why. I sit there for a long time, looking at her things all around me, and then I notice that her waste bin, tucked quietly under the desk, is still full of paper, tissues, and makeup-remover wipes, smeared in black. I’m amazed Mum hasn’t been here already to empty it out—she seems to clean the house on a perpetual loop, going around and around and around with a duster, keeping herself busy while pretending that she’s not just making sure I don’t let myself out of the front door or accidentally burn the house down. I don’t seem to go out much anymore; I don’t seem to want to very much. The outside world is full of clues I can’t decipher. The only person who is pleased about my house arrest is Esther, who always complained that I didn’t spendenough time with her. “You’re not workings,” she’d tell me, as I tried to leave for school. “You stay in and you play with me, yes, yes, I think so?”
She still asks me, if I go upstairs, or to the bathroom: “You’re not workings, are you, Mummy?” And now I can always say that I am not. Instead, I let her draw me into her imaginary worlds—of tiny creatures with tiny voices, tea parties, deep-sea adventures, road races, and hospital, where I am always the patient and she is always making me completely and totally better with a bandage made out of toilet roll. At least I still make Esther happy. I may even make her happier the way I am now than I did before, and that’s something.
I pick up the waste bin and empty it onto the floor, bracing myself to find something I don’t particularly want to know about, but at first glance it looks innocuous, apart from a still mostly full packet of cigarettes, which surprises me because I don’t think Caitlin smokes. And if she does, why would she throw them away? I begin to gather up rubbish again, and then I see it: a long white plastic thing. I pick it up and look at it. I know that, once, I would have known what it is, but now I don’t. I only know that it tells me something very, very important, because my heart has responded to it with sickening speed.
“Mum!” I call down the stairs, but there is no answer, just the drone of the Hoover. Standing at the top of the stairs, I look at the thing again. I stare hard at it, trying to discern its mysteries. The bathroom door opens and Greg is there, and at once I hide it behind my back. I don’t know why, but I feel like it’s a secret.
“I thought you’d gone,” I say.
“I had, but then I came back,” he says. “I forgot something.”
“Story of my life.” I smile weakly but he doesn’t smile back.
“What’s that?” he asks me, nodding at the arm folded behind my back.
“I don’t know.” After a moment’s hesitation, I hold it out for him to look at. His eyes widen when he sees it, and gingerly he takes it from my hand.
“What is it?” I ask him, resisting the impulse to grab it back.
“It’s a pregnancy-test kit,” Greg tells me. “It’s Caitlin’s?”
“It was in her room—is it used?”
Greg nods. “Yes.”
“Well, what does it say?” I exclaim, frustrated.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “The results don’t stay forever.”
His smile is warm, his face sweet, and just for a second I recognize him, and it’s wonderful. Like seeing a lover at the end of a very long station platform, emerging from the steam. For one second, I am so happy, so full of lost love, and I am going to run to him, when all the ill-fitting, scrambled-up mosaic pieces that make up the world around me fall into place and I see everything. That’s what’s wrong with Caitlin’s wardrobes: they are still stuffed full of clothes. The mainly black clothes she loves to wear—she’s left them all behind and taken only a few things with her. Her textbooks are sitting on the windowsill; her word book is still folded neatly on her desk. Wherever Caitlin went that night, two weeks ago, it wasn’t back to university. She didn’t take anything
She still asks me, if I go upstairs, or to the bathroom: “You’re not workings, are you, Mummy?” And now I can always say that I am not. Instead, I let her draw me into her imaginary worlds—of tiny creatures with tiny voices, tea parties, deep-sea adventures, road races, and hospital, where I am always the patient and she is always making me completely and totally better with a bandage made out of toilet roll. At least I still make Esther happy. I may even make her happier the way I am now than I did before, and that’s something.
I pick up the waste bin and empty it onto the floor, bracing myself to find something I don’t particularly want to know about, but at first glance it looks innocuous, apart from a still mostly full packet of cigarettes, which surprises me because I don’t think Caitlin smokes. And if she does, why would she throw them away? I begin to gather up rubbish again, and then I see it: a long white plastic thing. I pick it up and look at it. I know that, once, I would have known what it is, but now I don’t. I only know that it tells me something very, very important, because my heart has responded to it with sickening speed.
“Mum!” I call down the stairs, but there is no answer, just the drone of the Hoover. Standing at the top of the stairs, I look at the thing again. I stare hard at it, trying to discern its mysteries. The bathroom door opens and Greg is there, and at once I hide it behind my back. I don’t know why, but I feel like it’s a secret.
“I thought you’d gone,” I say.
“I had, but then I came back,” he says. “I forgot something.”
“Story of my life.” I smile weakly but he doesn’t smile back.
“What’s that?” he asks me, nodding at the arm folded behind my back.
“I don’t know.” After a moment’s hesitation, I hold it out for him to look at. His eyes widen when he sees it, and gingerly he takes it from my hand.
“What is it?” I ask him, resisting the impulse to grab it back.
“It’s a pregnancy-test kit,” Greg tells me. “It’s Caitlin’s?”
“It was in her room—is it used?”
Greg nods. “Yes.”
“Well, what does it say?” I exclaim, frustrated.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “The results don’t stay forever.”
His smile is warm, his face sweet, and just for a second I recognize him, and it’s wonderful. Like seeing a lover at the end of a very long station platform, emerging from the steam. For one second, I am so happy, so full of lost love, and I am going to run to him, when all the ill-fitting, scrambled-up mosaic pieces that make up the world around me fall into place and I see everything. That’s what’s wrong with Caitlin’s wardrobes: they are still stuffed full of clothes. The mainly black clothes she loves to wear—she’s left them all behind and taken only a few things with her. Her textbooks are sitting on the windowsill; her word book is still folded neatly on her desk. Wherever Caitlin went that night, two weeks ago, it wasn’t back to university. She didn’t take anything
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