Echoes of Family

by Barbara Claypole White

By seven a.m. the heat in the house had been unforgiving, prompting him to ransack his chest of drawers for a pair of khaki shorts not worn since his last trip to Cornwall, circa 2005. Fortunately they still fit, and not as snugly as anything his houseguests were wearing.

  “You”—Marianne twisted free of Darius, who was now nuzzling her neck—“back to the sofa with Sleepless in Seattle.”

  “C’mon, babe. I haven’t spent this much time lying down since the weekend we met. And that was a whole lot more fun.”

  Gabriel imagined Jade’s voice: “Dude, too much information.”

  “You’re staying here to continue your recuperation. Gabriel’s with me,” Marianne said.

  “No, neither one of you is going anywhere. If you know where she is, call the cops. The authorities should handle this.”

  “He’s right,” Gabriel said, although no one had asked for his opinion. With God as his witness, he was trying to fall back and follow Darius’s lead. Unfortunately second place was not a position he was used to these days, and certainly not in his own house. To Marianne’s husband. Who was practically naked.

  I’m trying, God. I am.

  “What planet are you two living on?” Marianne jerked back and glared at Gabriel. “You really think you can stop me?”

  Darius tugged a fistful of hair back and then let go. “I swear, woman, you’ll be the death of me. You are not to leave Gabriel’s sight. Do you understand?”

  She darted at her husband and kissed his cheek. “Promise.”

  Darius stared at Gabriel. “I’m trusting my wife into your care, man.”

  “I know. Look after her, or you’ll kill me,” Gabriel said.

  “At last we understand each other.” Darius cocked a smile.

  “Mrs. Tandy will be here at nine and she has a key, so you can lock the door behind us. And might I suggest a pair of jeans and a T-shirt? She gets upset by anything too personal.”

  “I don’t know pants’ll make too much difference. I think your cleaner’s got a crush on me.” Darius turned to Marianne. “I’m telling you, this wound is a middle-aged chick magnet.”

  “Mrs. Tandy’s a grandmother,” Gabriel said.

  “And she doesn’t look a day over sixty-five,” Darius said.

  “We’ll leave you to your fantasies of Mrs. Tandy in a maid’s outfit,” Marianne said, “which I’m sure will far surpass the nurse’s one.”

  Really, too much information.

  As they walked down the hall, Darius muttered, “Hmm. Maid’s outfit . . .” Then he called out, “You be careful, and that includes you, Gabriel. Wait! I need to know where you’re going and whether you both have charged phones.”

  “Yes, and the Mill.” Marianne opened the front door and then turned to Gabriel with a triumphant smile.

  She chattered away while he shoved his bare feet into his trainers and tied the laces. “I was telling her about the Mill conversion on the way down to the cream teas, jabbering to distract her. But EmJ’s a smart girl; she must have figured out an empty high-end apartment meant an empty garage where she could hide your car. Come on, already. Jade taught me a few things about breaking and entering.”

  “Did she now.”

  Gabriel shut the front door, and Marianne broke into a run. He did his best to keep up, his gold cross bumping against his heart as one thought repeated in a loop: Why would EmJ stay in the village unless she’d never planned to leave?

  When he reached the war memorial, Gabriel put his hands on his knees and gulped air. The bunting from the fete, still draped around the lych-gate, waved merrily. The ghost of celebrations past. Huffing out a breath, he chased after Marianne, who had turned toward Bridge Lane. Once again the crenelated bridge, parts of which dated back to the twelfth century, was under repair and down to single file. The temporary light turned to red, halting traffic leaving the village.

  “Wait,” he yelled. “We need to do this together.”

  She nodded—her face flushed—and suddenly looked ridiculously young. She was also barefoot and holding up her flip-flops. At some point she must have taken them off, which seemed extremely risky and utterly teenage Marianne.

  His mind rewound thirty years. It had been impossibly hot that July, like a Mediterranean summer. How different would their lives have been if she’d waited for him? How different would their lives have been if he’d put her first, so she wouldn’t have needed to?

  He wiped beads of sweat from his face.

  “Come on, already!” Marianne slipped her flip-flops back on and walked toward the Mill’s gravel driveway. Neither of them spoke.

  Under the arched entranceway, they confronted a complex system of buzzers incongruous to a building that had stood for centuries.

  “Which one do we push?” Marianne whispered.

  “Absolutely no clue. What else did Mrs. Tandy tell you?”

  “That the views of the river were outstanding.”

  “So the flat she cleaned must be on the side.”

  “And it was on the second floor with a wooden deck. And it had stairs down to the river!” Marianne held up her hands in triumph.

  “Ergo there must be a back access.”

  “But how do we get around those gargantuan fences?” Marianne pointed at fortifications more imposing than anything on a medieval castle.

  “I have an idea. Follow me.” He led the way back to Bridge Lane.

  She smiled. “Are we going to do what I think we’re going to do?”

  “I think we are.”

  “Like old times,” she said.

  “Except that we’re now middle-aged, and clambering over the side of the foot causeway and jumping to the grass below might result in serious physical impairment.”

  “Wuss,” she said.

  The bridge had been widened to accommodate the traffic after the war, but the foot causeway still remained on the medieval side. When they reached it, Gabriel peered over the limestone wall. There was less riverbank than usual, given the water level. Beneath them, the swollen River Ouse roared through arches that had seen seven centuries of life and death, including numerous drownings.

  “Scared?” Marianne said.

  “Terrified. I’m not a teenager anymore, and that ground looks awfully unforgiving.” What they had once done without forethought now seemed positively dangerous. Surely they would break limbs.

  “Oh, Gabriel!” She grabbed his arm. “A pair of swans. Remember the swan’s nest?”

  Please don’t ask me that. Had she forgotten what else happened that day—the moment that changed everything between them? Her mind had erased the worst moments of their past. Had it also erased the best—their first kiss?

  “Okay, I’m doing it,” she said. “Call for backup if I break something.”

  She tossed over her flip-flops and then followed, landing as gracefully as he’d known she would. He, on the other hand, clambered down inelegantly, and landed on his bad knee with a loud ooff. She smiled and reached for his hand. Once again, the years stripped away.

  They raced across the sodden grass, under the low-hanging branches of a willow tree, past a wooden bench angled toward the river, past the rushes that had made the village famous, past the imposing statue of Jonah that had guarded the millpond since the mid-nineteenth century. Bought by a former lord of the manor in what amounted to an aristocratic car boot sale, it was an anachronism. Phony history that didn’t belong.

  They approached the back of the Mill and slowed. During the last year, Gabriel had chosen to not pay attention to the conversion, averting his eyes in protest every time he drove across the bridge. But up close it was obvious, even to someone who was not a fan of adaptations, that the work on this historic building had been carried out with care and attention to detail. Some of the flats had imposing doors; others had huge barn-style windows. Round the side, a cluster of wooden balconies extended toward the water’s edge. One was covered in terra-cotta pots filled with begonias and appeared to have been recently stained, or treated,
or whatever one did to wooden balconies.

  Ignoring Gabriel’s signal to get behind him, Marianne grabbed the railing and mounted the stairs. He followed, pausing when he reached the top to glimpse the village from an angle never seen before. The church, in his mind, had always been the most imposing structure in the village, but from up here it was dwarfed by the Abbey. And Newton Rushford, a place that pulsed with the constant echo of traffic, was silent. A mallard duck quacked, and the two swans Marianne had spotted earlier glided toward the sluice gates, leaving ripples in their wake.

  Turning away from the view, he watched the woman who had once been the love of his life peep through the glass door and then slide it open.

  THIRTY-NINE

  MARIANNE

  “Honey?” Marianne kicked off her flip-flops and walked into a huge open-plan loft, which was hot like a sauna. “It’s Marianne and Gabriel. We just want to talk.”

  Nothing. With a quick glance at Gabriel, she swallowed the smell of paint fumes and meat gone bad—a screeching juxtaposition of renewal and rot—and reached for his hand. His calm had always been her lifeboat. Let that still be true, because she was going to either throw up or faint. Which seemed irrelevant because the ringing in her ears suggested she was about to become the first person to drown on dry land.

  White gauzy curtains, looped back, exposed large windows flanking a high-tech fireplace. A solitary sound bounced off the white walls and the exposed wooden beams: drip, drip, drip in the steel kitchen sink. Indian take-out containers were scattered over the breakfast bar, and there was a topless half-empty bottle of vodka. Two black flies hovered over the food, and an ashtray overflowed with cigarette stubs.

  Matt smokes.

  Marianne released Gabriel and clenched her hands together in a silent clap. They had found EmJ, and she was living on real food, not iced buns.

  “Darius is fine, honey. We’re not pressing charges.”

  EmJ and Matt were probably out cold recovering from drunken sex and hangovers. Let them at least have underwear on. Or be covered by a blanket. Was EmJ on the pill? They’d never had that conversation.

  “Marianne.” Gabriel nodded toward a dim hallway.

  Two doors on the left, closed; one set of sliding doors on the right. Also closed. Marianne went to the sliding doors.

  “Honey? Are you decent?” She knocked. “Can I come in?”

  She opened the doors and stared at the scene staged between her and the wall of glass framing a tranquil river view. A macabre Madame Tussauds display. That wasn’t EmJ, lying on an inflated pool float, wearing nothing but a pair of panties with a hole in the side. That wasn’t EmJ, spread-eagled on her back, the skin on her calves covered in dark red patches, her mouth crusted with dried vomit. That wasn’t EmJ. It was a wax model, an imposter. It had to be, because if that were the real EmJ, she’d be wearing the new panties Marianne had bought for her.

  Pills were scattered on the floor, and a small vodka bottle lay on its side, empty. In the distance, at the end of a long tunnel, Gabriel’s voice told her to stay put.

  He squatted down and pressed three fingers to EmJ’s wrist. Did the same on her neck, then glanced up, shaking his head. One word: Sorry. But that was wrong, all wrong. He shouldn’t be touching her; EmJ was practically naked.

  Falling onto hands and knees, Marianne crawled across the floor. Pills crunched under her.

  Gabriel stood, pulled out his phone, and started talking.

  “Please, sweetheart.” She smoothed the tangled mess of EmJ’s hair. “Don’t do this. You have to meet Jade, you have to live. Please, sweetheart,” she whispered. “You have to live.”

  She tried to hug EmJ, tried to cradle her. Stiff, unyielding. Cold, so cold. The smell—rancid. Marianne gagged.

  “I’m sorry. She’s gone.” Gabriel crouched down behind her. “I’ve called the police.” He touched her shoulder.

  “No!” Marianne shrugged him off and threw herself over EmJ. “You know CPR. You can save her the way you saved me. Start compressions. Give her the kiss of life.”

  His hands pulled her back.

  “Get off me, Gabriel.” Marianne struck out with her elbow. Hit air.

  “There’s nothing you can do here,” he said. “EmJ’s at peace.”

  “No!” She twisted around. “There is no peace. Do you hear me? That should be me, not her. She has her whole life ahead of her. Do something. Tell God he can’t have her. Pray. Bring her back.”

  “Marianne, I can’t.”

  “Then I will!” She squirmed and pummeled his chest. He lost his balance and they fell with a thud. She managed to wiggle free, but he grabbed her around the waist.

  “Let go, you bastard! I need to save her. This cannot happen to us. Not again. Not twice.”

  “Marianne, we mustn’t disturb the scene.”

  Too late. I already did that. I did that in spades.

  She kicked backward and made contact with his leg. A weird crunching noise, and he groaned but wouldn’t release her. She clawed at his arms, scratched his skin. Drew blood, but God help her, she would bite him if he didn’t let go. She would not be powerless, helpless. For once in her life, she didn’t need restraints. But his grip was strong, unyielding. Unbreakable.

  She slammed her head back into his chest. Screams poured from her lips; insults spewed out like rapid gunfire. Inhumane, cruel. Bitter words aimed to maim, they tasted like blood, like desolation. Deafening, hateful words that would never make any difference because the one sound she craved, she would never hear again. It was gone forever.

  “EmJ, talk to me. Tell me this is a hallucination.” She collapsed into sobs. “Please don’t let the monsters be real.”

  “My darling Nightjar”—a voice from the past—“you can’t save her. She’s with God now.”

  Gabriel stood and lifted her with him. He eased her around in his arms as if she were a rag doll, and maybe she was because she was done. Done with pushing back—with or without meds. Her own baby had died because of her, and she was stuck on repeat, trying to create a family out of nothing more than echoes. Past and present crashed into each other. There was no future. Everything stopped except for Gabriel’s heartbeat and a distant siren. Insanity—ugly and twisted even in death—was the devil that couldn’t be defeated. Madness was the victor; she quit.

  FORTY

  MARIANNE

  It wasn’t a conscious decision to stop talking, but after she’d formally identified EmJ and given her statement, after she’d learned the police had found a half-written suicide note, Marianne ran out of words. The stench of EmJ’s vomit lingered, filling her nostrils and her mind. Eating away at her like acid.

  As she walked into the rectory, Darius ran toward her, arms wide open. Gabriel, scratched arms hidden behind his back, retreated with Hugh and a bottle of brandy. A changing of the guards.

  Darius helped her upstairs, where she lay down on her bed, fully clothed, and watched a memory collage of flashing lights. So many emergency vehicles over the years, but the memory of the first ones, on the A428, remained unaccounted for. Stolen by treatment to mend a broken mind.

  But there was no treatment for a broken heart.

  Darius sat in the old nursing chair, pulled close to the bed. Crumpled forward, his hair hiding his face, he held her hand. When darkness fell, he undressed her. She rolled toward the wall, and he spooned behind her.

  The shadows of time moved across the bedroom wall.

  She fell into a sinkhole of pain—in her stomach, in her muscles. In her head. A pounding migraine drummed louder and louder until it threatened to steal her vision and split open her skull. She didn’t move; she didn’t tell Darius.

  Again, he lay with her when night fell. In his arms, she welcomed death. All those years wasted planning suicide, and it was so much easier to give up. To lie still and stop eating. But the next day came anyway.

  She asked in a scratchy voice for a bowl so she didn’t have to go to the bathroom to pee; Darius refused.
Instead he picked her up, carried her to the commode, and held her in place. When she was done, he carried her back, tucked her up in bed, pulled out his phone, and pressed it to her ear.

  Jade whispered, “I love you, Mama Bird. Please come back to me.”

  Please come back to me.

  FORTY-ONE

  MARIANNE

  The next morning she started eating.

  A routine began: Darius gave her sponge baths, made her take her meds, fed her. If he could have breathed for her, he would have. Whenever he left her, which was only to get coffee or bring up food, he propped the bedroom door open. One time he was gone for ages. Mrs. Tandy sat in his place, playing games on her phone. When he returned, the stitches had gone.

  After that Mrs. Tandy came in every afternoon and sat with her while Darius showered and called Jade to discuss business. In the mornings and evenings he read to her. The classics she had loved as a teen: Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. After he declared himself Victorian’d out, he chose a Terry Pratchett novel and laughed loudly. Sometimes he stroked her hair, disgusting as it now must be.

  He told her he loved her.

  Love—a strange word. It tasted of dust.

  Gabriel stayed away.

  At the end of each day, Jade called with the same message. “I love you. We’ll talk tomorrow, Mama Bird.” For her baby girl, Marianne tried to believe tomorrow existed.

  The funeral service came and went. Gabriel—owner of the disembodied voice outside her door—told Darius it had been held at the local crematorium. EmJ’s mother had come and some aunt. The ex-boyfriend and the band had stayed away.

  The local GP visited, and the district nurse. Dr. P. came once. Probably because she’d missed her follow-up appointment. He prescribed an SSRI, telling Darius, “We’re going to increase the dose faster than I’d like, given her level of distress. Watch her carefully.”

  Didn’t he know she’d flunked out with every antidepressant on the market? Read my file, Dr. P. An SSRI couldn’t take away the truth: she had killed her baby; she had killed someone else’s—twice.

  She had nothing left to say.