by Lizzy Barber
William pulls me closer towards him. ‘Anna, I wish you’d just hear me out. You know how badly you wanted to go to that park. And you know how vehemently your mom stopped you from going. You know how she can be. Can you just entertain the tiniest possibility, even for a second, that maybe you could have been misremembering? This syndrome: these false memories can just take root in you. It’s not even something you’re actively doing, it’s the way the ideas can be stored in your brain, so you become utterly convinced that they’re real.’
‘No,’ I insist. I replay it in my mind again: the carousel, the voice, the lily petals folding outwards from the cross. ‘I want to go home.’
‘Anna …’ William cajoles, stroking the centre of my palm.
‘Please,’ I say. ‘I need to get out of here. I need to think. It’s late anyway. Mamma will worry.’
He rakes a tired hand across his temple.
‘Please, Will.’
‘OK. I’ll drive you.’
Outside, blackness. The only light is the flash of other cars that pass us. The car smells sickeningly of the pine-scented air freshener that dangles from the rear-view mirror. I bought it for William myself only a few weeks ago, complaining that his car reeked of sweaty basketball kit. The scent of manufactured resin intrudes into my nostrils and I eventually yank the little tree off and stuff it into the glove compartment.
William reaches across the stick shift, finds the top of my knee across the distance and gives it a tentative rub. I stiffen. His hand lingers there, but he says nothing further.
When we pull up in the driveway, there are no lights on. William suffocates the engine and opens his mouth to speak, but before he can I put my hand over his and say the words I’ve been mulling over in my head for the duration of our silent drive: ‘I think it would be best if we don’t see each other for a while.’ I speak slowly and efficiently, hoping to numb myself from the pain of their meaning.
‘You can’t mean that.’ I hear the hurt in his voice, and wish it could be another way, but I know for certain that I can’t do this right now, have him doubting me, making me doubt myself, until I can find a way to prove it for sure.
‘I do.’ I swallow; I can barely look at him. ‘I know there’s church, and choir. I know we have to see each other. But apart from that, the best thing for me right now is to be alone.’
‘Anna.’ He clutches for me in the dark but I brush him away.
‘No.’ I unbuckle my seat belt and reach for the door handle. ‘If you love me the way you say you do, you’ll respect me when I say I need to be alone. Even if you don’t believe me, you can at least respect that.’ As I speak I am fighting against the trembling in my voice.
William slumps against his seat. ‘I do. I love you, Anna. You know that. And I would do anything to make you happy. That’s the only reason I’m fighting you on this: because I think you could be causing yourself a whole lot of unnecessary pain.’
‘And if you truly believe that, I understand. But I have to know for certain. For me. Do you understand?’
I sense him reaching carefully for his words. ‘I do,’ he concedes. ‘I do understand. And when you’re ready, you know I’ll be waiting for you.’
We each step out of the car, and William lifts my bicycle down from the rack on the back. We stand awkwardly, the bicycle wedged between us, unsure of what to do. Feeling the finality of the moment. I move it gently aside, throw myself into him and bury my face in his familiar chest. His arms come around me tightly, and we stay like this, swaying ever so slightly with the force of it. Eventually I wrench myself away from him and say, ‘You should go.’
He nods, climbing back into the car.
‘Not for ever,’ I add, watching him through the open window. My words sound hollow, but I want desperately to mean them.
‘Not for ever.’ He exhales wretchedly, and the car revs into life. ‘Goodnight, Anna.’
‘Goodnight, William.’
And then he’s gone.
Mamma’s voice calls me from the living room. I have no choice but to go to her. She is sitting on one of the two overstuffed floral armchairs that take up most of the space in the room, lit only by the strength of one side lamp and the white beams from the television, which is broadcasting one of her favourite television preachers. A gardening magazine is on her lap, the open pages blooming with pastel-coloured plants.
The voice of the preacher booms from the television set – ‘And at times our faith may be tested, and we must say unto ourselves, have faith; and trust in the Lord, and that trust will be rewarded’ – and he holds his arms wide to his remote audience, as if embracing them.
Mamma nods her head emphatically, reaches over to the side table for her one and only vice: her nightly tincture, two fingers’ worth of Wild Turkey bourbon, cooled with a single ice cube. I search her neck, hoping and not hoping to catch sight of the pendant. But the skin is bare, as I’ve always remembered it, allowing me to cast the thought from my mind.
She takes a sip of bourbon, and only when the glass is set down does she incline her head to me. I quickly shift my eyes down.
‘It’s late, dear – was everything OK at Pastor Timothy’s house?’ she asks.
‘Yes, Mamma, I …’ I struggle to think of some way to explain the hour, and realise I have the perfect thing. ‘William and I have decided to take a little break. I told him I needed to concentrate on school for a while.’
Mamma’s features seem to soften in the yellow light, and the corners of her mouth curl into a barely perceptible smile. ‘Well, that seems very mature of you, I must say. I did think you two were getting too close. You’ve clearly earned your eighteen years. I’m proud of you.’ She lets out an approving sigh. ‘I think that deserves a small prayer of thanks for guiding you to this decision, don’t you?’
‘Now?’ I stiffen in the doorway.
Mamma gestures authoritatively to the other armchair, and I reluctantly sit and take her outstretched hand. She lowers the volume on the TV, though the pastor continues his sermon in mute. She shuts her eyes. I try to do the same.
‘Dear Lord, we thank You for leading Anna through this path to maturity, and for giving her the strength to make an important decision that will only be the best for her. Your wisdom has guided her from when she was but a tiny baby in my arms’ – my ears prick up at this – ‘to the woman You see before You, and we pray that You continue to guide her as You see fit. Please grace her with the sense to make good decisions, and to open her eyes and her heart to Your way. To You we pray. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ I say quickly. Now I seize hold of the door Mamma has left open for me before she shuts it tight: ‘Mamma, what was I like as a baby?’
Mamma opens her eyes sharply, and I think I see her shoulders flinch. Could this be it? Have I caught her off guard, unable to prepare a suitable reply? ‘Anna, if this is about those photos again, I told you: they all got lost in the storm.’
‘No, no, it’s not that.’ Suddenly it occurs to me how terrified I am of taking a wrong turn. If I’m mistaken about all this, what a terrible daughter she will think I am. If I am right … I sense the closed living room door behind me. Adrenaline courses through me, as if preparing me to run. I try to keep my voice neutral. I give her an encouraging smile. ‘It’s just that, now I’m eighteen, I’d love to hear more about myself when I was growing up. You don’t really talk much about when I was a baby, when Daddy was alive.’
‘Anna …’ Mamma turns the television off mute and the preacher’s voice once again fills the room, ‘why can’t you understand? You know I find that time very painful.’
‘Just any little detail,’ I say. ‘I promise I won’t ask again.’
Her finger pauses on the button, then the preacher’s face is extinguished into blackness. ‘Anna, you are going to make me very angry.’
I teeter on the edge, desperate to push her further, terrified of pushing too far. ‘Please, Mamma,’ I say softly, ‘tell me about when I was born.’
‘Anna.’ I see her resisting, her finger still poised on the remote. But then her features shift, as if she’s looking elsewhere, to some long-forgotten time. She swallows. I hold my breath, worried that any sound will spoil the moment, make her change her mind. But then she speaks.
‘You were a beautiful baby. People say that babies are all shrivelled and grey at first, but I swear to the Lord you turned out pink and perfect. It was a difficult birth. I laboured for nearly thirty-six hours, and they were worried that your heart was getting weak. Mason was traditional, so I was all on my own, and terrified I was going to lose you. I begged them to fetch me a Bible, and I prayed and prayed, begging the Lord not to take you away from me. And then, when you were finally born, and placed into my arms, and I saw just how flawless you were, I knew that He had heard my prayer, and I vowed to always have faith in His guidance.’
Mamma’s eyes close, and she folds her arms neatly into her lap like she is telling herself a bedtime story. ‘I had a name all picked out for you: Hannah. It means “grace of God”, and I loved how tidy it was, spelled the same way backwards and forwards. The perfect name for the perfect baby. But then, when your father saw you, the first thing he said was, “She looks the spitting image of my mama.” Her name was Annie, and so we compromised … Anna you became.’ She frowns in her reverie, but then seems to shake the thought out of her head, resting it against the back of the armchair. ‘I didn’t mind, really. My own family were … his parents were all we had. Besides, you were mine, and it didn’t matter what you were called. You were truly a special baby. You barely ever cried. You slept well. You took to feeding easily. You smiled early and made everyone who saw you smile.’ Her lips purse as though she’s sucked on a lemon. ‘Almost everyone.’
In an instant it’s like the door I have been holding so tentatively ajar crashes shut between us. She opens her eyes with a start; the look of tranquillity on her face disintegrates, and her face pinches meanly.
‘But it’s the middle of the night. You should be in bed. Have you even …?’ She casts her eyes down to my hands. ‘For heaven’s sake, did you even wash your hands when you came in?’
My palms feel as though they could betray me at any moment, so I’m already halfway off my seat when I say, ‘No, Mamma, I didn’t have a chance.’
‘Then get upstairs right this second and wash up for bed. Lord knows what germs you’ve picked up today, in school or on that bike of yours. If you get sick it’ll serve you right. I regret what I said about your maturity – you are clearly still a child in need of scolding. Go.’ She points a rod-like arm towards the door.
‘Sorry, Mamma. Sorry,’ I fluster, hurriedly picking my way around the chairs and towards the door. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. I won’t do it again.’
I loiter in the doorway, hoping for some final word of forgiveness, but instead she turns the television back on, and holds her thumb firmly on the volume button until the preacher’s voice is booming through the room.
‘Goodnight, Mamma.’ My voice is barely a whisper.
She doesn’t look round.
In the blackness of my room I toss and turn beneath the covers, trying to piece together the opposing facts the evening has presented. I don’t think I have ever heard Mamma tell that story before. The way she told it, it seemed like such a clear memory. How could it not be true?
Scrunching my eyes tight, I try desperately to conjure up some image or story that will validate her tale. My paternal grandmother – the shadowy figure after whom I am named – did I ever meet her? Not that I can recall, but then I know Mamma has said before that we lost touch with Daddy’s family after he died. I imagine they still live in Georgia, like we did. I don’t know where exactly, but it’s conceivable enough that we wouldn’t go to visit there. As far as I know, I’ve never even left the state.
As if taunting me, the carousel revolves into my mind. The neon horses loom at me, and I feel the breeze fanning my face as I am pulled into their orbit. A shadowy figure is beside me, helping me down from the horse and off the ride. It’s a game, they tell me, like hide and seek. The pendant, flashing in the sunlight. I hold their hand and look up into their eyes, and I see … I see …
Something is wrong. Like a flat note in a piece of music – this isn’t something tangible, but simply something I can feel. And what’s more, someone else knows it too. My secret gift-giver, my shadowy letter-writer: what part does he play in all this? What is he trying to tell me?
I have to find out who he is.
I have to find out what happened. And why.
And if I have any chance of understanding any of these things, I have to begin with Mamma.
ROSIE
12
The party will go ahead. White flags have been waved. My parents smooth a clean sheet over their argument and pretend nothing ever happened. And in the meantime, I receive an answer from MissMarple63.
It’s not instantaneous: by Saturday, with still no word, the curiosity is eating away at me. I go for a run around Highbury Fields, thinking through the possibilities, whether I should nudge her further, whether my initial request was too vague – I would really like to speak to you in greater detail about your theory about Hank Wilson. Is there a way I am able to reach you?
Still flushed from my run and damp with the remnants of peach shower gel on my skin, I find myself sitting at my desk, with the home page of TheHive staring back at me. Cautiously, I retrace my path, and find myself staring at MissMarple63’s page.
Underneath my first comment I write, I think we could learn a lot from speaking to one another, and I have some information that may be of interest.
Nothing. I don’t know what I was expecting; I don’t even know if she’s in the same time zone.
By Sunday I’ve refreshed the page so many times I’m surprised I haven’t broken my laptop. I stagger through an essay with one eye trained on the browser, using any excuse I can to look up something online, so I can bring up the page, refresh, scroll. I am about to give up and go downstairs for a sandwich when a dull ping from the vicinity of my desk halts me. There it is: a reply.
I don’t know what this is insinuating, but if this really is of interest, here is the address you can email me on …
I can’t stop the tremble of my hands as I open up a new email and hurriedly tap out a reply.
Hi there,
This is going to sound a bit out of the blue, but I just got your message on TheHive and I want to talk to you more about Hank Wilson.
What else can I possibly say? Looking at the stark black-and-white message box, I realise my identity is going to be an instant giveaway: I have my name in my email address. Hastily, I add,
If you can’t tell already from my email address, I’m Rosie Archer.
As soon as the message sends I pathologically begin checking for new mail, waiting for a response. Barely five minutes pass before an alert pops up on my screen.
One new message.
I never expected such a quick response. I feel a tiny bit sick as I click it open. What if Mum’s right and MissMarple63’s a psychopath? Or, even worse, a journalist who’s going to leak my enquiry to the press. Mum’s going to kill me.
Hello.
If this is a hoax, I am not very impressed. Anyone with half a brain can create a fake email address. However, if I were to give you the benefit of the doubt and agree to pursue this further, I’d like to ask for some sort of proof, and also your reasons for getting in contact.
Kind regards,
Jane
I glance around the room, looking for inspiration, and my eyes land on my Spanish notes from last night, and the date scrawled on them in the top right corner. I pull out a clean sheet of paper, writing today’s date in the centre in neat black letters. Unquestionable. Then I reach for my mobile, hold up the paper, and create the ultimate proof of identity: a selfie.
Giddy with a sense of action, I attach the picture, hit send. If she feigns to have any interest in my fa
mily, she’ll know what I look like. I stare at the screen, wishing I could somehow reach into that black hole and grab her reply out myself.
Once again, nothing.
In the kitchen, I crash about making a ham sandwich, keeping my phone out on the counter so I can check for messages.
Dad and Rob come in, hot and red-faced from a game of tennis.
‘Want one?’ I ask Dad, pointing to the open loaf of bread as Rob trudges upstairs to the shower.
‘Thanks, sweetie,’ Dad says, running the tap and gulping down a glass of water. ‘That would be lovely. And Rob too. Extra ham: I couldn’t even take a set off him; he’ll be in need of meat.’
He observes me as I move about the kitchen, spreading mustard on the bread, layering on pink slices of ham. ‘Someone important?’
I look up in alarm. ‘What?’
‘Your phone. You keep checking it. Must be a boy.’
‘Don’t be silly, Dad,’ I reply lightly as he waggles his eyebrows knowingly. I move off the topic as quickly as possible: ‘Just waiting for Keira to tell me what time the film starts tonight.’
Rob comes down, and we eat standing up against the counter, sharing a bottle of Diet Coke I find in the back of the fridge. Mum’s at an art exhibition with a friend, so it’s just the three of us. We’ve stacked the plates in the dishwasher before I manage to steal another glance at my phone, and nearly choke on the last of my Coke when I see Jane has replied. I shove my empty glass in the top rack and dash out of the room, shouting at them that I need to call Keira.
‘Boy stuff,’ I hear Dad tell Rob confidently.
Upstairs, my fingers fly across the keyboard as I pull up her reply.
Rosie! I’m sorry I had to doubt your validity at first, but as you can imagine, you get all sorts on TheHive. I’m thrilled and slightly nervous that you’ve got in contact with me. I hope nothing I have said has offended you and your family; I wish you all nothing but the utmost respect. Please, tell me more: I’m intrigued.