and as I talked I watched the emotions play across her face. I told my tale laced through with contrition, guilt painting my speech a dark tone and I felt her hand slide into mine and squeeze as my words reached into the present and added another route to my map.

  “How come they took you to Birmingham, instead of back to Norfolk?”

  I shook my head a little. “I’m not really sure, nobody bothered explaining anything to us back then. Maybe they were worried that if I was too close to my foster parents then I would try and go back. I was glad of it though. I think it would have seemed worse going back to the home I had left. At least in Birmingham I was a new face and no-one knew my history.”

  “So what are you going to do now?”

  “Try and find them, I guess. Write to the old address and see if I get a response. I’ll look online later and see what I can dig up. It’s strange really, I’ve tried to avoid thinking of them for years but now I’ve started I feel really impatient to find out.”

  Jane squeezed my hand again then stood and brushed at the crumbs on the table, sweeping them into her palm before dropping them into the bin. “Well, I’ve got to head off home anyway, I’ll just go and grab my stuff. I’ve left the commission details on your easel, it’s about time it was used for something!”

  I flicked her retreating backside with a tea towel and listened to her laughter echo down the hall.

  Chapter 33 ~ Rachel

  An hour can easily go by unnoticed. It could pass in the blink of an eye, nothing more than a fragment, a whisper. Yet it was more than enough to create a different future, it was more than enough to take my trepidation and stitch the rags and feathers of other emotions to it. How quickly things could change, how seamlessly I could traverse the chasm from ignorance to knowledge and how strange my world seemed as a result.

  After more than half an hour of lightly skating across the surface, I had come across a website that promised good results. I had put in Richard’s name, wary of searching for Diane’s. I added the village Marham, Norfolk and I clicked Enter. That was all it had taken, little baby steps that stumbled and grabbed at my past pulling it instantly into the present.

  First, Richard’s name appeared, followed by the same address they had lived at all those years ago, the place I had called home. And there, beneath that information were the simple words: other occupants Diane Parks. I looked at the date and saw that the information was from the 2007 electoral register, only two years previous.

  I considered picking up the phone and hesitated, pacing the floor as I thought of a million reasons why it was not the best idea. Perhaps a better plan would be to write a letter. The written word would be less of an immediate shock. I knew that I was being a coward, that writing seemed preferable simply because it was impossible to hang up on a letter. They could take their time to digest the contents, to evaluate their feelings and decide if they would be as dismissive of mine as I had been of theirs.

  When I was sat with pen in hand, I could get no further than my address and the opening line. Beyond that, the page stayed infuriatingly blank and I felt powerless as I tried to discover the way forward.

  Dear Diane and Richard...

  I sighed and got to my feet again, I would make a cup of tea and think some more, I would walk in the garden and seek inspiration, I would go to the shop and buy some biscuits. I would go to the stream and watch the water disappear from sight, taking my indecision with it, I would sit in the churchyard, paint a picture, tidy up, change the bedding, have a bath, plant some seeds, trim the hedges. Suddenly everything seemed more appealing than sitting at my desk and trying to apologise for a lifetime of silence. I didn’t know how to begin and the more I thought about it the harder it became. I knew what I wanted to say, but it would take pages and pages for me to spell the word sorry.

  Dear Diane and Richard, I’m sorry that it has taken me so long to write to you.

  Dear Diane and Richard, surprise! I bet you weren’t expecting this.

  Dear Diane and Richard, I wish I had a magic wand that I could use to turn ba
ck the clock...

  I needed to say them all and none of them. But then another thought occurred to me, what if they never thought about me? What if they had just accepted that I was gone and got on with things, seeing me as nothing more than a brief interlude? I became suspended as much by this wondering as I did by my lack of words to explain the years away. I continued my pacing, my procrastinating, my mental paralysis, each step leading me in circles back to the start until I ground to a halt and pushed bunched fists against my cheeks and screamed through gritted teeth.

  I screwed up yet another piece of paper, added it to the growing pile that drifted like snow against the edge of the bin and took deep breaths until my frustrated heart rate returned to normal. I thought that perhaps I could go into my studio and throw some paint at a canvas, massive swirls of red, orange and black that would be the perfect representation of my aggravation. It made me feel better to take charge of the moment, and I moved towards the room with a spring in my step. I shook the tension from my shoulders and lost the rest of the day in spirals of colour while the writing paper sat pure and white against the varnished surface of the table.

  Chapter 34 ~ Lacey

  How much time passes before her father notices something is amiss? It seems only yesterday that she had been at the memorial. She wonders what has happened in the spaces between then and now. If she concentrates, if she thinks really hard she sees image after image of her hands folding over her growing abdomen while she desperately hopes he won’t see. She hides herself behind doors and tables, coats and scarves, and he turns his eyes from her and fails to see.

  She swallows her nausea and tries to ignore the quizzical looks her mother gives her as she throws herself into her chores, and does what is expected. Perhaps if she carries on as normal, no-one will notice. She could give birth in the fields like the cows do and make her home in a barn somewhere. She could keep her baby safe.