by Amy Daws
Pink flowers are literally cascading down all around us. I grow ill as I take in the stark contrast of the surrounding beauty and the horror within me.
“So…where do you have to start?” Vi asks, breaking the silence, her eyes wide with interest.
“Day five,” I croak, shrugging. “Or at least, that’s what Doc said.” I lean forward and rest my elbows on my legs, looking straight ahead as nerves shutter beneath my rib cage.
“What happened on day five?” she asks, her voice soft and probing. “Hayden, stop looking so terrified. I told you I am curious, remember? This is your challenge. I’m your helper. Don’t worry about me. I get what I’m in for. Out with it.”
I tsk my teeth and begin, “Day five was the first time in my life that I had ever considered methods.” Getting it all out in one sentence is an immense relief. I had spoken of many of my days leading up to my attempt in rehab during group therapy. But here, out in a dog park in London, is an entirely different situation.
I turn my neck to watch her reaction.
“Methods?” she asks confused. Then her eyes alight with realisation. “Oh.”
I clench my jaw and nod, looking away. Watching the dogs as I speak my entire truth seems a great deal easier than staring at her innocent face. “I actually Googled the best ways to kill myself. I’d never done anything like that before…Never even considered it. Not properly. But on day five, I had reached my breaking point in my personal life and researching methods felt like the ultimate fuck you to the universe.”
“What caused you to reach your breaking point?” she asks quietly.
Frowning, I recall the intense night I had with Reyna in her flat. The one that resulted in me getting socked in the face by Liam. I close my eyes and reply, “Things were changing all around me. My best mate at the time was Rey and she was changing…pulling away from me. I took it badly. That on top of everything else I had been dealing with was just suffocating me.
“So I started Googling options. A great deal different than Googling a nice holiday, let me tell you. Once you get past all the self-help numbers that pop up like mad, I discovered that a gun seems the quickest and most popular method. But I didn’t have one of those. Carbon monoxide poisoning from running a car inside a closed garage could have been an option, but I didn’t have a car either. Pills and booze could work. But I had seriously abused pills and booze in my past, so obtaining a prescription for me was and still is damn near impossible since my medical chart is flagged. And I’m not too keen on drug dealers.” I laugh self-deprecatingly and shake my head. “I had lots of access to sharp, circular saw blades, though…So—”
“You slit your wrists,” she finishes.
I nod woodenly, unsnapping and re-snapping one of my leather cuffs that conceals a horrid scar beneath. My throat constricts with anxiety. “I think I wanted to feel the pain. To watch the end. I wanted to choose the exact time it occurred. I couldn’t stomach the idea of hanging myself. But I considered it.”
I look over to Vi to gauge her reaction and her face is frozen in a serious, sombre expression. “You okay?” I ask, touching my finger to her cheek. Her eyes close at my caress and the warmth of her skin reminds me that I’m not alone. That’s she’s right here…heart beating, breathing, listening, absorbing, and enduring beside me.
She nods, her chin trembling, “It’s sad.”
No two words could better define such raw truth.
I nod in confirmation. “It is sad.” I look away again and my eyes zero in on an elderly woman sitting on a bus bench. Her tiny hands are peeling away at an orange and something about the simplicity of that act—the beauty of her eating a piece of fresh fruit that this world offered—gives me the strength to continue. “I felt relief once I decided how to do it. It felt like I had a plan. I could see the end of the tunnel that seemed so utterly painful and horrid. I hated my life. I hated everything happening around me. I had no control in any aspect. I was fucking up at work. I was fucking up with my mates. With my family. Every turn was just another opportunity for me to fuck up. So day five was the first day that I thought, ‘All right…Now you’ve manned-up and have finally done something for yourself.’ It’s strange, but I felt brave. And I felt peace.”
“You seem so different from the man you’re describing,” Vi says as I pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off the tears I can feel pricking my eyes. “I can’t imagine that guy…so ready to give up. I know we don’t know that much about each other, but you seem so confident now. Strong.”
“I was confident in my choice then. It didn’t feel like giving up in my mind. It felt like a solution. A permanent mute button to silence all the noise in my head.”
A thoughtful quietness stretches out between us while we both absorb everything I just said. As if sensing our tense state, Bruce comes trotting over, panting happily, and noses Vi’s crossed legs. She remains still, so he quickly moves on from her and shoves his face into my hands and through to my face. I half smile and give him a hearty pat.
“Bruce, go on and run! Leave us be,” Vi reprimands.
“He’s fine,” I say. Then a man and his Dalmatian enter the closed gate and, without hesitation, Bruce trots off anyway to go and greet the newcomers.
Vi breaks the silence. “May I ask you about your sister?”
I lift my brows. “It’s funny you ask because that’s a lot of what day four was about.”
“Go on then,” she smiles sadly. “Was she pretty special?”
“She was the greatest,” I laugh. “She was loud and opinionated and passionate about everything. A proper know it all. She was vivacious—” my voice falters and I stop, suddenly overcome by emotions I can no longer hide as easily.
Closing my eyes, I envision Marisa’s body flinging backward the same way I had so many times before. I wish more than anything that I could block that image out, but it is forever on repeat in my mind’s eye. “On day four I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened to her. I went on a bender, drinking heavily and just reliving the scene over and over and over.” I swirl my finger near my temple.
“What did happen?”
“A tragic, freak fucking accident. That’s what they taught me to call it in rehab. Maybe not the fucking part…I embellished there.” I swallow hard and exhale sharply to prepare myself for the painful retelling of Marisa’s death that is so poignant in my head.
“My parents live in the rural part of Essex. They have a large estate, and my siblings and I grew up riding quads all over the surrounding pastures. Even as we grew older, we still did things like that together. It was always a good laugh when Theo, Daph, Marisa, and I went out on our adventures. My family had always been extremely close for as long as I could remember. The worst row I ever had with my parents was back when I told them I wasn’t going to attend University. It was an issue because my dad expected me to take over his furniture distribution plant. His policy was that his children couldn’t be management without proper education and experience. But I didn’t want to take over the plant…That was the thing.” I swallow hard and know that I’m stalling with ramblings of my childhood. But that’s not what Vi’s asking about.
I suck in a big gulp of air and continue, “Anyway, we were out on the quads and Marisa had to go inside to use the loo…She was riding with me,” my voice cracks at the memory of her gripping me around my waist and laughing. “Marisa was always laughing. Always happy.” I take a deep breath and place my head between my hands.
Vi’s hand touches my shoulder and it feels like a warm blanket of comfort. I turn my watery gaze to hers and see such sincere compassion it gives me the strength to continue.
“I dropped her at the door and was doing laps around the house waiting for her. She stepped right in front of me. Just like that. I was looking away and never even saw her.” A painful cough erupts from my throat and I turn my head. “It wasn’t the impact of the quad that did it. It was the impact of her neck striking a bloody landscaping paver,” my voice i
s pained and guttural as I continue. “My entire family was there to witness it. Theo. Dapney. My mum came running out of the house screaming. It was a fucking crime scene right where we grew up as kids. Right where we learned how to fucking walk. One piece of landscape fucked my family up for the rest of our lives.”
I hear a sniffle and look over to see Vi crying real tears. Her face is pinched like she’s trying to hide her emotions but is failing miserably. Her blue eyes are rimmed red and tears are flooding her eyes, streaming down her face. Without pause, I open my arms and her face softens as she tucks in tightly to my side.
“I’m sorry,” she croaks, her shoulders shaking from her soft sobs.
“Christ, what do you have to be sorry for? I’m the bastard torturing your heart and making you cry,” I groan in frustration. This isn’t what she deserves. She deserves to be taken care of. “I told you this was a bad idea, Vi. I should have listened to my instincts.”
She sniffs loudly and pulls away. Then she shifts to face me on the bench, tucking her legs in to crisscross. “No, Hayden. I want to be your person. The one to help you with your countdown. But, bloody hell, I’m going to be emotional. It doesn’t mean I want you to stop. It just means I have feelings. You need to be okay with me feeling sad about this.”
I frown at her and shake my head. “I don’t like doing this to you. It goes against everything inside of me.”
“Stop, all right. C’mon. Tell me something happy. Tell me something sweet about Marisa…or funny. Did you guys get on? Or did you fight a lot?”
I grin. “A bit of both. Her and Theo were like the mummy and daddy of Daph and me. They always tried to boss us around and force us to do our chores because they were older. So I would try to manipulate Daphney to be on my side. We’d do things just to get up their noses.” Chuckling to myself, I add, “One time when we were kids, I got Daphney to hide in the barn with me because I knew Marisa was taking her boyfriend out there to snog. We had water balloons and waited until they were nearly half-naked before launching a water storm at them.”
Vi bursts into a full on belly laugh and it pleases me to see her smile push away her tears. It’s a gorgeous sight.
“That’s awful!” she exclaims.
I chuckle, “Daph couldn’t have been more than ten. She was so confused over what they were doing to each other and had all these awkward questions for me. I told her to ask Mum and that just got Marisa in more trouble.”
“You were a little sod, weren’t you?” Vi asks, swatting at my shoulder playfully.
I nod and my chest puffs out with pride. “I really was. Still am, mostly.” My hand finds its way to Vi’s face to wipe at some stray tears still lingering. “This feels good.”
She nods, obviously pleased. “I’m glad.”
“I didn’t think it would feel this good to talk about it with someone like you.”
“What do you mean someone like me?” She looks mock offended and a flicker of confusion streaks across her face.
“I just mean someone I don’t know all that well. It feels enlightening to see a stranger’s reaction to my story I guess. It’s all…surprising.”
Her brows lift. “A stranger?”
I shrug, feeling a bit disconcerted. “Mostly.”
Seemingly unaffected, she throws me a smile. “So, what’s your next day? What was day three?”
I shake my head. “I’ll get to it. But frankly, I’m shattered. Maybe we can get together another time?”
“You sure you want to hang out with me again, Hayden Clarke?” She wiggles her eyebrows and then quickly drops all playfulness and watches me warily. Affection and warmth radiate from her in a way that draws me in so acutely that it takes all the strength in my body to not cup her face in my hands and take her mouth with mine.
Her voice and smile are soft. “I have revealed my truth that I am an emotional ninny, after all.”
My eyes twinkle at her confession. “It might be my new favourite thing about you.”
THE BROTHERS HARRIS
Sunday nights are set aside for family dinners at the Harris’ during the off-season. Since our father’s home is so large and close to the field, Booker, Tanner, and Camden still live with him full-time, though the twins have been murmuring about flat-hunting for a few months now. Gareth has some swanky place in Manchester he lives in during the season since he plays for Manchester United; but in the off-season, he’s back at Dad’s too. Such is this, Sunday dinner has become a sacred tradition. Should anyone try to mess with it, my brothers would thump them into submission.
Fortunately, the cooking for said tea rests on my shoulders and not theirs. If we relied on them, we’d probably be eating day-old takeaway fish n’ chips every week.
Growing up, I learned how to cook rather quickly once we realised all our father could properly prepare was beans and toast. It became a bit of an obsession for me in my teens after I found a box full of my mother’s old cookbooks. I was determined to make my way through every single recipe as some adolescent tribute to her memory. As a result of my obsessive hobby, our kitchen became the hub for all things Harris. It’s where I spent loads of time. Consequently, it’s where my dad and brothers would talk football, watch games, go over plays, and squeak in schoolwork as time allowed. The only time playbooks and condiments serving as footballers in various field positions weren’t spread out over our high-top table was when the cleaning people had just been in.
Bruce and I cab it out to Chigwell, along with all the groceries I picked up for today’s meal. To rely on my dad’s grocery supply is a fate I shall never attempt. I let myself and Bruce into the cast iron gate by punching in the code. Striding down the long wrap around driveway, I sigh when our home comes into view. It’s considered a mansion by many people’s standards. But the way it’s nestled back here amongst a sea of Japanese cherry trees makes it feel idyllic and in no way imposing. The large brown brick home is anchored by two grand, white pillars and a welcoming yellow double entry door. Having it painted yellow was my idea when I was eight and Dad didn’t have the heart to tell me no. Some days I truly do miss living here.
Upon entering the house, a striking pale, wooden staircase curves up to the second floor where there are two wings of bedrooms. It’s a six-bed with en suite facilities attached to every room. The community rooms are sparsely furnished as most of our mother’s design choices were boxed up shortly after her death. Since my dad and brothers do so much traveling for football, I suppose furnishings were never a bother.
I wish I could remember what it looked like here when our mother was alive. How it smelled, what kind of music she listened to. I often wonder what her style was like, both in clothing and in home décor. Am I like her in more ways than just my first name and birthday?
Our mother’s maiden name was Nyström. She was a full-blooded Swede whom our father met at a pub while playing champion league soccer, just before he signed with Manchester United. She was attending University in London and from what little I’ve heard, it sounded like a pretty exciting love affair that resulted in Gareth. Gareth is really the only one who remembers much of Mum and the immediate years following her death. He’s never been very forthcoming about those times and he’s not one to push for answers. He’s got a short fuse and we all learned quickly that Gareth gets his way and that’s that. I remember bits and pieces of her, but it feels more like I’m remembering photographs rather than actual times.
I unclip Bruce’s leash. His paws clack loudly on the white marble as we walk down the hallway and turn left through the double doors into the kitchen.
“My sous chef, ready and waiting!” I announce proudly, finding Booker reading a hardcover at the large wooden island that sits parallel to the galley style kitchen. “Where is everybody else?”
“They left this morning to check out a university player. They rang and are twenty minutes out.” He shoots up from his stool and rushes over to grab the supermarket bags from my hands.
“Always a gent
leman,” I tease as Bruce noses Booker in the leg, excitedly begging for some affection. “Where did you learn that anyway? It surely wasn’t from Cam and Tanner.”
Booker places the bags on the island before squatting down to give Bruce a hearty cuddle. “Probably all those girlie films you made me watch growing up,” he laughs. Then he strides over to the large patio door and lets Bruce out for a coveted romp around the fenced-in grounds. It’s Bruce’s favourite thing about coming here.
I prop my hands on my hips. “I never made you watch them!”
“Well, it was either that or get my arse kicked by Cam. I took my chances with you. And look at me now,” he beams proudly, stretching out his sculpted arms and shooting me his boyish grin. “I’m a proper gentleman. Did you bring stuff for Swedish pancakes?”
“Of course.”
Booker’s smile grows as he ducks into the walk-in pantry to plug his phone into the overhead sound system. The notes of U2 fill our kitchen as we wash our hands and make quick work of prepping today’s meal.
For several years, it has been tradition that the Sunday meal following Mum’s and my birthday include Swedish pancakes. The recipe is one I stumbled upon during my cooking quest. It had special Swedish notes in Mum’s handwriting that I couldn’t even read. That box of cookbooks ended up having a lot more than old recipes inside, that’s for sure.
Swedish pancakes have become a favourite amongst my brothers. They’re served extremely thin—similar to a French crepe—with homemade cream and berries or lingonberry jam…if you can find it. And I have just the place I go to in Shoreditch for the jam.
After a while of quiet companionable prepping, Booker breaks the silence. “So what’s new, Vi?” He’s eying me hopefully as he whisks the cream vigorously by hand.
“Oi! I forgot to tell you! I won a weekend getaway to Barcelona at a charity gala I attended Friday night. It’s a trip for two and I was going to see if you want to come along. It’s in like nine weeks’ time. Think you can manage?”