by Lizzy Barber
Rob wasn’t even born then – he has no memories of her. But for me, it’s like having a faint whisper of a sister, like the strands of translucent egg white in the chicken and sweetcorn soup at our local Chinese restaurant: definite, but indefinable.
Mum gets so frustrated if we don’t remember something about Emily. As though we’re doing it deliberately, as though we’re doing our best to forget. ‘You must remember the Christmas at Granny and Grandpa’s, when Grandpa wore the Santa suit and Emily screamed the house down. You must.’ I can hear the edge in her voice when she says stuff like this, and I know that a tiny part of her would like to shake the memory into us, but then Dad will place a hand on her wrist, and tell her that he remembers, and she’ll become quiet, and apologise.
She cuts out each little memory of Emily and sticks them in a mental scrapbook, but to me and Rob they’re only photocopies.
In the interview, they’re showing the one image that is definitely not up anywhere; the one I hate seeing the most. A mock-up of Emily as she would look today. I’ve always been surprised, when they’ve shown this in the past, that we don’t look more similar. Her hair is bobbed to her chin, like it was when she was a child, and very blonde, almost white. I can’t discern any of my features in her nose, her mouth, her chin. Dad said, the one time I asked him about it, that it’s because I look more like him, and she looks more like Mum. I accept that, but I can also imagine that as the gap widens and the years roll on, it gets harder and harder to morph a three-year-old’s photo into someone who is now very nearly an adult.
She’s there now, my sister: twenty-two inches high on the monitors in front of us, her missing front teeth filled in with an even, digitised white smile.
Gail has her head cocked to the left, with a lilting nod, her expertly tweezed eyebrows knitted together. She’s using the proper interview voice now, not the one she speaks to the camera with. That one’s clipped, and strong, and low, coming in after the chime of the clock, announcing the time: ‘Good Mor. Ning. Britain. Today’s. Top. Stories are.’ This is more melodic, and softer, like a choreographed dance. ‘Suuusanne. Daaayvid. I realise this must be increeedibly hard for you. Tell me your thoughts.’
Through the camera lens, I feel the eyes of thousands of households blinking back at us.
When the interview concludes, we’re led out of the studio through a path of saccharine, sympathetic looks from the crew. Mum is shaky, but has managed not to cry. Dad’s jaw is set, and he’s winding his gold wedding ring around and around with the tip of his thumb. Rob … is Rob, impervious as usual.
How do I look, to everyone else?
In the waiting room, we’re unlaced from the mic packs, and I ask who mine will be leased to next.
‘Sorry?’ The runner pauses winding the wires around the packs to gawp up at me.
‘Maybe a celebrity chef, or the presenter from that dance show everyone loves?’ I’m trying to fill in the conversation, to close off the opportunity for him to ask the questions I don’t want to answer. What’s it like? Do you remember her? What do you think happened?
‘Oh …’ His face scrunches up. ‘I don’t know.’ He continues his methodical winding, and I wonder if he’ll take this titbit home with him: I met the Archer sister today; she was really weird. But then, I suppose something like that will make you a bit odd.
But I’d rather he thinks I am odd than pitiful.
In the car, Dad’s hands massage Mum’s shoulders, and I see her blinking back the tears she has finally allowed to fall. ‘I think that went really well?’ There’s an upward inflection in his voice; tentative, thoughtful.
She screws her mouth from side to side, a gesture I have come to recognise over the years as her trying to overcome her emotions, and bobs her head in the briefest of nods.
‘It’ll be on the website, YouTube. Imagine the amount of people who’ll have seen it. I’m convinced, darling. This is it, I’m telling you. Someone will remember something. Someone will come forward. It’s our chance. It’s—’
‘David, shut up.’ Mum aspirates like hands pressing on a punctured tyre. And then she palms her eyes, pushing her head back against the headrest. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just exhausted.’
I don’t want to deal with this. I don’t want to be trapped in this metal box with my parents’ pain raw as a picked scab. I want to scream at them both, Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you beg? If you’re going to do nothing about the trust, why don’t you just tell the truth about it to the one daughter you have left?
I flick on my phone, and with relief see a message from Keira flash up on the screen. How did it go?
OK, I type back, grateful for the easy distraction.
You looked really pretty.
I can’t help letting a smile creep in. She’s learned, over the years, how to edge her way around me; to show me she cares without prying. To show that the door of conversation is open, should I wish to enter. Which I never do.
I search for the picture of the girl flicking her hand to the side, press send, as if the act of pretending will somehow make my confidence real.
The car is thick with my parents’ hurt. I can taste it, stale on my tongue. I have an urge to scratch, to pick at my skin; work that hangnail until it peels back in painful relief. But I know even that won’t help. Nothing I can do to myself will be enough of a release from today.
I wait; I wait for them to say something. To mention the email. To say how the TV appearance will make something happen, make it all OK.
But no one says a word.
So I fish out my headphones, turn my music all the way up, and tune out our life for the rest of the drive home.
ANNA
5
On the drive home I am silent, trying to make sense of the jumbled jigsaw pieces of my day.
William doesn’t ask many questions, but then what could I possibly say that would make sense? I tried to explain in the park: I remember it; I remember being there, that ride, so palpably. But if I’ve never been there, how can that be?
He listened, told me gently that there must be an explanation, and then, somehow, I let him lead me to the exit, back to the shuttle, whose silver shell and gurning driver now seemed a grotesque parody.
I know the whole thing sounds fantastical, unbelievable. But the more I poke and prod at the recesses of my mind, the more I feel as if, all these years, some tiny part of myself has been urging me to recall this forgotten memory. Fragments of thoughts have slipped through my fingers before I could grasp hold of them. But now the park has made them stay.
William stretches his arm across to the passenger seat, rests a hand on my knee. But his thoughts have already moved on, focused on the reality ahead of us. ‘We’re nearly home now. We’ll be back in time for dinner, don’t worry. She’ll never know.’ He has practicality written all over him. He’s a man built of facts and pragmatism, not feelings and recollections.
The thought of dinner sickens me. How can I sit there, making up stories about where I have and haven’t been all day, as if nothing has happened?
But soon we turn down the long dirt drive, and our house, a white clapboard two-storey, austere but for Mamma’s abundant gardening, looms into view. As we approach and William turns off the engine, I gaze up at it. How is it possible that it can still be standing here, unchanged, when my whole world is out of kilter?
The front door opens before we’ve stepped out of the car, and there’s Mamma, waiting for us. I take her in, bordered by the white door frame like an old-fashioned Polaroid. The pleated navy skirt and blue checked shirt which are practically a uniform. A pair of house slippers on her feet, the same tongue-pink pair bought over and over from Walmart, as soon as the previous pair shows signs of wear. Tendrils of fair hair escaping from a fuzzy velvet headband. My mother.
I scour her face to try and read what sort of mood she is in. To try and work out what I can possibly say or ask of her that will make my muddled thoughts cl
earer. Does she know something that will explain it? That will make my fear go away?
‘Anna, why are you gawking at me like that?’
Her voice startles me, and I flick my eyes to the ground. I feel William’s hand brush ever so gently next to my own, in the guise of helping me up the porch step, giving it a light squeeze of reassurance.
‘Sorry, Mamma. Just tired. How are you?’
‘I think the caterpillars have been at the oleanders again. But I’ve finished planting the roses, and I’ve a pile of clothes ready to return.’ Mamma takes in mending – alterations and repairs sent to her by post. It’s the perfect job for her really; limiting the social interactions she would otherwise have to make. ‘I hope you two had a nice time?’ Her eyes flick down to my foot, poised at the threshold. ‘Shoes, Anna.’
My body tightens, and I hurry to unlace my white trainers and twin them side by side in the entrance hall. We always take our shoes off before entering the house. Less chance for the dirt to follow us in. Mamma watches William quickly copy me, pursing her lips even though he’s observing the rules without question. His presence is an intrusion on her carefully ordered home.
‘Those shoes look very clean for a day’s hiking?’ Mamma inspects them, her eyes narrowing.
I hesitate, but William swoops in: ‘We wore our hiking boots, Mrs Montgomery. Anna had left hers in my car from last weekend, when we went to Bolen Bluff.’
I clench, waiting for the blow of her response.
‘Very well.’ She nods, padding off down the hall. Her soft slippers mask the sound of her steps, so that she could creep up behind you and you wouldn’t know until the last moment. ‘Wash up for dinner.’
In the upstairs bathroom we run the tap, and I sink into the wicker chair beside the bath, resting my head against the cool white tiles.
‘I don’t understand what’s going on, Will.’ I hold my fingers under the tap, letting the cool water run over them, and then touch them to the pressure points on either side of my neck, before folding myself into my knees. ‘I know for sure I’ve never been to that park. But the feeling I had was so strong.’
‘Hey.’ He sits on the edge of the bath beside me, and takes my shoulders between each of his palms. ‘It’s all going to be OK. Like I said before, I’m sure there’s a simple explanation. Something you’ve read, or something else you’re getting mixed up. It’ll be nothing. We’ll work it out. But it’s not going to happen tonight, so, for now, come downstairs and enjoy your birthday.’
I swallow, splash cool water on my face and then scrub my hands clean, allowing William to take one in his as we make our way back down. The elements of the day whirl around me, begging me to catch hold of them, but at the same time William’s right: I can’t begin to make head or tail of it now. And Mamma is waiting.
She’s there in the kitchen, emptying a packet of salad leaves into the cedarwood bowl we bought at a church fundraiser. She holds out her hands and without question I place mine into them. She raises my fingertips into the light and inspects each of my nails, turns my palms over and scours every line for any possible hidden indecencies. Only when she lets go do I make my way to the table.
‘Time for grace.’ It’s a command, not a question, stretched across the tablecloth when we are all seated.
I look pointedly at William, and together we bow our heads.
I see him trying not to stare as Mamma and I clean our cutlery. A fork is poised in his hand, as if he’s unsure whether to follow suit. The first time he saw me do it, at a church picnic last summer when we first started dating, I tried so hard to explain it to him: about the invisible specks, too small for the eye to see; the dirt and the dust just waiting to take root. He laughed, at first, but when he saw I was being serious he didn’t question me again.
The food is dry in my mouth, sticking to the sides of my throat as I drink glass after glass of water to wash it down. A single pea seems the size of a potato. A salad leaf an entire tree. The carousel horses dance across my vision. A flash of someone’s hand on mine. I turn my head, even though I know no one is there.
‘You’re very thirsty today, Anna.’ Mamma’s eyes flick to the glass in my hand.
‘It was very hot today, Mamma. I think I’m a bit dehydrated, that’s all.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘We’ll have to keep an eye on that: thirst is one of the signs of diabetes. Have you been feeling particularly tired lately? Any blurred vision?’ Mamma is suspicious of any potential disease, spending hours poring over the thick medical dictionary she keeps on the living room bookcase, punctuating our days with carefully timed vitamins. She knows the symptoms of most of the common medical diseases by rote, which is why I am hardly ever sick: she cuts any illness off at the pass.
‘Nothing like that, Mamma; honest to goodness, I’m just thirsty’s all.’ I subtly push my glass away from me, and force myself to drink slower.
‘Mrs Montgomery?’ I hear the note of question in William’s voice, feel the little hairs on my arms and the back of my neck quiver with the anticipation of what he’s going to ask. ‘Anna told me today that neither of you have ever been to Astroland.’ He smiles, warm, encouraging. ‘Is that really so?’
Across the table I see Mamma stiffen, shutters coming down over her face like a shop at closing time. ‘Of course not, William. What a thing to ask.’ She places her knife and fork in the exact centre of her plate, although her food is not yet finished. I try to catch his eye across the table. Please, no.
‘My apologies, Mrs Montgomery. I didn’t mean to be rude. I was just surprised, it being so close and all.’
‘Well, we never have.’ She picks up her napkin, dabbing ferociously at the corners of her mouth, at the specks of food that aren’t there. ‘Your father may be more lax on the subject, but our previous pastor was quite clear: all that talk of science and machinery – it’s irreligious.’
‘I see, Mrs Montgomery, I do. And you’ve never even walked inside? Not even, perhaps, when Anna was a little girl, just to see?’
Mamma stands abruptly, picks up her plate. ‘You’re upsetting me now, William. I’ve already told you, no. Neither Anna nor I have ever set foot in that godless place and we never plan to.’ She stalks around the room, taking the cutlery from my hands and the plates from the table. ‘Anna, I think it’s time William is getting home.’
‘Yes, Mamma.’ I stand, not looking at either of them, wishing he’d never asked. He should know, by now, not to push. But all the same, the thought buzzes in my ear: Why? Why that park? Why does it upset her so?
I see him struggle, looking from her to me. ‘I really am sorry, Mrs Montgomery. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just asking. I—’ He sighs, bows his head. ‘You’re right, it’s late: I should be going.’
Mamma turns her back to him. The dishes clatter into the sink as she begins to scrub. We hover, awaiting final dismissal.
At last she sighs, quoting at him without turning around, ‘As the Lord freely forgave you, so you must forgive one another.’ In her own language, he is forgiven. ‘Anna? See William out.’
In the porch light, William strokes the side of my face then takes my hands in his. The evening is dark, but balmy, and the humid air brings out the smell of the plants surrounding us; musky and sweet. On any other day it would be a beautiful night.
‘Anna, we’ll figure this out. I promise you. Come for dinner on Monday night, after school. You can tell your mom my parents have a birthday present for you. And we’ll just … try and talk it all through, one step at a time.’
‘OK.’ All the energy has drained out of me.
‘Hey.’ He lifts a hand to my chin and raises it with his fingertips so I’m looking directly into his oak-brown eyes. His other arm encircles me, pulling his body against me, his face into mine. ‘One day I’m going to take care of you, Anna. Properly,’ he murmurs into my hair. I feel his hot breath tickling my neck. ‘Protect you. Take you away from … from …’
‘I know, I know.�
� It’s not the first time he’s said this, over the last few months, but now more than ever I pull myself away from him, trying to calm the rising nausea that comes from any thought of leaving Mamma. I glance up at the closed door, terrified Mamma will hear. ‘Will, please. Too much.’
I feel the frustration in his wilting limbs before he releases me. He is patient with me, accepting that even a simple touch is new and unfamiliar to me – not just from him but from anyone. But he is still human.
‘I believe you, Will. I do.’ I hold out my palm for him, inviting him to touch it back. Our gesture; the one we use when the thought of anything more is too much.
He presses his hand against mine, and now I curl my fingers over his, and kiss the knuckles lightly. See? See how far we’ve come?
‘I love you, Anna.’ He kisses me on the forehead, and then moves down off the porch step to go.
I watch him back out until the beam of his headlights disappears from the drive, and am about to turn inside when I hear a familiar metallic whine: the sound of our mailbox opening and shutting. But it’s nearly nine o’clock – long after the mailman comes and goes. What could be arriving now? The hackles rise on the back of my neck. What could have been so important that it would escape the daily delivery?
I patter down the drive towards the grey tin mailbox that stands at the end of it, holding a tissue in my hand to open the flap.
A single envelope sits inside. On the uppermost corner I see my name, the letters handwritten in bold, black cursive: Anna Montgomery. The words curl themselves into a knot in my stomach. In all my life, I can’t ever remember receiving anything addressed to me. Who would send it? Surely not Mamma in some flight of fancy – the thought of it almost makes me laugh – and not William. There is no one else.