His & Hers(23)

I wait in the car. When nothing happens, I wait a little longer, but then the familiar mix of boredom and anticipation distracts me, and I get out to stretch my legs. I walk along the street, keeping an eye on the house, then stop to examine Anna’s Mini. There is nothing out of the ordinary about it—aside from the garish red color—there are no dents, no marks, no scratches. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I guess sometimes in my line of work—as well as in life—you don’t always know what you’re looking for until you find it.

And then I do.

I see a pay-and-display parking lot ticket with a familiar National Trust logo on the floor of the passenger seat. Discarded and a little crumpled, the small square of printed white paper doesn’t seem like anything of significance at first. I know she parked outside the woods this morning—I was there, I saw her. But I’m surprised that anyone in the media would have paid any attention to the parking meter, given the circumstances. I’m sure the National Trust was far more concerned with a body being found on its property than a few people forgetting to pay and display.

I stare at it a little longer, without knowing why, as though my eyes are patiently waiting for my brain to catch up with what they have seen. Then I check my watch before looking back at the ticket one last time. The date. It isn’t today’s. I push my face right up against the car window, squinting inside until I am absolutely sure of what I see. According to that little square of black-and-white paper, Anna visited the parking lot where the body was found yesterday.

I look up and down the street as though wanting to share this information with another human being, to have them verify that it is real.

Then I hear a woman scream.





Her



Tuesday 10:15



I stop screaming when my mother opens her eyes.

She looks as terrified as I feel at first, but then the creases in the skin around her mouth stretch into a smile, her face lights up in recognition, and she starts to laugh.

“Anna? You scared me!”

Her voice is the same as it always was, as though she is still the middle-aged mum I remember, not the old woman sitting in front of me now. I find it disorienting, how what I see and what I hear don’t match. My mother is only seventy, but life ages some people more quickly than others, and she was on a fast track for a long time. Fueled by drink and long periods of depression I never acknowledged or understood. There are things children choose not to see in their parents; sometimes it is best to walk past a mirror without stopping to look at your reflection.

She continues to laugh, but I don’t. I feel like a child again and can’t seem to find any words to fit the scenario. I am shocked by the state of her and the house, and have a terrible urge to turn around, walk out, and leave this place forever. And not for the first time.

“Did you think I was dead?”

She smiles and pulls herself up and out of the chair. It looks as though it requires considerable effort.

I let her hug me. I’m a little out of practice when it comes to affection—I can’t remember the last time someone held me—but I try not to cry and eventually remember to respond. It is a long time before either of us lets go. Despite the general chaos, there are still photos of me as a child dotted everywhere around the house. I feel them looking down at us, from the walls and dusty shelves, and I know all those earlier versions of myself would not approve of the me I am now. Every single picture that she ever framed is of me aged fifteen or younger. As though I stopped aging in my mother’s head after that.

“Let me look at you,” she says, though I doubt her misty eyes can see me like they used to.

We share an unspoken conversation about the number of months it has been since we last saw each other. All families have their own version of normal, and long periods of absence without explanation are ours. We both know why.

“Mum, the house … the mess … the boxes. What is going on?”

“I’m moving out. It’s time. Would you like some tea?”

She shuffles past me, out of the sunroom and into the kitchen, somehow finding the kettle among all the dirty cups and plates. She turns on the tap to fill it, and the elderly pipes rattle in protest. They make a strained noise, as though they are as tired and broken as she looks to me now. She places the kettle on the hob, because she thinks gas is cheaper than electricity.

“Take care of the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves,” she says with a smile, as though reading my mind.

I instantly think of myself as the bad penny who just turned up, and wonder if she is thinking the same. The silence is stretched and awkward while we wait for the kettle to boil.

My mother wasn’t always a cleaner, but everything about her and our home was always neat and tidy, spick-and-span, clean. It was as though she was allergic to dirt, and I think I may have inherited her OCD approach to hygiene. Though looking around now, that has clearly changed.

My parents bought this house so that we would be in the right catchment area for a good school. When I still didn’t get a place at a decent public one, they decided to pay for a private education, even though we couldn’t really afford it. My dad was away for work even more than before after that, but it was what they both wanted: to give me the start in life that neither of them had. For me, it was the start of a lifetime of not fitting in.