I’d been so stupid. Sure, it had kept me occupied for the past three weeks, but piecing together the jigsaw of Evie’s last days wasn’t miraculously going to resurrect her. As for a course of Reiki …
At some point, Dr Bartlett arrived.
‘Anything to report?’ I said, hoping against hope that there were some signs of recovery, but she shook her head slowly, then walked over to my side of the bed.
‘Nothing so far, Rachel,’ she said. ‘Eveline remains heavily comatose.’
I emitted a kind of sob.
‘Would you like me to arrange for the counsellor to see you, talk things through?’
I shook my head. If I signed up for that, I really was admitting defeat, I thought. And whatever shred of hope I still had for Evie, I needed to cling to it.
When she left I took Evie’s hand and stroked it. ‘Please wake up, Evie,’ I whispered. ‘Please, for the love of God, come back to me.’
For weeks I’d been able to deal with the nightmare by convincing myself I was some kind of super-sleuth detective and that there was more to this story than met the eye. Now, as I stared at Evie, at the tubes and ventilators keeping her alive, I saw that there was no mystery. My sister was in a coma. She would probably die. It was not a certainty, but the situation was looking increasingly hopeless.
I realized, with a thud, I had not been chasing leads so I could help Evie, so I could magic her out of her coma. I had been running around for myself. So I wouldn’t have to think about her death.
53.
Another five days passed. I bumped into Dr Bartlett on one of her daily rounds, her face even less hopeful than when we’d had the chat in the coffee shop. I didn’t bother to ask her if there was any sign of improvement. I knew the answer. There was not.
‘Rachel,’ she began, then faltered. She started again. ‘How are you doing?’
I stared at her. How do you think I’m doing? ‘Okay,’ I muttered. ‘I’m still hoping for a miracle.’
Dr Bartlett didn’t say anything but I knew what she was thinking: Don’t.
‘Look, I know what happens after a month,’ I said, just so she realized I wasn’t completely deluded. ‘You don’t believe full recovery is possible. The person is likely to be brain-damaged or may never come out of their coma.’
‘It’s not an exact science,’ she said, though her eyes betrayed her. Her eyes told me all I needed to know.
‘What happens if …?’ I couldn’t finish the sentence.
‘Rachel, I’ve still not given up hope of your sister emerging from this state.’
‘But if she doesn’t?’
‘If she doesn’t, I can sit down with you and go through the most likely outcomes. The options for care, how we can make her as comfortable as possible …’
A tremor went through me. ‘Are you talking about Evie being in a permanent vegetative state?’
Dr Bartlett glanced away, as if adjusting something in her mind. Then she looked at me directly. ‘Rachel, it hopefully won’t come to that. But there may be a possibility your sister will not return to …’
‘The person she once was?’
‘Yes,’ she said, averting her gaze again. ‘I’m afraid that person may be gone.’
I didn’t react. Not immediately. For hours after, I continued to act as if things were completely normal. As if I had never heard Dr Bartlett utter those words.
It wasn’t until the middle of the night that it hit me. Like a tsunami. The Evie I remembered might be gone for good. Dr Bartlett had said that. She had made it clear I needed to prepare myself for the worst.
Without thinking, I got out of bed and threw on a battered pair of Evie’s runners. It was probably inadvisable to wander through London in the middle of the night, but I didn’t intend to walk. I intended to run.
In general I am no athlete, but this time everything felt different – as if I was being fuelled by a new type of energy: fear that I had not shown Evie how much I loved her when she’d been conscious; terror that it was now too late and she would never wake up.
As I ran, I could feel the sweat pouring down my back but I didn’t care. It meant I was still alive. On the outside, at least. Inside, I felt dead.
On and on I ran. At times I felt weak and walked for a bit. But it was like my body was immune to normal discomforts. My lungs had grown in capacity; my feet had become strong and tough.
Finally, as dawn began to break, my body gave way and I collapsed onto some stone steps, not bothering to look up at where I was.
I lay there, attempting to get my breath back, watching the sun crack through the early-morning mist. It was so beautiful here. So peaceful. In an hour or so, the city would whirr back into action. I would be just another anonymous face lost among the throngs. But for now it was just me and the stillness, only a few taxis and buses and early-morning workers to disturb the silence.
When I sat up, a huge banner caught my eye: ‘Van Gogh’s The Sunflowers Exhibition 25 August–24 November’. It was only then I realized that I was sitting outside the National Gallery. What a strange coincidence: during my blind midnight run I had finished up in front of a sign for Evie’s favourite artist. The source of all that was good and creative in her life.
If I were a more hippy-dippy person, I’d have come to the conclusion she was trying to tell me something – ‘I’m not dead yet, Rachel. Please don’t give up on me.’
I just sat there, gazing at Trafalgar Square and Nelson’s Column, beneath a raspberry-pink sky. My eyes kept returning to the sign for the Sunflowers exhibition. I recalled again the weekend Evie and I had spent in Amsterdam at the Van Gogh museum. The poster at her work-station. The postcard she’d received from the elusive ‘D’ in France.
A ray of sunlight flashed over me, warming me, and it was as if something shifted in my brain. A thought. A connection.
But it couldn’t be.
Could it?
I jumped up and ran to a taxi, suddenly stoked with adrenalin. Was this it – the missing piece of the puzzle?
It was a long shot, but I needed to test it.
Perhaps Evie had been guiding me, after all.
54.
Evie
My memories of the days directly before the crash are little more than candyfloss. They’re so delicate I can barely touch them, and when I do they disintegrate. I’ve tried and tried to piece them together logically, but each time they collapse, like a soufflé that’s just come out of the oven.
So I grasp at little things. The whoosh of a train going through a tunnel, red wine, words being spoken in a foreign language. French, I think.
I can only surmise that, directly before the crash, Donnagh and I went to France. Perhaps Paris – I have a dim recollection of the Marais district, art galleries, walking around hand in hand. How did I let him persuade me to go there? Surely that would have spelled the end of everything. He’d have discovered I didn’t speak French fluently and would have seen through my ruse. Had I known I was going to Paris, or did I think I was going somewhere else?
Fragments remain. The bitter taste of strong black coffee as it hit the back of my throat. A soft, warm wind. And then there’s me in the Musée d’Orsay, staring at my favourite Van Gogh painting, Two Children, depicting two young girls, dressed in white bonnets, holding hands. The children are far from pretty but I love the way they seem so united; how the older one, holding a flower, seems to be reassuring the younger one – as if she’s saying, ‘Don’t be afraid, little one. Things will be okay.’
It’s not much of a leap to see that the painting reminds me of myself and Rachel. How close we once were …
Memories swirl, making me dizzy and discombobulated. But I know if I can only break through the fuzziness, I’ll find the reason I’m in this coma.
I think I bought a postcard of Two Children – I bought some others too. I recall handing over money, putting a small paper bag into the side of my handbag.
After that, I can’t remember a single thin
g. What happened in Paris? What did we do? Did I tell Donnagh the truth about who I was? I can’t remember. And it’s driving me insane.
I fall into an unsettled sleep. When I wake up, something else has come back to me, which convinces me I was in Paris with Donnagh. That it’s not a false memory.
I recalled being on a waterbus with him, journeying down the Seine. Dusk was falling and the sky was a pink and orange haze – a pastel dream that reminded me of the Impressionist paintings I’d just been looking at in the Musée d’Orsay.
At the Eiffel Tower, Donnagh gently touched my shoulder. ‘We’re getting out here.’ We took the lift up, my ears popping as we ascended. At the top, Donnagh arranged for a waiter to bring us two flutes of champagne, and then we stood there, taking in the panoramic view, marvelling at the carpet of beauty below.
After a little while, Donnagh reached for my hand. ‘Eve, I brought you here because I want to tell you something.’
I looked up at him and was surprised to see that he was nervous. ‘Okay,’ I said, suddenly nervous too. Had he finally figured everything out? If so, then I was going to confess.
Donnagh took a slug of his champagne, then set it aside. ‘These past few weeks you’ve been so good. So helpful and supportive.’
‘It was nothing. Anyone would have done it.’
‘No, you didn’t have to, Eve. You really didn’t. And since we’ve started living together, something else has dawned on me.’
‘Oh?’ I said, feeling butterflies in my stomach.
‘I’ve realized that … I’m in love with you.’
I almost dropped my champagne glass. Did he really just say that? Was I imagining things?
It occurred to me that this was my final chance for revenge. I had achieved my goal – I’d made Donnagh fall hook, line and sinker for me – and now, if I wanted to, I could rub his nose in my victory. The fat girl he tormented for so long was now the chic woman he was in love with.
I’d won.
I’d finally beaten him.
But when I tried to utter a response, nothing came out. Donnagh was looking at me expectantly, almost as if he was holding his breath.
To this day, I don’t know what made me do it. The sultry summer air, the pink sky, the fact that he used the word ‘love’?
What came out of my mouth was not a victory speech or the revelation of my true identity. It wasn’t even a sentence. It was just two words. So simple. So effective. And at that moment not entirely without truth.
‘Me too.’
55.
Rachel: day twenty-six, 6.30 a.m.
I almost broke the door down in my impatience to get into Evie’s apartment. Inside, I raced to her bedroom. I was damp with sweat and delirious from lack of sleep but I didn’t care – not when something so significant had occurred to me.
I grabbed Evie’s laptop from where it was sitting on her desk and fired it up. It took an age to get going but at last the password box appeared. Then I typed the seven letters I had thought of on the steps of the National Gallery.
VAN GOGH
The computer whirred, and I didn’t move a muscle as I waited, prayed, begged for something to happen.
Finally, the pinwheel stopped spinning and a new screen opened: I was in.
‘Yes!’
I opened Evie’s email screen and began to search, starting with Donnagh’s name. Unsurprisingly, there was quite a bit of correspondence between the two of them, but none seemed particularly noteworthy: most of the emails concerned restaurant bookings, silly jokes forwarded from the internet, the occasional soppy one, like ‘Had such a great time last night’, that kind of thing. Next, I moved on to my father’s name, but there I drew a complete blank. There were no emails at all. Not that I was surprised – he was an elderly fisherman whom Evie hadn’t seen in twelve years. He probably didn’t even know how to use email.
Finally, I typed in Artie’s name. I wasn’t expecting much – they’d only met twice, after all – and was a little taken aback to see ‘six results found’ under his name. I clicked open the first thread of messages:
Eveline, it was so good to run into you the other night. And, yes, Shannon and I would love to meet up with you. How about dinner this Thursday night at our place? Would that suit?
He’d copied in someone called Shannon Curtis – the American fiancée I recalled him mentioning – and underneath was Evie’s reply, saying she’d be delighted to, which prompted another email from Artie with an address and a map.
Okay, so Evie clearly had masochistic tendencies to inflict such torture on herself, but the exchange seemed pretty harmless. In any case, Artie had already told me about it, how they’d had a barbecue, how Evie and Shannon had got on. I clicked on the next email thread from Artie, expecting more of the same polite blandness. This time, Shannon had not been copied in.
Evie, I wanted to apologize one more time for what happened last night and say something I didn’t have the guts to say to you last night. I feel from our last few encounters that you are sad at the moment. And I know what happened between us last night probably didn’t help matters. But even though we can’t be in contact any more, I just want you to know how much I care for you; what a huge effect you’ve had on my life. In another world, things might have been different, but I’m with Shannon now, the baby is on its way, and I know you will understand why I had to say what I said last night. Please try not to be so down on yourself. There are no words to describe how lovely you are. That guy you’re dating – he has won the lottery. I’m not just saying this, Evie. I really mean it. Please promise me you will allow yourself to live a happy life. You deserve it. You deserve everything. Artie
I stared at the computer screen – winded by the words in front of me. Sure the sentiment was beautiful, but what the hell was going on? Had I been right the first time? Were he and Evie having an affair?
I noticed Evie hadn’t replied to this email. But then again, why would she? Being used like a piece of meat while Mr Perfect swanned back to his pregnant girlfriend. No wonder Evie had been so distracted in the run-up to the accident. No wonder Donnagh had thought she’d been cheating on him …
I clicked on a sixth and final email, dated 3 August: the same day as Evie’s car crash.
Evie, I know you must be surprised I’m writing to you again, after that last email I sent. But the truth is, I can’t stop thinking about you. Please will you agree to meet me? I was thinking tomorrow night at the Horse and Hound in Lewisham. Around 8 p.m. if that suits you?
I stared at just one word: Lewisham. That was where Evie had crashed.
And what was all this ‘I can’t stop thinking about you’ nonsense? What the fuck was Artie playing at?
Again Evie hadn’t responded. Perhaps she hadn’t even seen it. She’d have been on the way back from Paris with Donnagh, probably without internet access. But then again, could I really believe this email had had nothing to do with Evie’s car crash? It seemed far too suspicious.
My hands were shaking but whether from fear or anger, I couldn’t be sure. I reached for my phone, barely able to hold it properly, then dialled. ‘You lying bastard,’ I shouted, when he picked up.
‘Woah, Rachel. Is that you? You do know it’s not even seven a.m. yet?’
‘Yes, it’s me,’ I snapped. ‘Like to tell me what was going on between you and my sister? Why you lied to me?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Oh, for fuck sake, Artie. Quit the pretence. I’ve just found your email correspondence – yours and Evie’s. You were obviously sleeping together. You met her the night she crashed.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Artie, I have the email.’
‘What email?’
‘Jesus Christ,’ I said, tempted to slam the phone down.
At the other end of the line I could hear Artie mutter something – it sounded like ‘Shannon’. Eventually he said, ‘Where are you located?’
‘What?’
&nb
sp; ‘Evie’s apartment. Where is it? Give me the address.’
‘As if you don’t know.’
‘Rachel, just tell me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to come over to you. I want to explain everything.’
‘Can’t you just do it now, over the phone?’
‘No,’ said Artie. ‘I can’t.’
I relented and gave him the details. Then, without saying goodbye, I hung up.
I paced Evie’s apartment like a wild animal, my mind going one hundred miles a minute. Finally, unable to live with my thoughts for a second longer, I grabbed my jacket and walked down the stairs: a five-minute breather might help to settle me before Artie arrived. However, I was interrupted at the main entrance by a familiar face – the postman I’d seen a few weeks earlier.
‘Ah, you’re Eve Durant, aren’t you?’ he said, then rustled through his bag and thrust an envelope into my hand. I took it and watched as he placed the remaining letters in the other occupants’ cubbyholes.
Back in the apartment, I stared at the letter in my hands, wondering what to do with it – it was white and thick with Greenwich College of Art and Design written on the front. Something triggered in my brain suddenly – the art course Evie had mentioned months earlier, the one I’d tried and failed to get any information on.
I ripped open the envelope and pulled out the letter.
Dear Ms Durant,
As you are a student on the Art Foundation Course (April intake), I am writing to inform you that your main art project is due shortly and I’m concerned that you haven’t attended class for the past six weeks or confirmed the title of your project. From my notes, I see that you were planning a short video installation, called Sleep Walker (investigating if the sleepwalking you’d experienced as a child had returned as an adult, which you believed to be the case). You told me you were going to use a secret camera to essentially ‘spy’ on yourself, see if you could get any footage, which I felt was a clever, interesting idea, though your decision to involve a male acquaintance in its installation did raise concerns. (I hope you took my advice, and kept him out of it.) At any rate, can you confirm that you still want to submit this project? If you think you can make the deadline, we could look at ways for you to make up the lectures you missed – possibly next term.
Sisters and Lies Page 26