by Jack Jordan
Which one have I saved?
Which one have I left behind?
The water stole the power from her legs, whipping them up and dragging her under. The river spat them back up and weeds tangled around her legs. She clawed her daughter upwards, her eyes curtained with sheets of water so she couldn’t see which one. But her child wasn’t crying any more. She was silent.
‘No!’ Rose screamed the word until she heard it echo amongst the trees on the side of the bank.
Rose kicked and kicked, clawed at the weeds with her one free hand, and dug her feet into the mud the second she felt it beneath her. The water broke around her in white sprays. She fought against the current until she breached the river and collapsed on the bank.
She lay there, shaking violently, the chill of the wind catching the water soaked into her hair and clothes. When her eyelids flickered, she forced herself up to a sitting position. She tried to stand but stumbled; it felt as though water had seeped in through her ears and filled her skull.
You can’t give up.
She dragged her daughter’s limp body further away from the river until they were both smeared with mud, and pressed shivering fingers to her neck.
Nothing.
She tried to blink away the water, but all she could see was the blurred silhouette of milky white skin, wet red hair, the yellow football top both of the girls had been wearing.
Rose pumped her daughter’s chest, forced breaths through her lips that she couldn’t afford to share.
She pumped and exhaled until water spluttered from the child’s mouth, followed by a desperate heave for air.
Rose sat up, gasping in the ice-cold air and blinking furiously until her eyes cleared, and saw which daughter she had saved.
Lily was beneath her, shaking violently against the bank, her wild blue eyes locked on Rose’s face. Her skin was so pale it was as though the river had drawn all of the blood from her body.
Violet.
Rose stumbled to her feet as the sob came, and rushed back towards the river. She felt the water climb up her calves and her thighs, until something caught her from behind. Hands were on her, wrapping around her waist and pinning down her arms, yanking her back towards the bank. A crash of thunder dulled the sound of her screams.
She kicked and thrashed. Flashing blue lights crept up from the town on the other side of the bank, their sirens carried with the wind.
The stranger ignored her screams, her threats, her desperate pleas. Every second she was held back was a second longer that Violet was without air. She turned to bite the stranger’s hand, her lips curled back and teeth bared, and came face to face with the stranger, a man with jet-black hair, eyes wide with fear. A dog was barking further up the bank.
‘You’ll die!’ he shouted, his warm breath blasting her face. ‘You’ll die if you go back in there!’
She couldn’t do anything else but scream Violet’s name. Tears blurred her eyes as lightning flashed on the surface of the river, the river that had stolen her little girl. The man clamped her against his body until she could feel the nervous rush of his heart. She screamed into his chest and her legs buckled.
I saved the wrong one, she thought. I saved the wrong one.
AFTER
FOUR
Rose sat in her armchair before the window with her eyes set firmly on the bridge. Four years had passed, and yet she still heard their screams as crisp and slicing as the day of the crash, heard the whine of the car as it sank towards the river bed.
While Lily had transformed from a young girl into a teenager, the memory of Violet remained ageless. As Lily celebrated another year, Rose silently mourned three hundred and sixty-five more days without Violet. It was just Lily turning fourteen today. It was no longer their birthday.
Although Rose had seen Violet’s body dragged up the bank by the divers after the search, she often dreamt she was still down there, her limbs drifting with the current and her hair fanned out in the water. In her dreams, she saved her. When she woke, she had to remember all over again.
The sun rose behind the trees on the opposite side of the bank, setting the sky ablaze. She glanced at the clock. It had just gone seven. She had managed a little over two hours’ sleep in the chair, but still she felt drained, with the weight of exhaustion pressing against her forehead in a sharp pain, as though the tip of a knife was working its way down to the bone. She thought of Christian asleep in the guest bedroom above her study, and tried to remember the last time they had slept beside one another. He told her it was so he didn’t disturb her with his snores, but she knew the truth – he couldn’t stand the sight of her. She had killed his little girl.
The room smelt stale. Cigarette smoke lingered in the air, trapped in the room and pressing against the windows. Orange tar had begun to build on the glass and stain the ceiling above her chair. An ashtray filled to the brim with ash and filters rested on the windowsill. She spent most of her time by the window with the door shut behind her, her eyes on the bridge and her mind filled with memories. She couldn’t bear to see the looks on their faces, feel the tension between them and her.
Lily left the room when Rose entered. Christian spoke bluntly with his back turned or his eyes averted. If one of them dared to meet her eye, she saw the hate dwelling within them, the kind of hate that was impossible to disguise. Christian hadn’t touched her in so long that she couldn’t remember what his hands felt like or recollect the taste of his lips. Sometimes she forgot the sound of his voice, only hearing it muffled from behind the study door as he cooked dinner for Lily and himself, while Rose ate alone.
Lily hid from her so well that Rose was often startled by the changes in her when they accidentally crossed paths: the length of her hair, the growth of her breasts, the womanliness of her face emerging as the puppy fat faded away. Life was passing her by, changing those within her own home, as she sat before the window cemented in the past.
Rose got up from the chair and turned her head left and right to stretch the muscles in her neck that had stiffened in her sleep. She was so accustomed to the room that she no longer saw the layers of canvases leaning against the walls with numerous paintings of Violet’s face staring out at her, eyes following her as she moved. They wouldn’t fetch any money like her old paintings used to, which had paid for the house that her husband now worked to keep. No one wanted a picture of someone else’s dead daughter smiling out at them as they ate dinner, or the haunting scene of a child’s white cadaver lying on a riverbank. She had depicted the same scenes over and over again, hoping to bleed them from her memory. So many times she had picked up her brush to paint something different, a landscape other than the view of the bridge from her window or the bustle of the river, but nothing came; all she could produce was her daughter’s face and the dreaded day she lost her.
She opened the study door and listened for whispers of life upstairs. Silence. The rest of the house smelt fresh, with just the barely discernible scent of last night’s meal. She tiptoed out of the study and into the kitchen, the tiles chilling the soles of her feet.
Apart from the occupants, not much else in the house had changed. The kitchen was the same as the day she had snapped at Lily for wanting a different cereal, the morning Violet ate her last meal. She peered towards the back door and remembered how the spilt tea had dried on the tiles, waiting for her when she arrived home from the hospital with one daughter instead of two.
She tried to remember the last time she’d made a meal. Exhaustion numbed the ache of hunger, brought a nausea that forbade her from eating. She would eat later, she told herself.
Christian cleared his throat behind her. She flinched at the sound and watched as he walked to the coffee machine, his eyes still hazed with sleep.
‘Morning,’ she said.
‘Morning,’ he replied.
She stood in silence as he moved around the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, never once meeting her eye.
‘Is the birthday girl up?’ she asked.
If she’d noticed the forced cheeriness to her voice, he would have too.
‘Since six,’ he said gruffly. He moved slowly as the coffee brewed so that he wouldn’t have to turn around and face her. She stared at his back and remembered how she used to claw at it as they made love.
‘You can look at me, Christian. I won’t turn you to stone.’
She watched his shoulders tense against her words. When he finally met her eye, she wished she hadn’t said anything. There it was, the familiar hate staring her in the face.
He looked tired. The skin around his eyes was swollen from the early hour, and his hair was wild from sleep, but he was still as handsome as he had always been, even behind the dark stubble on his cheeks and neck, and the crow’s feet beside his eyes.
‘I’m staying away with work tonight,’ he said as he turned back for the coffee pot and poured himself a mug. ‘I’ll come home for the birthday meal and then head out.’
‘Again?’
‘I’ve already ordered the takeaway for later.’
‘I can cook her dinner.’
‘You needn’t,’ he replied curtly. ‘But don’t forget the cake.’
He looked at her so coolly that she almost recoiled. She couldn’t remember anything about a cake.
‘From the bakery in town. I put the order in a month ago. Are you still all right to pick it up or should I do it in my lunch break?’
There was a distinct sharpness to the offer.
‘Of course,’ she said.
Which bakery? I could call both, check which place has an order under his name.
‘I need to pack my overnight bag.’
Christian headed to the door.
‘What’s her name, Christian?’
He stopped in the doorway. She watched his back tense again, as if his muscles were shielding him from the risk of her touch.
She eyed his broad frame beneath the pyjamas, the bulk of his arms, the wide span of his shoulders, the way his back narrowed as it descended to his hips. She realised she would do anything to touch him again, if he would let her.
‘Does it matter?’ he said finally.
Each word hit her like a punch; instant nausea, burning in her throat, the blur of tears.
So it was true.
‘It matters to me,’ she replied croakily.
He hesitated, as though he was choosing the right words, but none came. He headed down the hallway and up the stairs.
If only she hadn’t asked him to look at her. She could have lied to herself, held on to the hope that deep down he still loved her. But she had seen his hate, and knew that the love he’d once had was gone. Someone else had him now.
To outward appearances, they had stuck together after the death of their daughter. But within their home they were strangers, occupying different rooms, different beds, and avoiding each other’s eyes.
He wasn’t staying for her, she knew that much. He was either staying to protect his honour, to show the world they hadn’t crumbled, or because he believed it was best for Lily, who couldn’t stand to be in her company either.
Rose wiped the tear away and made her way back to the study, listening to the ring of the lifeless house before she closed the door behind her.
Rose stood before the mirror in her bedroom and dropped the towel. Her wet hair clung to the side of her neck and chest, while her pale skin revealed blue arteries in the soft creases of arms and groin. She eyed the shadows of her ribs protruding from beneath the skin, her visible collarbones and hips. Her body trembled with exhaustion.
She got dressed and brushed her hair, leaving it to dry on its own. As she fixed her necklace at the nape of her neck in the reflection of the mirror, she noticed how much older she looked, as though it had been a decade since her world fell apart and not four years. She moved the locket to the centre of her chest. Violet was enclosed inside, forever close to Rose’s heart. She had worn the necklace the day she was sentenced in court. If she closed her eyes now, she could still smell the dull musk of the courtroom as she was committed to 200 hours of community service, fined heftily for damage to the bridge, checked into a sleep clinic for a month and banned from driving for life.
You have paid the ultimate price, the judge had told her that day. You have lost your daughter by your own hand. That’s a life sentence in itself.
She shook the thought from her mind and tucked the locket beneath her T-shirt, out of sight. As she was about to leave the room, she saw a note on the dressing table.
I think it’s time, don’t you?
Her heart jolted. He had finally built up the courage to leave her. Yes, it would ease both of their pain, but it would also mean losing Lily, who would undoubtedly go with him. If she left, she would drift further and further away until they never saw each other again. After all, she knew how it worked. Rose had done it to her own father.
Then she spotted the business card beside the note and sighed. It was for the therapist he had been trying to push on her for years. The relief that they weren’t leaving her was replaced with resentment, burning up her throat. There he was, bringing this up again.
It wasn’t just any therapist, but Christian’s own, who he recommended because he already knew their backstory. But it also meant that he had probably chosen sides before they’d even met; he had listened to Christian’s criticisms of her.
But maybe this is his way of suggesting a fresh start, she thought. Maybe if I see the therapist, he will try to forgive me.
She stared at the card for a while, reading the doctor’s name, Dr William Hunter, over in her head and eyeing the creases from wear, the yellowing of the white paper from all the years it had been inside Christian’s wallet. She picked up the card and slipped it into her pocket.
Lily’s gift sat on the side table. She had spent hours wrapping and rewrapping it, wanting every curl of ribbon and fold of paper to be perfect. But when she looked at the gift, her heart sank. Beneath the paper and decorations was a stainless-steel phone case engraved with the stencil of flowers, dotted with crystals. She had no idea if Lily would like it.
She headed down the stairs with the gift, stifling a yawn, and stopped in front of the open door to the living room.
A sea of wrapping paper littered the carpet: pastel pink, monochrome, silver shining in the sun as it beamed through the window. They had opened presents without her, presents Christian had chosen without even consulting her. She glanced towards the front door. Christian’s car keys were gone.
Lily appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. Her red hair had grown down to the middle of her back, thick and ironed straight. Her freckles had faded, revealing the youthful glow of her skin. She was as tall as Rose, but her posture was better. Lily stood upright with pride and youthful confidence; Rose seemed to shrink inwards, too exhausted to keep her spine straight.
‘Happy birthday,’ Rose said.
Lily stared down at the floor. Her school bag was over her shoulder. Her skirt was too short. Rose wouldn’t dare tell her to change.
‘I’m late,’ Lily said.
‘How are you?’ Rose asked. ‘School okay?’
‘It’s fine when I’m not late.’
Still she wouldn’t look at her.
‘Your hair has got so long. I always wanted hair that length, when I was your age.’
And then Lily looked up. Her glare was as cold as her father’s. Rose flinched but refused to look away. She had to take every possible chance to talk to her, even if it meant standing in her path.
‘I’ll miss the bus.’
‘I’m heading into town, maybe I could come with you.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Another time then.’
Awkward silence filled the air. Her skin twitched with it. She watched the frustration rise through Lily’s body.
‘Here. . .’ Rose said, and held out the present. ‘Happy birthday.’
Lily gritted her teeth before heading towards her, each step forced, and took the present from
her. Silence fell between them.
‘I’m late.’
Rose stepped aside and watched her walk towards the door and snatch the handle; she was so desperate to get away.
‘Do you need anything? You know, like tampons or—’
‘Jesus,’ Lily said, scrunching up her face. She opened the door and slammed it behind her.
Rose stood in the hall, listening to the tick of the clock on the wall, and blinked away the tears. It didn’t matter how many years passed, the pain of being hated by those she loved would never ease. She hadn’t just lost Violet on the day of the crash, but her whole family, as though they too had perished in the river.
Rose stared through the glass in the door and watched Lily walk down the drive. She crouched down by the bin bags ready for collection and shoved the gift inside before walking out of sight.
FIVE
Rose got off the bus in the centre of town and placed her hood over her head. It wasn’t raining or particularly cold. This was just a way to protect herself from the town’s stares. Rose Shaw would always be known as the woman who killed her daughter.
She headed aimlessly down the street. Twice a week she would go to town simply to listen to the sound of others’ lives. She needed to be reminded that the world was still turning, remember the sound of babies crying, friends talking in cafés, the latest fashion in shop windows. In her study, time stood still.
She moved around people on the street with her eyes firmly on the ground, on the chewing gum trodden into the pavement and the odd cigarette end stamped flat. The fresh morning air clawed yawns from her lungs. Coffee. She would stop at the café and buy a cup.
She lit a cigarette in a cupped hand and turned left down another street towards the coffee shop she knew best. As she turned the corner, she knocked into a woman.