go to bed because it’s the time they cry and sometimes they simply don’t want to cry. She has told me that I should think about moving my wedding ring to my right hand because I’m not married any more. But this, my raising my voice a little because once again she isn’t listening to me, has offended and upset her. Joel made this possible. He made seeing my parents bearable.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble. I can say that because it’ll make the next two days of their visit easier on all of us. I can say that because she’s not coming back to stay again. Without Joel, there’s no way I’m going to allow this to happen again. ‘It’s been a long few days. I’m a bit tired.’
‘You look tired. And you’ve lost so much weight. It doesn’t suit you at all.’
My mouth bends into a smile. ‘You always used to say I … Never mind.’ You always used to say I needed to lose weight , I complete in my head. I was always too large for you, I was always eating too much even though I always had to clear my plate or I was a bad girl who didn’t care about all the starving people in the world. I’d have thought at least this would make you happy .
My mother doesn’t notice that I stopped mid-sentence, she continues to speak: ‘How you look you now isn’t good at all. You need to eat. You need to put on weight.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You’re probably right.’
I focus on the tinsel-surrounded photo of Joel and the children that stands on the mantelpiece. It’s of our first Christmas as a foursome. Phoebe is four, Zane is nine months and the four of us had the best time together. That photo, that snapshot of who we were, has sat there since our first new year together. I focus on the picture, on what we did that day, and tune out everything else around me.
9 weeks after That Day (December, 2011)
‘Mum?’ Phoebe’s voice is so quiet, so fragile-sounding, it is almost drowned out by the noise that is raging inside me.
‘Yes?’ I say. I’d had my head resting on the table, staring at the purple bruise on the kitchen floor but now I sit up as though I wasn’t doing that at all. Phoebe doesn’t turn on the light as she moves into the room.
I blink a few times, clearing my vision so I can look at her properly, clearing my head to allow myself to speak. I’d sat outside her bedroom until she’d stopped sobbing by slipping into sleep, the same with Zane. I’d been in and checked they were both asleep, both still where they were meant to be. Fynn had been and gone, and I’d come down here because I couldn’t face another night up in the attic, going through papers and filling in forms.
Phoebe’s walk is slow, cautious, like a girl approaching the gallows, like a twelve-year-old with a heavy burden on her shoulders. I open my arms to her and she comes to me, allows me to pull her onto my lap and wrap myself around her. She smells of sleep, and of Phoebe – that unique mixture of aloe vera conditioner, shea butter hair cream, mint toothpaste, and fresh air.
‘I have to tell you something,’ she says, gravely. The last time she said that in that tone, she’d been seven and had gone on to inform me that one day she was going to have to leave home and live somewhere else, but I mustn’t be sad because she would still love me.
‘What is it?’ I ask. I could do with a laugh, something that would lift the heaviness from my heart.
‘Please,’ she says inside a sob. ‘Please don’t be cross with me. Please.’
‘I won’t,’ I say without thinking. I clasp her closer to me to reassure her that whatever it is, I will understand. And I say it because my ravaged heart can’t bear to have her cry about something else when we all have so much to sob about already.
‘I know something about what happened to Dad,’ she says.
I am silent, terrified suddenly. What she is about to say will change how I feel about her, I know it will. It will damage us all over again and I don’t want that. I almost ask
‘Sorry,’ I mumble. I can say that because it’ll make the next two days of their visit easier on all of us. I can say that because she’s not coming back to stay again. Without Joel, there’s no way I’m going to allow this to happen again. ‘It’s been a long few days. I’m a bit tired.’
‘You look tired. And you’ve lost so much weight. It doesn’t suit you at all.’
My mouth bends into a smile. ‘You always used to say I … Never mind.’ You always used to say I needed to lose weight , I complete in my head. I was always too large for you, I was always eating too much even though I always had to clear my plate or I was a bad girl who didn’t care about all the starving people in the world. I’d have thought at least this would make you happy .
My mother doesn’t notice that I stopped mid-sentence, she continues to speak: ‘How you look you now isn’t good at all. You need to eat. You need to put on weight.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You’re probably right.’
I focus on the tinsel-surrounded photo of Joel and the children that stands on the mantelpiece. It’s of our first Christmas as a foursome. Phoebe is four, Zane is nine months and the four of us had the best time together. That photo, that snapshot of who we were, has sat there since our first new year together. I focus on the picture, on what we did that day, and tune out everything else around me.
9 weeks after That Day (December, 2011)
‘Mum?’ Phoebe’s voice is so quiet, so fragile-sounding, it is almost drowned out by the noise that is raging inside me.
‘Yes?’ I say. I’d had my head resting on the table, staring at the purple bruise on the kitchen floor but now I sit up as though I wasn’t doing that at all. Phoebe doesn’t turn on the light as she moves into the room.
I blink a few times, clearing my vision so I can look at her properly, clearing my head to allow myself to speak. I’d sat outside her bedroom until she’d stopped sobbing by slipping into sleep, the same with Zane. I’d been in and checked they were both asleep, both still where they were meant to be. Fynn had been and gone, and I’d come down here because I couldn’t face another night up in the attic, going through papers and filling in forms.
Phoebe’s walk is slow, cautious, like a girl approaching the gallows, like a twelve-year-old with a heavy burden on her shoulders. I open my arms to her and she comes to me, allows me to pull her onto my lap and wrap myself around her. She smells of sleep, and of Phoebe – that unique mixture of aloe vera conditioner, shea butter hair cream, mint toothpaste, and fresh air.
‘I have to tell you something,’ she says, gravely. The last time she said that in that tone, she’d been seven and had gone on to inform me that one day she was going to have to leave home and live somewhere else, but I mustn’t be sad because she would still love me.
‘What is it?’ I ask. I could do with a laugh, something that would lift the heaviness from my heart.
‘Please,’ she says inside a sob. ‘Please don’t be cross with me. Please.’
‘I won’t,’ I say without thinking. I clasp her closer to me to reassure her that whatever it is, I will understand. And I say it because my ravaged heart can’t bear to have her cry about something else when we all have so much to sob about already.
‘I know something about what happened to Dad,’ she says.
I am silent, terrified suddenly. What she is about to say will change how I feel about her, I know it will. It will damage us all over again and I don’t want that. I almost ask
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