Forget Her Name(41)

I want to cry but dare not.

They denied it, of course. What did I expect? They looked at me as if I’m going crazy. Even Dominic. He thinks I’ve lost my mind or am about to lose it.

Perhaps I am crazy.

But the last thing I want is for Dominic to find me crying up here on my own like a kid. He would only assume I can’t cope. That I need help. Not simply his, but of the professional variety. Someone Louise knows at the hospital, perhaps. Or Doctor Holbern, the doctor who used to see me occasionally in my teens, when I would get ‘hormonal’, as my dad used to put it, and do stupid stuff.

Doctor Holbern. A strangely angular man with a ginger beard. He had long legs that he would cross and recross as he sat listening to me. As if he could never get comfortable. I haven’t seen him in ages.

Dad’s probably on the phone to him right now.

The thought frightens me.

I’m not going crazy. I didn’t send myself Rachel’s snow globe with a bull’s eye inside it. And I didn’t sign any documents at the food bank in my dead sister’s name.

Unless I did, and have simply blanked it out of my memory.

‘No way.’ I rock back and forth, making a moaning noise under my breath. ‘I didn’t do any of that. I’m not mad.’

Except I’m acting mad. Rocking back and forth. Talking to myself.

I sit up, then close my eyes and try to centre myself. To focus my energy on feeling calm again. I practise the deep-breathing technique Doctor Holbern taught me years ago. In and out. In and out. Drawing the air right to the base of my stomach, then letting it go again, slow and deliberate, out through my nose.

My chest heaves and I catch my breath, struggling against the rhythm. The technique doesn’t seem to be working this time.

I raise my head, listening for Dominic’s tread on the stairs.

But he doesn’t come.

What are they talking about down there?

‘I think you should go and lie down,’ Dominic said after my outburst. I didn’t argue with him. By that point I was only too happy to escape the claustrophobic atmosphere of the kitchen.

I thought he would be right behind me. But there’s no sign of him. The room is silent, my rapidly beating heart somehow obscenely loud here.

I look around at the clean, black-and-white-striped wallpaper, the pristine glass and chrome furniture. The freshly painted door stands slightly ajar.

This used to be Rachel’s bedroom when we were kids, but Mum and Dad have cleared it out and turned it into a bright, modern sitting room for us. Rachel’s dusty old curtains have finally gone, replaced by Roman-style blinds in stern black. I haven’t opened them yet, but I know that view intimately. This side of the house overlooks the street, the quiet evenings often disturbed by sirens or car horns. There’s a flat-screen television and a DVD player where Rachel’s bed used to be. Before the new wallpaper went up, her old pop posters and the various pictures she had painted as a kid were taken down.

Rachel’s ‘art’.

The walls are blank now, except for a rectangular mirror that hangs just above the single bookshelf. That’s new, too. Perhaps that’s why it feels strange to be in here. Sitting in Rachel’s private space, making it my own. My sister would hardly approve. But then she never approved of much.

A sob wells up from deep inside, and I fight against it, my throat tight.

‘Shit.’

I hate feeling like this. Like a child, helpless, unable to make my voice heard above Mum and Dad. It’s stupid to still feel like this at my age. I’m an adult. I shouldn’t feel intimidated by my own parents. I should be able to explain myself and say how I feel. But now that I’m back living under their roof, in the same rooms where I grew up, it’s not easy to change my habit of deferring to Dad. Even when I know he’s wrong.

Someone is coming heavily up the stairs.

I recognise that tread.

‘Dom?’ I stand up awkwardly, wiping damp eyes. I don’t want my husband to see me broken. I need him to think I’m okay, that I’m functioning. ‘I’m in here.’

He comes in and our eyes meet.

‘Darling,’ he says, shaking his head. He disapproves of my accusations. Of course he does. He’s just like them, deep down. He doesn’t understand.

I feel angry and scared at the same time. But I dare not show it. My fingers buzz with some kind of nervous vibration, like pins and needles, and I hide them from him, shoving my hands behind my back.

‘They drive me up the wall.’

‘Christ, I can see that.’ His eyes are warm and sympathetic. He holds out his arms, as though everything is forgiven. ‘Come here, baby.’

I cross the room and let him hold me. It feels good. But I’m still guilty about the way I behaved downstairs. Uncomfortably so.

I lean my head on his chest and close my eyes. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise.’

‘I totally lost my cool.’

‘I know.’ He laughs softly. ‘It was impressive. Like standing too close to Mount Etna when it’s erupting.’

‘I wasn’t doing it for effect.’

‘Of course you weren’t.’ He strokes my hair, and laughs again. ‘It was still impressive though. My little volcano.’

‘Oh God. What must they be thinking?’