The Stepmother(99)

 

I mean, I knew she started again after the whole Otto Lundy episode; I knew she was prescribed various things, that at one point she was taking all sorts of antidepressants. And that wasn’t the first time. After Simon, things got so bad I had Frankie for a short time whilst she got well. And for years she was well. For years – until Otto.

 

After Otto she was seriously depressed for a while. With good reason: she lost her job. Her reputation. Her livelihood and her reason – other than Frankie – to be.

 

I helped her out, got her back on her feet. She had some savings, thank God, because she was always cautious.

 

In the main, it was the thought of Frankie that got her through – him just being there.

 

I did try, at one point, to get Jeanie to see a shrink, but she refused. She seemed better. ‘I may be sad, but I’m not mad.’ She even smiled about it, and I believed her. She thought therapy was ‘trendy’ and ‘faddy’ – and her response annoyed me, but she knew her own mind, my big sister, for all her kindnesses.

 

Then she did actually see that CBT guy, when her cleaning got compulsive again. I thought she was going to be all right.

 

I didn’t like Matthew all that much when he came along; I thought he was smug – but harmless. I thought she was in with a good chance of a good life. I thought he really loved her, that he saw the goodness reflected back at him.

 

I thought we were past this now.

 

I think of his harsh words to her – the words written here in this diary.

 

And you know what else? It pains me to say it – but she kind of was a blank, my Jeanie. I’ve seen it written down – and I hate the man who said it – I knew there was a reason not to like him.

 

But there’s a part of me – and I bloody well hate to admit it, I really, really do – that understands why he said it.

 

She wasn’t always like that, not as a younger child. No; then she was vibrant, if always a little shy and retiring.

 

It happened later. And I blame our mother. Well, both our parents really – though my dad f*cked off when we were so young, I barely think of him. I wholeheartedly and squarely lay the blame at our parents’ door. But then why wouldn’t I?

 

Don’t have kids if you can’t cope, I say.

 

Around two I fall asleep on the sofa in the living room, curled up uncomfortably, knees almost at my chin. But I am good at sleeping anywhere; it’s a long-won habit. I sleep for a bit.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

I’m woken by the next-door neighbour knocking gently at the front door. She is a spry-looking older lady with gun-grey hair and shiny red glasses, and it’s her who rang 999.

 

‘Ruth Jenkins. Next door. I’m so sorry about Jeanie…’

 

‘Thanks.’ I try to shut the door.

 

‘You must be her sister; I can see it round the eyes. Can I offer you some coffee?’ she says. ‘I’ve just made a pot.’

 

I’m about to tell her to get lost, but then I think, Be nice, Marlena, you owe her. If it wasn’t for her, after all…

 

‘Thanks,’ I say again, but if she’s come for information or emotion, she’s come to the wrong place.

 

There is no room for grief here. There is only room for answers.

 

The woman brings the coffee round on a tray and tells me to leave it on her garden table when I’m done, no rush, and she doesn’t ask any questions.

 

I drink the coffee, trying to clear my head. I clean my teeth in the kitchen sink, and then, palms sweating, I ring the hospital.

 

My fingers are crossed behind my back like I always used to cross them when I was a scared little kid.

 

No change, they say. She’s in a medically induced coma; it’s safer for now. The worry is – the worry is – she may be brain dead.

 

I try to ring Frank; I leave him a message to call me back, but I don’t say anything else.

 

I find myself wishing very briefly that I had someone else to call, someone waiting for me at home, someone who cared, someone to whom I could say, ‘I’m really f*cking terrified – what will I do if she dies?’

 

My mind turns to Levi – to his big grin, his teeth very white against his dark skin, his warm muscular arms, the terrible QPR tattoo on his left hip. And then I think away again. We were getting too close – so I finished it last month.

 

I don’t need anyone. Because if I had anyone, they could do this thing that Jeanie’s threatening to do. They could leave me too.

 

I smoke my last cigarette and check the news on my phone – nothing about Matthew. I Google him. Nothing new.

 

I sit and think for a minute or two, then I text my mate Jez in the ITN newsroom.

 

Can you hook me up with a stringer who can check out this guy Matthew King; I’ll pay ￡￡