What Doesn't Kill You

by Laura E. James

  ‘Griff’s colour drained at the mention of my dad,’ Imogen said. ‘The last time we spoke about him, I had a meltdown. I was just reassuring Griff it won’t happen again.’

  ‘That’s a word our Tess uses. Meltdown. Everybody seems to have them these days.’ There was an air of triumph to Logan’s statement. ‘Not bad for someone of my age to be down with the kids. So, why the drama surrounding your father? Is he dead?’

  The house wasn’t warm enough to make a penguin sweat, yet the heat from Imogen’s palm was seeping through Griff’s jeans.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Imogen said. ‘He left some time ago. He and Mum divorced.’

  The coolness of her reply belied the story of anxiety her hand was telling. Griff’s knee was uncomfortably hot.

  Imogen continued. ‘Seeing you smile, hearing you talk – it puts me within touching distance of my dad.’ She removed her hand and gathered her hair into a ponytail. ‘Sounds silly now I’ve said it out loud.’

  ‘It’s not silly.’ Logan, his expression now one of contemplation, was studying Griff’s face. ‘It’s how I feel about Marilyn when I see my son.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tess

  I’m worried that I’ve told Mum too much. She’s in a state of shock, dead still and silent, and not seeing any further than the back of her eyes. I bet she’s going through all the visuals she’s stored there. I know I do. It’s like a slide show sometimes.

  I wish I could climb inside her head and see things from her perspective, then I’d know. Then I’d be able to help.

  I wish I could hold her hand and remind her we’re in this together, but I can’t risk her seeing my scars. One revelation is plenty to keep us in emotional turmoil for the foreseeable future, and I need to have this conversation about Dad. Here it goes.

  ‘Why did it happen? Why did he do it? Was he unhinged? Drunk? Did he tell you it was because he loved you?’

  Mum stirs, raising her head and levelling her troubled eyes on mine. ‘Why’d you say that? Did he say those things to you?’

  Despite the fear in her voice, I can’t help but snort. ‘He hated me,’ I say. ‘I learned that early on.’

  Her head drops again, like she’s lost her backbone. It looks like she’s praying. Maybe she is. Maybe she’s asking for forgiveness, or the will to vocalise her past. I stoop to check, but her eyes are open and her lips are sealed. ‘And that’s the problem,’ I say. ‘You don’t talk.’

  Her chest fills with air. ‘It was a horrible time in our lives, Tess. Why do you want to relive it?’

  She’s addressing the table. It seems I have to shock her into looking at me. ‘I relive it every day.’

  That does the trick. I have her full attention.

  ‘What do you see?’

  She’s surprised me with that question. I expected her to shut me down – to dam and divert the flow, not swish it along. Good. I’m glad. I have lots to say.

  ‘I see him slapping you. Leering at you. Sometimes I hear the door squeak, even though you oil every hinge in the house.’

  She brings her hands to her mouth as if preventing herself from responding.

  ‘Sometimes I see him in the bathroom, and I can smell his aftershave.’ I can’t stop my lip trembling in disgust.

  ‘But he’s never been here.’ Mum talks through her fingers. ‘And Griff wears a different cologne.’

  Cologne Mum buys Griff every Christmas to make sure.

  ‘I know, but being in the bathroom is enough.’ I pause to blow my nose, hoping to shift the stench lodged there. ‘You’re there too. Being sick.’ We both know what my dad was doing to her, so I don’t need to be explicit. ‘Nothing stopped him, did it?’

  She gags and I rush to retrieve a plastic bowl from under the sink. I put it in front of her, then fetch her a glass of water.

  Satisfied Mum’s not about to vomit, I continue. ‘There are times when I wake in the middle of the night and I think I hear you crying, saying no, over and over again. It’s so real, I call out for you and when I get no reply, I come into your room. You’re fast asleep. In Griff’s arms. In reality, it’s only since he left you’ve actually cried out. All those other times were … echoes.’ It’s a good word. It captures how it sounds in my head.

  ‘Echoes.’

  Mum repeats my word. I think it resonates with her.

  ‘What else?’ she says.

  I flick to the next scene in my head. ‘You and him in the car, parked outside our house. There’s snow, and a dog’s howling from somewhere down the street.’

  The fingers from her left hand drift towards her throat. ‘You saw that?’

  ‘I’m seeing it now.’ It was our old Astra. Blue, with alloy wheels. A sport version. Showy. ‘The babysitter thought I’d gone to bed, but I was looking out of your bedroom window. I was worried he wouldn’t bring you home.’

  Mum collapses into the table, and supports her head with her hands. ‘Oh, Tess.’

  Either she couldn’t bring herself to say any more, or the horror of the moment had stolen her voice. It had taken what was left of her colour.

  ‘I was ten, nearly eleven. I thought he was going to kill you.’

  They’d pulled up under the street lamp a few feet away from our house. I could see them through the windscreen. As soon as the engine was off, Dad crashed his hands down onto the steering wheel. He was ranting; shouting at Mum. She was shaking her head and holding her hands up to her face, much like she was now. I watched from the first floor, using experience to predict Dad’s next move. Get out of the car, I said. Get out of the car, before he grabs your hair. But Mum just sat there. I remember thinking she must have been frozen with fear. I’d been like that when my maths teacher yelled at me. I’d had to sit there and take it, because I was too scared to move.

  Dad rammed his seat back, snatched at Mum’s hair and gave it a vicious tug. Her mouth jammed open at the violent jerk. He was still yelling as he crushed her throat with his free hand. This is it, I whispered. He’s going to strangle her. How could I stop him? What could I do? I was just a child. And I was glued to the spot. I was seized by fear, and incapable of moving. Even my scream came to no more than a pathetic whimper. I was in a living nightmare.

  At the moment Mum’s head started to loll, Dad released her neck and pushed her face into his lap. Her head bounced as her cheek banged against the steering wheel.

  Then all was still, except Dad’s chest, which was heaving. I couldn’t see Mum, just a hunched, dark shadow. Was she dead? Was Dad crying? Was that what he was doing?

  And then the black shadow moved, pulled up by the hair, and shoved down by my dad’s hands. Up, down. Up, down. Up. Down.

  Up.

  With her head in view, suspended by her hair, Dad closed his eyes, threw himself against the padded rest, and opened his mouth. He let Mum’s head fall.

  As soon as she was free, she clambered out of the car, ran to the house, and let herself in.

  I ran to my bedroom and hid under my covers.

  Shadows and echoes haunt me.

  They’re haunting now, as Mum uses her cardigan sleeve to wipe away her tears.

  ‘Did you … Did you realise what was going on?’ She stiffens and sits up.

  ‘I knew you were scared. I could see he had his hand around your throat.’

  ‘But did you—’ She puts her palms up in the stop position and edits herself.

  It doesn’t matter. I’ve already worked out she’s asking if I realised he was forcing her to go down on him. ‘I had no idea what oral sex was, Mum. Not then. But I could see how frightened you were. I knew he had a furious temper, and I knew he used threats and violence to control people. He made you do things you didn’t want to do. He was a bully. He was evil.’

  I’d thought that about him for years, but it was the first time I’d put it out there. I’m waiting for a reaction, either from Mum or from some greater power. I’m half expecting the ground to break open, a fiery hand to reach out, grab at
my leg, and pull me into the burning bowels. Not that I believe in Lucifer. Although I do wonder if a person’s energy survives long after their body’s rotted. I’m prepared to accept that ghosts exist in that form.

  I remember that Mum hasn’t answered my question. ‘Is that why he did those things? Was it because he was pure evil?’

  She swallows, then takes a sip of her water. ‘He wasn’t always like that.’

  That answer implies more than I believe she wanted it to. I don’t think she’s making excuses for him, and she’s not questioning my use of evil, so something must have happened to awaken his latent nature. ‘What changed?’

  Mum takes a breath, as if to answer, and then nothing.

  ‘Don’t you ever feel him?’ I say. ‘Sense him?’ I need to know. ‘I’ve carried this stuff in my head for years, because you and I … we … made a pact to keep the secret and bury it somewhere inaccessible. But that’s never happened. Every time a shadow appears on the wall, every time I hear you cry, every time a man looks at me, I’m back to being that child.’ Back to feeling useless and helpless and unworthy of anyone’s attention. ‘He’s in me – in my head, under my skin, in my blood, and I need to try and talk him out, because the alternative will—’ It’s my turn to leave a sentence hanging. My blade had become Damocles’s sword.

  ‘What’s the alternative, Tess?’ Mum’s eyes are wide with suspicion and fright. ‘What’s the alternative?’

  She’s jumped off her chair, pulled me to her and has her hands on my face. I’m careful to put my arms around her, out of sight, out of harm’s way, and I’m forced to backtrack. ‘I don’t know. I was being dramatic. I just want us to talk about what happened. And I want to learn about the good stuff, too. It’s a relief to hear he wasn’t always evil.’ I worry I’ve pushed Mum too far, and I check her eyes. They’re full of swell, but the water only magnifies the understanding behind. I push a little further. ‘If you can bear to go there, I’ll be by your side. And we can get all of this shit out of our heads and give it up to the skies.’

  She’s kissing my forehead, and her tears transfer to my cheeks. They blend easily with mine. ‘You’ve been mixing with Olivia DeVere,’ she says, between breaths.

  It’s a sunshine moment meant to alleviate the gloom.

  ‘She gives it up to the sea, Mum,’ I say, appreciating the break in the clouds. ‘Reckon she’s got life sussed.’

  ‘Reckon so. Not like us.’

  ‘We’ll get there, Mum. I promise.’ I mean it. ‘But I think we need Griff’s help.’

  Her sudden breath whistles past my ear.

  ‘You mean tell him?’

  ‘He deserves to know.’

  She releases her hold and approaches the patio door at the rear of the kitchen. Her back is to me.

  ‘Is that why you think he’s left?’

  I can’t prevent myself from shrugging even though Mum can’t see me. ‘I think it could be a reason. Secrets have a way of announcing their presence.’ You should see my arms, I want to say. ‘He’s a good man, you’ve said so yourself, and I’ve heard how much he makes you laugh, how much he cares for you. You’ve never shied away from him, or flinched if he’s made a sudden move, and I’ve never heard him shout, or have a go, not in an angry way.’ I take a moment to let my words settle. Mum continues to stare at the garden. ‘I’m sorry I’ve given him such a hard time. It was my stupid attempt to protect you.’

  ‘Misguided. Not stupid.’

  She’s wheeled round and is marching towards me.

  ‘You are not and you never will be stupid.’ She nets my hands before I’m able to retract them into my cuffs. I make sure we maintain eye contact. ‘You are a bright, intelligent, loving daughter who’s seen too much horror in her life, yet in spite of it you’ve grown into an amazing, wise, incredible young woman.’ She encloses my fingers in hers, and I can feel her shaking. ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘We’ll talk. First I think I should tell you why Griff left.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Griff

  The energy and joy Ozzy and Honey exuded at being set free to splash in the river was contagious. Other walkers commented at the fun the Old English Sheepdog and the Labrador were having chasing each other into the icy water. Griff nodded and issued polite and civil responses, but he wasn’t feeling it himself. He was grateful for Imogen’s suggestion that he give the dogs a run, as it gave him the chance to think: he was preoccupied with Logan’s admission that seeing him brought Logan closer to Marilyn.

  When Imogen had said the same thing about Logan and her father it had sent a shiver down Griff’s neck. He’d rubbed his skin, half expecting to find a hair or feather there. When Logan stated his case, another shiver travelled from Griff’s skull to his back, but this was more like a spider weaving its thread.

  A sticky web of guilt and a telling off from Logan followed.

  ‘Good grief, man. Have you never considered the possibility?’ As Logan pressed the rocker switch on the chair controller, he indicated for Imogen to help him stand. ‘Did you not think I miss you?’

  ‘Because I look like Mum?’

  ‘No. I miss you.’ Logan’s speech was laboured as his efforts went into leaning forward from the tilted chair. Imogen assisted, placing a hand under his elbow, and the other under his forearm. ‘I miss my son.’

  Sentimentality wasn’t Logan’s forte, so to have two confessions on the table within the space of a few seconds put Griff on guard.

  ‘Is everything okay, Dad?’

  The soft hum of the chair being returned to its sitting position was the only reply tendered.

  ‘Would you help me into the kitchen, Imy?’ Logan shuffled to his left, with Imogen still supporting him under his arm. His slippers scuffed at the carpet fibres. ‘I’d like to take a look at the garden. Evie does most of it. She was born with green fingers.’

  At the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, the pair came to a halt, and a breathless Logan spoke.

  ‘I don’t know why it surprises you, Griff. A father missing his son. You miss Dylan, don’t you?’

  Imogen peered over her shoulder and raised her brow. ‘He knows,’ she mouthed.

  Mirroring Imogen’s expression, Griff inclined his head. ‘Yep,’ he said, softly. ‘So Evie’s told you?’ He watched as Logan and Imogen continued their course. They vanished from view.

  Griff remained seated.

  ‘I’m not talking about Evie, except to Imy about the garden. Your marriage and how you go about it is your business.’ Logan’s disembodied message was received. ‘You miss your son. I miss mine. The fact you remind me of your mother is a bonus and a blessing, because her beautiful face is no longer here for me to gaze upon.’

  Griff sat in quiet contemplation for some time before Logan, with Imogen leading the way, returned to the room.

  ‘Garden’s ready for April,’ Logan said as he was settled into his chair. ‘Evie’s a natural. How’s yours looking? Have you re-stained that decking?’

  ‘The decking?’ Griff was used to quick thinking – it was an essential skill in his line of work – but Logan’s swift change of subject left Griff streets behind. ‘No. I haven’t stained the decking. I’m not even living at the cottage at the moment.’

  ‘Like I said, that’s not my business.’

  Griff lurched forward. ‘Yeah. I get your point, Dad. A marriage is between a husband and wife. And I have no right to an opinion about Mum choosing to die.’ He froze at Imogen’s frosty glare. It was enough to take the heat out of the moment. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s an emotive subject.’ And an aspect of Marilyn’s passing he’d refrained from telling Imogen. ‘I’ll explain later.’ She was owed that. ‘I believe in fighting for life.’

  ‘No matter how awful it is?’ Logan rested his head on the high back of the chair, and closed his eyes. ‘You’re young, Griff. Fit. You’ve children to take care of. Death seems a long way off.’ His eyes eased open, and he stared at the blank TV. ‘I pray you’re neve
r put in my position. You’d make the wrong choices. Selfish choices, ultimately, because your view on life is skewed. Not everyone wants saving.’

  This, again? ‘How many more times do I have to say it? Everyone is worth saving.’ Griff was on his feet. He’d come here to build bridges, not blow up the remaining foundations. ‘Didn’t you think Mum was worth saving?’ He held his breath.

  ‘Of course I did. But it wasn’t about me.’ Logan locked eyes with Griff. ‘It was about what your mother wanted. I loved her. I let her go. Now you must do the same. With your mum and with Kieran.’

  The mention of Kieran’s name knocked Griff off-kilter at the same time as sending Imogen to the front window. He checked on her, and as soon as she signalled she was okay, he turned to Logan. ‘What’s Kieran got to do with this?’

  ‘You can save a thousand lives,’ Logan said, ‘and a thousand more trying to find peace, but you will never bring Kieran back. Nor your mum. And that is what you have to deal with. That, and the fact there are far worse things in life than death.’

  A young, dog-free couple walking hand-in-hand glanced at Griff. He held their stare for a moment, thinking how much life they had extending before them – love, optimism, youth – all things in their favour, and he wished them luck. Genuine, heartfelt luck.

  He called Ozzy and Honey to heel and set off towards the road. It wasn’t fair leaving Imogen with his father for too long, even if exercising the dogs was her idea. Even if she and Logan had hit it off.

  She’d certainly made an impression on Logan, and Griff suspected it was mutual. There was a sincere and instant warmth between them, and Imogen was a salve to Logan’s coarse manner. She soothed him, and eased his anxieties.

  The dogs were still excitable as Griff reached the Land Rover. They were on their leads, straining, and testing Griff to his limits.

  ‘Settle down,’ he said, stopping yards from the vehicle. ‘I can’t have you bouncing around in the back of my car. Ozzy!’

  The Old English Sheepdog barked at the call of his name. He jumped up, his lionesque paws thumping Griff’s chest, his cold nose snuffling and snorting, and his warm tongue licking his master’s cheek.