His & Hers(40)

Rachel laughs and hangs up.

I stare at the machine as though it were a ghost.

My sister stares at me as if I were a stranger.

“What’s that scratch?” she asks.

I feel for the little red scar on my cheek without meaning to. I saw Priya looking at it several times today but, unlike my sister, she was too polite to mention it.

“I cut myself shaving.”

Zoe frowns, and I remember the mask of stubble currently hiding my face.

“Was it you?” she asks eventually, in a voice so quiet, I barely hear the question.

I wish I hadn’t.

An unexpected montage of us as children silently plays inside my head. From me as a toddler pushing my baby sister on a swing, to birthday parties with our friends, to all the shared Christmases with our family. Only last week I was pushing her daughter, my niece, on the same swing hanging from the weeping willow in the back garden. There used to be a lot of love in this house. I’m not sure when or where it went.

“How can you ask me that?”

I stare at her, but Zoe’s eyes refuse to meet mine. I feel my heart thudding inside my chest; irregular palpitations caused by hurt, not anger. I always thought my sister would stand by me through anything. The idea that I was wrong about that isn’t like a slap in the face, it’s more like being repeatedly run over by a truck.

“I have a child sleeping upstairs, I had to ask,” she whispers.

“No, you didn’t.”

We stare at each other for a long time, having the kind of silent conversation that only close siblings can have. I know I need to say something out loud, but it takes a while to arrange the words in the right order.

“I did see Rachel last night.”

“In the woods?”

“Yes.” Zoe pulls a face I choose to ignore. “But then I left. I didn’t know there was anything wrong until I saw the missed calls on my phone when I got home. I drove back to help, but her car was gone and so was she. I called her mobile, but she didn’t answer, so I just presumed she’d managed to fix it.”

“Does anyone else know that you were there?”

“No.”

“You didn’t tell your police colleagues.”

I shake my head. “No.”

She stares at me for a long time, before asking her next question.

“Why didn’t you tell them?”

“Because they would look at me the way you are now.”

“I’m sorry,” she says eventually. “I had to ask, but I do believe you.”

“Okay,” I say, even though it isn’t and I’m not.

“I know we don’t ever say it, but I do love you.”

“I love you too,” I reply.

When she leaves the room, I cry for the first time since my daughter died.

Losing someone you truly love always feels like losing a part of yourself. Not Rachel—that was lust—I mean my sister. We might not have always been close—she never approved of my choice of wife, and I never approved of her choice of, well, anything—but I always thought she’d be the one to unplug the fan if the shit ever hit. I guess I was wrong, because it feels like something got broken between Zoe and me tonight. Something that can’t be fixed.

I sit alone in the semi-dark for a while, finishing the wine she probably left here deliberately, knowing that I would need it. When the bottle is empty and the house is silent again, I walk back over to the answering machine. Then I delete the message.

Sometimes it feels like I don’t know who I am anymore.





Her



Wednesday 04:30



I wake up covered in sweat and not knowing where or when I am.

The first thing that comes to the surface is her, my little girl. It is always the same.

Then I remember the hotel, and the drinks—before and after my embarrassing encounter with Richard—and I squeeze my eyes shut. As though if I keep them closed for long enough, it might be possible to delete all of my memories.

I was having a nightmare before I woke up.

I was running through the woods, and I was scared of something or someone that was chasing me. I fell, and as I was lying in the dirt, someone came into view then stood towering over my body, holding a knife. I was screaming for help in the dream, and now my throat hurts, as though I might have been screaming in real life.

I’m probably just dehydrated. I’d give anything for a soft drink right about now. I turn on the lights and am surprised to see a bottle of still mineral water by the bed. I don’t remember putting it there, but I silently thank my past self for being so thoughtful. I twist off the cap and gulp down the chilled liquid, so cold it is as though it has just been taken out of the fridge.

I check my phone and see that it was a text from Jack that woke me. For some reason it makes me feel better to know that he is having trouble sleeping too. It’s not sweet, but it is short, just four of his favorite words arranged in a familiar order:

We need to talk.

Not at four in the morning we don’t.

I climb out of the bed and creep over to the minibar, in search of a little something to help me get back to sleep. I fear I might have emptied it completely before I passed out, but gasp when I see that it is actually fully stocked. I look in the bin, but it is empty. I was sure I had sat on the bed eating snacks and drinking alone last night, but that must also have been a dream.