My Second Life

by Faye Bird

  “I have to believe it was an accident,” said Dad. “I have to.”

  “But we don’t know,” said Frances. “We weren’t there. Only Emma can really know what happened. She was the last one to see Catherine alive. And look at her! She feels so guilty. So guilty that she came back. She came to me, she found me. She asked me for help. And I gave it—I am giving it now—just as she asked—so that you can know what I have always known—that she killed her.”

  “That’s your version of the truth, Frances!” said Mum. “It’s what you want to believe. It’s not what happened.”

  “Someone has to be responsible!” shouted Frances.

  “We were all responsible!” Mum answered back, her voice strong.

  “Don’t say that,” said Dad. “Don’t say it!” And he bowed his head down again. He was broken.

  “Richard,” said Mum, trying to pull him up.

  “I know,” he said. “I know what I did. And I lost—so much. I lost it all. I lost them both—Emma and Catherine.”

  “Well, I am not responsible!” said Frances.

  “Yes, you are!” screamed Mum. “You are! You were here, you and Richard. Both of you were here, the whole time, but you weren’t watching the girls. You can’t pretend that that didn’t happen, that it didn’t matter, Frances. It mattered!”

  I turned and leaned in toward Mum, so our faces were close and I could see right into the color of her eyes. “So no one killed Catherine? Is that what you’re saying? It was an accident? No one killed her?”

  Dad leaned across Mum and he reached over to me and took both my hands. They were warm, and his touch, it was still familiar. “It was an accident,” he said. “A terrible accident.”

  “But I told her to go and hide,” I said, and I cried again as I said it. “Because I wanted you all to myself. I didn’t want to share you with anyone. I went back to the house to find you. I left Catherine by the river, hiding—”

  “That doesn’t mean you killed her, Ana,” said Mum.

  “I wish I hadn’t—”

  “What?” said Dad.

  “You pushed her—didn’t you—you pushed her and she fell and you held her down so she stayed under the water,” said Frances. “You held her under until she coughed and cried. You held her under until she died!”

  “No—I don’t remember that,” I cried. “I don’t remember doing that!”

  “I’m right,” said Frances, “I know I’m right! You were always the jealous one. You said it yourself. You wanted your dad all to yourself. You didn’t want him to be with me. So you punished Catherine!”

  “But you weren’t with Catherine when she died!” said Mum, looking at me now. “Emma wasn’t with her when she died! You didn’t kill her. It doesn’t matter what you said or how you felt about Dad. You didn’t kill her!”

  “You are here for a reason—” Frances said.

  “But I don’t remember—” I said.

  “You were with me,” said Mum.

  “You pulled me up from behind the wall—you hurt me—you were cross,” I said to Mum.

  “I was,” Mum said, “but not with you. With Dad, with Frances. I’d gone to look for you and I’d come to the house and there was no answer and I found you, behind the bins. I took you back with me, to the party. I wanted you with me.”

  “But I left Catherine,” I said. “We were playing hide-and-seek. I left her—”

  “That’s the game,” said Mum. “To go and hide!”

  “And you were so cross with me—and I couldn’t tell you what I had seen, when I’d looked through the letter box. I was scared—I didn’t like it—and I’d left Catherine—”

  “I was cross with Dad!” Mum said. “Not with you. I was cross with him for leaving you on your own. I knew where he was, and what he was doing. As soon as I saw you outside, on your own, I knew he had to be with Frances. I wasn’t blind. I’d seen the way they’d looked at each other for years. But I didn’t want you with me when I spoke to Dad. The things I had to say to him—they were not for you to hear. I didn’t think about where Catherine was then. I don’t know why. I was angry, not thinking straight. Maybe that was it. And I regret that … I took you back to the party and went to speak to Dad. I wasn’t cross with you, darling. I was cross with Dad!”

  “I didn’t know that—”

  “No—you wouldn’t have known. You were a child. Remember—a child!”

  “And you left my child out there, in the darkness,” said Frances.

  “No, Frances!” said Mum. “You did that. You and Richard. Not Emma.”

  “When did she die?” I said.

  “The coroner estimated time of death around seven thirty,” said Dad.

  “You were with me at that time,” said Mum. “I took you from behind the bins and we went back to the party. You were with me.”

  “No!” said Frances. “That’s not what happened!”

  “You were with me, Ana,” said Mum, putting her hands around my face and pulling it toward her so I was looking right into the blue of her eyes. “You weren’t anywhere near Catherine when she died. You didn’t kill her. Why would you? You were a good, kind girl.”

  I looked at Dad. His face was crumpled, like someone had trodden all over it.

  “But I saw her,” I said. “In the water—”

  “You should never have seen what you saw,” said Dad.

  “But I did,” I said. “And I see her face now—all the time.”

  “That’s my fault,” said Mum. “I should never have taken you with me to look for her. But when I asked you, you said you could show me where you and Catherine had been playing, and it was so dark; I thought if you could show me, we’d find her quicker.”

  Mum paused and looked at Frances.

  “I knew when I left Emma at the party and I came back to your house that you were with my husband, Frances. I had probably known for some time, but I wasn’t prepared to accept it until that night. When I came back to the house I saw you both, together. You kissed as you stood on the front step. I told you I had Emma, and then I asked you where Catherine was—if I hadn’t, would you have even thought to look for her? Don’t you dare suggest that I left your child out there in the darkness, Frances! Don’t you dare! I went out and I took Emma and we looked for your daughter. We looked for her! And we found her. Me and Emma. And I wish that we’d never found her like we did. For me, and for Emma. Because then, maybe, Emma would have had a better chance at living. Maybe she’d still be alive, now. My darling Emma.”

  I looked up again, at Mum.

  “I didn’t kill her. I didn’t kill Catherine…,” I said. Mum shook her head.

  “I killed myself…,” I said.

  Mum’s face creased up as she closed her eyes in acknowledgment. There was no relief here. I might not have killed Catherine, but to see the look on Mum’s face now was almost more than I could bear.

  “We tried so hard to understand how you felt—depression—your battle with it—it was always there,” Mum said. “Seeing Catherine’s body like you did in the water, it ruined you. You were plagued by it. You felt responsible. And nothing I could do or say could change that.”

  “We failed,” said Dad. “We let you down.” He didn’t look up. He was weeping into his hands. Filling them with tears.

  I hadn’t killed Catherine.

  I’d killed myself.

  The horror of it seeped in.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so, so sorry…”

  “You don’t need to be sorry,” Mum said.

  “But I took my life. I must have”—and I paused—“hurt you … so much…” And as I said it I thought about Rachel, and how she would feel if I’d done this to her, and I couldn’t bear to even think of it, of the pain.

  “There is nothing for you to be sorry for,” Mum said. “We loved you so much. We felt so desperate that we couldn’t help you, that we just never got the chance—” And she broke off.

  “And I,” Frances said, “I ha
ve heard your apology and it means nothing!” She almost spat as she said it.

  And then she screamed.

  It was rasping and loud and desperate.

  “I will never forgive you!” she said. “You crucified us all, Emma. All of us. And now you are here—you are actually here—to face it! Amanda and Richard might say that there is nothing for you to be sorry for, but how can they say that? Really? How can they mean it? You broke their hearts. And you broke mine too when you killed Catherine!”

  She stood and she picked up the knife from the tray in front of her, and in one quick movement she bent down to where I was sitting and she held the knife to my neck.

  I felt the cold point, the sharpness, the pressure as the tip threatened to gently pierce my skin like a needle in a balloon … and I wasn’t sure what was happening and I looked at Dad, for an answer, because I didn’t understand.

  “Frances!” Mum screamed, and she stood up.

  “Frances, for God’s sake! What are you doing? Put the knife down!” Dad said. I could hear panic in his voice.

  “It’s not her fault,” screamed Mum. “It was never her fault!”

  “No one has ever given me an explanation!” screamed Frances. “And then Emma came to me! And she must die for what she did. It is the only way to make this right!”

  Dad took a step toward Frances. But Frances’s hand was still on the knife, and I began to feel pain from the pressure—the clear point and the fine edges of the knife pressing my skin—

  “I’ve lost two daughters!” Dad screamed. “Two! And I can tell you now—this will never make things right! Never! Put it down, Frances! Put the knife down!”

  “It has to be over now!” Mum screamed. “It has to be!” And she held out her hand—for the knife—and when Frances didn’t respond she leaned forward and she took it. In one strong and quick movement she removed the knife from Frances’s hand, from my neck. And I could see that it had taken all the strength she had left inside her to do it.

  She had saved me.

  My mum.

  She had saved me.

  42

  I TWITCHED AS THE knife left my skin, and I thought I might collapse. But I didn’t. I lifted my palm up to my neck, to feel it.

  It was smooth. Uncut. Still, I didn’t want to take my hand away from my neck. I might not have been cut, but I couldn’t get rid of the feeling of sharp metal on my skin. I wanted to rub the feeling off me somehow.

  Frances turned to face me.

  I could feel my pulse in my hand, in my neck. I could hear the beat of it loud in my ears. I counted the seconds to the beat. One, two, three, four … One, two, three, four … One, two, three, four …

  “Ana!” I could hear Mum’s voice, calling me. “Ana—come—with me … Come on,” she whispered.

  “Don’t let them go, Richard!” said Frances. “Stop them! I haven’t finished yet!”

  “No,” said Dad. “No! This is enough!”

  “You can’t leave!” Frances screamed. “None of you can leave!”

  “Ana!” Mum had taken my hand and she was helping me to stand.

  “You don’t understand!” said Frances. “Why don’t any of you understand? I—have—nothing!” she screamed, and as she did her voice cracked like stone breaking bone.

  It hurt me, all of me, to hear it.

  I looked at her, where I stood. Her dry eyes, her sallow skin, her entire face—twisted. I’d seen that look before, many times, but I’d never recognized it until then. It was hate—and it was unmistakable, now that I knew.

  “It—will—never—be—over,” she said, looking Amanda directly in the face. “Whatever you said, whatever you just did, to save her, it will never be over.”

  “You’re wrong, Frances,” said Mum, holding me up. “It’s over now. It’s completely over.” And she turned her back on Frances and looked at me.

  “Ana, if you are the person you say you are—if you are Emma, and you came back—then I’m glad. I’m glad that I can take you by the hand and tell you that I loved you, and tell you that I am sorry. Because had I known what Frances had said that night, if I’d known that she’d told you it was your fault, I would have fought her with my own bare hands until she took the words back. I would have fought her to the death. I would have done that for you—I would have done anything—and at least now you can know that. I can say it, and you can know it.”

  I thought about Rachel, and I knew, if this was me and Rachel, Rachel would have done that too. She would have done that for me too.

  “So I’m glad,” Mum said. “I’m glad that I met you—Ana—Emma—whoever you are. I’m truly glad.”

  I felt so light-headed. My legs were shaking, weak. I didn’t want to pass out but I could feel myself sinking, lower and lower. I just wanted to get to the floor. To feel the solidness of the floor beneath me. To let it hold me.

  I knew I was going to collapse. I could feel myself begin to go.

  I looked at Dad.

  “Amanda!” he said to Mum. “Hold on to Ana! Hold her!”

  Mum was trying to hold me up but I was too heavy in her arms. I could feel that I was. She was struggling to hold me.

  “Can you take her?” Dad said to Mum. “If you can, I’ll deal with Frances.”

  Mum nodded.

  “Find out where she lives—get her home,” he said, and he looked up at me, and I blinked at him. A slow blink. In agreement, in regret, because a slow blink was all I could manage. And I realized, as I began to make my way across the room, toward the door, that when Mum closed the sitting-room door behind us, I was unlikely to ever see him again. And I didn’t have the strength or the courage in that moment to tell him that I loved him.

  * * *

  Mum sat me down on a chair in the hall. I couldn’t take another step. Not just yet. I needed a few moments of rest before I stood again.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to Mum. “I’m so sorry.” And I started to cry.

  “No!” said Mum. “Don’t be sorry. You don’t need to be sorry. You need to be strong now.”

  “I should never have taken my life—I should never have done that to myself—to you—and to Dad…” And as I said it I leaned forward and rested my forehead on her shoulder. I was so tired.

  “Let me look at you,” Mum said, and she turned me to the side and she looked at my neck. “You’re okay,” she said. “You’re okay.”

  “You must hate me,” I said, still crying.

  She shook her head. “No!”

  “I hate me,” I said. “For what I did.”

  “Don’t say that! You were the most wonderful girl.”

  “But these feelings, these feelings that I’ve done the most terrible thing—if I didn’t kill Catherine, then—”

  “You took your life, Ana. You didn’t kill Catherine, but your life—it was not your own after we found her body in the water. And you took the decision that it was not worth living. You tried. You tried so hard to live, to be happy and to live. But ultimately, you couldn’t. Not with what you knew—or at least with what you thought you knew—and with what you’d seen.” She paused. “I so wanted to help you, but I couldn’t…” And she broke down and cried.

  I took her hand.

  “Frances has so much to answer for,” Mum said, through her tears. “If only I’d known what she’d said to you…” And she bit her lip, hard.

  I squeezed her hand. I was surprised at my strength.

  “I want you to have this,” she said, and she pulled out a letter from her jacket pocket and pressed it into the palm of my hand.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the thing I wanted you to have. The thing I mentioned on the phone. I kept it. I don’t know why. Maybe it was always meant for you. I don’t know. Anyway, you should have it. I want you to have it.”

  “But why?”

  “Because she never did. It never got to her. Not in time. I was too late.”

  I nodded.

  “You should go,” she said
. “Go home.” And as she went to the front door to open it for me, Dad came into the hall.

  We both turned and stood, in silence, and looked at him.

  “She’s still angry. She’s raging. You should go, Ana.”

  “Dad?” I said, my voice a whisper.

  He looked at me.

  “I love you.”

  “So go now,” he said. “Just go. There is no reason for you to come back here again. You know the truth now.” And he took my hand and he squeezed it tight—and in that squeeze I felt the strength of his love. I knew it was all he could give me, but it was everything to me that he’d done it—it was more than enough. I squeezed his hand back as tightly as I could, and then he turned and left to go back to Frances in the sitting room.

  “He’s right,” Mum said. “You must go.”

  “But, Mum?” I said, and I sobbed. “I want you, Mum—I don’t want to leave you—I can’t lose you—I’ve missed you—so much…”

  “And you found me,” she said. “You found me. And now, you must go.”

  “But I don’t want to—”

  “You must,” she said. “For me. You must go now, for me.”

  And she smiled at me. A tired smile, and I remembered her smile, and how much I liked it, and how good it made me feel.

  “Ana?” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “This is goodbye, darling.”

  I looked at her.

  “Goodbye,” she said.

  “Goodbye,” I said.

  And I turned.

  And I left.

  And at last …

  we had said goodbye.

  43

  I WALKED OUT ONTO the Green, and sat behind the oak, and I reached into my bag for my phone and dialed home.

  “Hello?” Rachel answered immediately.

  “Rachel—it’s me.” I was crying.

  “Ana! Where are you? Where have you been? They said you weren’t at school—I’ve been calling you—”

  “Can you come and get me?” I said.

  “Yes! Yes—are you okay?”

  I couldn’t speak, for the tears.

  “Ana! Just tell me, are you okay?”