Liminal

by Bee Lewis

  Unable to bear the silence any longer, she asked, ‘Did you get it fixed?’

  He was staring at a fixed point in the distance and didn’t answer. She tried again.

  ‘The car. Did you manage to fix the car?’

  Her question seemed to snap him back into the room.

  ‘No. I think I might have to get it towed. I’m worried I bent the axle when I ran off the road.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Nothing seems to be going right since we got here. I’m sorry I brought you to this place.’

  ‘You ran off the road? I thought it was just a puncture.’ She wanted to sit beside him, to hold his hand and touch his cheek. He looked so worried. But he’d betrayed her again and until she had chance to read the letters, to know why, she couldn’t risk letting him ensnare her.

  ‘It was a blow-out. Unfamiliar road, poor visibility with the bloody fog. I was stupid to even try. It’s no wonder I ended up in a ditch.’

  He looked away and it hit her. He could have been killed. No wonder they’d rowed when he got back, he’d been in shock. Had it been preying on his mind since?

  ‘Dan, I . . .’

  He shook his head. ‘No need, Esther. No need to say anything. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry. And look at me, I’m fine.’

  But he wasn’t fine, the shadows under his eyes told their own story. She relented and sat next to him on the bed, putting her arms around him. Every cell in her body screamed out against her duplicity, but she had to pretend everything was normal; behave how he’d expect her to. Unconsciously, she grimaced and he caught her expression in the mirror.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing. Why?’

  ‘You pulled a face. What aren’t you telling me?’

  She drew away from him, covering her discomfort with a small laugh. ‘Just aches and pains. I slept funny and my neck is a bit stiff.’

  The ease with which she lied surprised her. Is this how it had started for him? With small lies?

  ‘Ah, right. The heat from the shower didn’t help, then?’

  Puzzled, she opened her mouth to reply, then remembered she was supposed to have had a shower. Hastily, she changed her answer. ‘Yeah, a bit. It’s just a twinge every now and again.’

  He knows I’m holding something back, I’m sure of it.

  His eyes scanned her face. Esther, unused to such scrutiny, was almost ready to give in – to ask him about the letters – when the cat jumped onto the bed between them and started to wash his face with his paw.

  ‘Did you manage to find a church?’ She kept her voice as bright as her smile, showing just enough interest to throw him off the scent.

  ‘No. It doesn’t feel right not going to a service on Good Friday. It’s not the start here that I had planned.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that, Dan. Maybe I should come with you. Perhaps it’s time I embraced your faith. What do you think?’

  ‘You should do whatever your conscience tells you.’

  Even though his response was without encouragement, he allowed himself a small smile in response and she knew she was winning him back round.

  ‘What are your plans for the day?’ She wanted to gauge his movements, assess what opportunities there were to read the letters.

  ‘Mikey’s coming over. We’re going to knock down that lean-to over the other side.’

  A curl of excitement unfurled in her stomach. Mike’s presence would give her the perfect excuse to read the letters while they busied themselves with the renovations.

  ‘No sign of the fog lifting?’ Before she’d asked the question, she knew the answer.

  He shook his head. ‘Maybe the weather will break for the weekend.’

  What had Mike said about glen fog? Did that mean that it was clear higher up on the mountain? A thought began to coalesce in her mind.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Maybe.’

  Esther busied herself with small tasks. They served two purposes: to take her mind off the shoe box, and to give her an excuse to follow Dan from room to room. He was unhappy that she wasn’t resting, but she told him she felt much better and wanted to spend time being close to him. He’d smiled then and patted her hand. Finally, she heard the latch lift on the front door as Mike shouted through to them.

  ‘In the sitting room,’ Dan shouted back.

  Mike stood in the doorway, and again Esther was reminded of someone else, but she couldn’t place who or where.

  ‘Hey! You’re up and about.’ He looked pleased to see her. ‘I’m sorry I wore you out. Dan’s chewed my ear off about it.’

  ‘Well, I wish he hadn’t. I’m perfectly fine, just needed to catch up on some sleep.’ Esther glared at Dan, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he had noticed and didn’t care.

  Mike half-shrugged. ‘I still feel bad about it.’

  ‘Take no notice, she’s been cranky all day.’

  Esther stared at Dan, surprised that he’d criticise her so openly. Mike shuffled from foot to foot in the doorway.

  A plan began to form in her mind and she willed the two men to leave her alone so that she could put it into action.

  Esther grabbed a role of parcel tape from Dan’s desk, then went upstairs and retrieved the shoe box from the laundry bin, taking it into the bedroom. She pulled the box of memorabilia out from under the bed and selected a few items: certificates, school reports, a couple of cards she’d received on Valentine’s Day. Turning her attention to the shoe box, she lifted the lid and took out the contents, replacing them with some of the things she’d taken from the memory box. Finally, she carefully sealed the bright blue box with the parcel tape, taking care to match the original tape lines. It wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny, but it wouldn’t be immediately obvious that the shoe box had been tampered with either. She slid it under the bed; she’d have to find a way of putting it back in the store-room cupboard the next time Dan disappeared. If there was one thing she had observed over the last few days, it was that he would disappear again. The memory box was at her side, so if Dan suddenly came into the room, it would look like she was still sorting through it. She felt a stab of satisfaction at how resourceful she’d become.

  Taking a deep breath, she picked up the letters. The ones with the prison postmarks were very old. Should she read those first? Or start with the newer one? She stared at them for a few moments, knowing that whichever order she chose, her life was about to change in some way. Not knowing how much time she had before she was disturbed, she summoned up the courage to open one.

  She lifted the flap of the envelope carefully, like it was a plaster she was afraid of ripping off her skin. The letter was handwritten, on paper thin enough to see through; the type of paper Anthea used for sending airmail letters to her sister in America. The words swam into view, formed by solid strokes on the page, slanting to the left. Looking backwards. There was no date on the letter, so she checked the postmark again: 10th October 1991. He’d been in jail over a year by that point.

  Four years he was sent to prison for. Custodial sentences for drink driving were only handed out when someone had died. She’d overheard snatches of conversation between her teachers who had unwittingly provided her with details her mother had tried to hide. She’d never forget the judgement, the pity, the embarrassed smiles. Memories bubbled to the surface now she’d removed the cap that had kept them sealed for so long.

  “Terrible tragedy.”

  “Is it a tragedy, though? The man was drunk. It could have been prevented.”

  “A mother and baby – wiped out in the blink of an eye. What that other child must be going through doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  “He’ll have seen it all happen too. Poor lamb, no mother to look after him now. There’s the tragedy.”

  “I heard the mother’s sister was taking him in.”

 
“And little Essie, a cripple. He should be locked up for life. Four years is nothing.”

  Anthea had hidden the newspapers from Esther, though she needn’t have bothered. The children at school were all too happy to tell her what her father had done. A young mother, taking her children to the park. A baby in a buggy and an older child – a boy? She couldn’t remember the details. The older child survived. The mother and baby had paid with their lives. Esther often thought about them, about what had happened. All those lives changed in an instant. She knew she was lucky to be alive, but in the months following her accident, through the pain of recovery, there were times she’d wished she had died too. Thinking of it all now gave her goose bumps. How terrible for a child to wish to die.

  Steeling herself, she forced the words into some semblance of order on the page. Reading aloud made them stop dancing.

  “Dear Essie, I wish you’d write. Your mum says you are back at school and that you are doing really well.”

  Wiping tears from her eyes, she put the letter down, the first stirrings of anger eddying inside her. She hadn’t been doing well, she’d hated school after the accident. All her friends had drifted away now that she couldn’t play the same games as them. She lost herself in books, spending break-time in the Reading Corner, with the companions that would never let her down: What Katy Did, Heidi, The Secret Garden. Her childhood heroes, Katy, Clara, Colin, had the same thing in common: they’d all had to learn to walk again. The realisation was brutal. She resumed reading.

  “I don’t really have any news to tell you. Every day is the same here. The cells are unlocked at about 7.30, but we eat breakfast there. It’s usually cereal and juice which they give us the night before. Then we have some time to exercise, shower and clean our cells. It’s not so bad, you get used to the routine. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the smell of my cellmate’s feet though.”

  Despite herself, Esther laughed. She pictured her father tilting his head towards her, his features sharp and angular, as though he was imparting an important confidence that may or may not have been rooted in truth.

  “Afternoons are often spent working, or in the library. I work in the laundry and it’s good to have something to do. It keeps me fit. Please come and visit me. All my love, Dad x”

  She felt hollow, like someone had spooned out her insides. Whatever it was she expected from the letters, it wasn’t that. Anthea had been right to keep them from her, to protect her, and now Dan was doing the same. Did she want to read on? Did she need to? It was so hard to process her feelings; they came at her from all directions. Sadness, anger, love, shame, guilt. There was a part of her that understood the loneliness and isolation he felt. After just a few days at Rosgill, with limited contact to the outside world, thoughts of escape occupied her. She wondered if it ever crossed Patrick’s mind to escape, or whether he’d decided to knuckle down and accept his fate.

  She picked up the next envelope and ripped it open. There was only one way to be sure, to rid him from her life forever, and that was to know everything he had to say. The envelope contained a birthday card with a big 10 on the front and a picture of a princess in a pink dress.

  More letters followed the same form as the first, telling her about his time in prison, begging her to visit. None of the letters told her anything new. She sighed, a long and deep letting-go of her expectations. There were two letters left, both addressed to the Bristol apartment. How had he known where she lived? And why hadn’t he come to see her? She couldn’t figure out how Dan and Anthea had colluded to keep this from her. And Sophie, what was her part in all this? Esther was certain Sophie had guided her to the shoe box, and she’d read the text messages between Sophie and Dan. Sophie must have known, must have been urging Dan to tell her. The text messages between Dan and Sophie started to make sense.

  The writing on the last two envelopes didn’t match. One was from Patrick and the other was from Anthea. She opened Patrick’s letter first.

  “Darling Essie,

  I know it’s been a long time since you heard from me and that you’ve grown up now, with a life of your own. When I didn’t hear from you, I stopped writing. Your mother tells me that she never passed my letters on, that she thought it best to cut all ties. I don’t agree with her, but I had to respect her decision. So much time has passed and I wanted to have one last chance to set the record straight with you. I never apologised for my actions, but I want you to know that every single day, the thought that I hurt you has nearly killed me. I hurt you, Essie. Me. I should never have let you into the car that day. I should never even have been driving. When you’ve been drinking for as long as I had been, all reason goes out of the window.

  Addicts are manipulative, weak, spineless. I am all those things and it’s taken years of therapy to admit it. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since the day of the accident. I’ve been tempted, sorely tempted, on many occasions. The night times are the worst, the loneliness, the enormity of what I’ve done hits home. I’ve altered your life forever. My own daughter. And I’ve killed a woman and her child. That weighs heavily on a man’s mind.

  I don’t want you to forgive me, it’s too much to ask of anyone. Your mother has been the one steady force in your life and that’s why writing this is so hard. I must do it though, Essie. It’s part of the programme, to accept what I’ve done, and why, and to try to make amends.

  I drank to hide my shame. In those days, people didn’t talk about domestic violence, not in the way they do today. The first time she hit me, I was mortified.”

  What? Esther re-read the line again. That couldn’t be right. What did he mean? She continued reading, confused.

  “We’d been arguing over something, then she lost her temper and pushed me against the wall.”

  A doubt crept in, sitting in the corner of her mind. Had she seen her father hit her mother? She thought back through all the worst memories. Her mouth dried. She couldn’t remember one instance where she’d seen her father raise his hand to anyone, let alone her mother. But she’d heard them fighting and seen her mother crying.

  “That was the start of it, but it progressed. Slaps across the face, blows to my chest and body. She’d throw plates at me, chairs, anything that came to hand. I was raised not to hit women, but I didn’t know how to deal with it. It wasn’t something I could talk about with my mates, they’d think I was a poof. Essie, I’m not telling you this to make you hate your mother. She’s a good woman, we were just bad together. I’m telling you this because I want you to know why I started drinking. I had to find a way out of the misery. I should have just left, I know that now, but when you are in that situation, when everything is crumbling around you, you just don’t see things the way you should.”

  Tears streamed down her face. She’d heard so many similar stories working at Helen House. It had never, ever occurred to her that her own circumstances were not what she believed. Yet, his words had a ring of truth. Anthea did have a temper on her. She thought about her jewellery box, the original one that had been smashed. It was Anthea who had smashed it, swiping it off the windowsill after Esther had refused to tidy her room.

  Reality bit. All this time she hadn’t been able to see what was now plain. What else had she got wrong? She almost didn’t want to finish the letter, to face the truths coming at her from all sides.

  “It was my fault, Essie. My failing. I was too weak to leave her, and I was frightened for you. The day of the accident had been particularly bad. I’d started drinking in the mornings, to give me courage to face the day. Now, I know it just made things worse. She came at me with a knife and I knew I had to get out of there. Taking you with me was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but in my head, I was saving you from her. You know the rest.

  So, there it is, my darling girl. All I ask is that you read what I’ve said and make your own mind up. If you never want to see me again, I understand. I’ve lost you already th
rough my own stupidity. I won’t contact you again, but my phone number is at the top of the page if you do decide you want to talk. No matter what you decide, I will always love you.”

  She read the letter over again. Her first instinct was to reach for her phone, to call the number. To tell him that she had read his letter and wanted to meet him. No bloody signal. She thought through her options; she had two choices: either to wait a couple of days until the landline was connected, or to ask Mike if she could use his phone. That would be trickier and she’d have to explain to Dan what was so important. As she lay there wondering what to do, she remembered the final envelope with her mother’s handwriting on. Frowning, she turned it over and saw that it had been opened, and the point of the flap had been stuck down with Sellotape. She ripped the envelope open and pulled out a newspaper clipping:

  ROSE Patrick Anthony. Passed away after a short illness at Southmead Hospital on 18th August 2013, aged 61 years. Funeral service to be held at South Bristol Crematorium, 09:30 a.m. on Tuesday 1st September. No flowers please but anonymous donations to Helen House Women’s Refuge welcome. For details contact . . .

  The pain winded her. She folded into herself, numb with shock. Her father was dead. Patrick was dead. And Dan had known all along.

  She didn’t know how long she’d lain there for, curled up on the bed like a wounded animal, clutching the letters in her hand, but daylight was fading. All hope of a happy ending had been cruelly snatched away from her. She’d imagined a reunion, sunny days spent visiting him, birthdays and Christmases to catch up on. There was so much to take in. She had been ready to face the fact that he might not want her see her. She was strong enough to deal with the possibility of rejection, or that even if he did want contact, that it might fizzle into nothing. After all, they were very different people. She hadn’t expected to find him, then to lose him again just as suddenly. It was such a waste.