Sometimes I Lie(27)

I felt wounded, the air knocked out of me for a moment to make room for all the thoughts fighting for space inside. I should have retreated, protected myself from further damage, but instead I invited her to strike me again. ‘What do they say?’

‘That everything happens for a reason.’ She emptied her glass and poured herself another. I remember my heart beating so loudly in my chest that I thought the whole restaurant must be able to hear it. I looked out at the lake and concentrated very hard on not crying, as her words went round and round in my head. The silence that followed was too uncomfortable, so my mother decided to fill it with some more words that might have been better left unspoken.

‘The thing is, I think we are more alike than you realise, you and I. I never wanted children either.’ She was mistaken. From that moment on, I wanted a baby almost as much as Paul, just to prove her wrong.

‘You didn’t want me?’ I asked. Thinking that she would surely explain that that wasn’t what she had meant.

‘No. I never felt maternal at all. The truth is, you were an accident. Your father and I got carried away one night and then I was pregnant, simple as that. I didn’t want to be pregnant and I certainly didn’t want a baby.’

‘But you loved me when I was born?’ I asked.

She laughed. ‘No, I despised you! It felt like life was over and as though you had ruined everything and all because we’d had too much to drink and not been careful! My mother looked after you for the first few weeks, I didn’t even want to look at you and everyone was worried that I would . . . not that I would have ever hurt you I’m sure.’ She had hurt me so often without even knowing she was doing it. ‘But things got easier as you got older. You grew up so quickly, always older than your years, even then. You started walking and talking before other children your age and you being there, well, it just became normal, as though you always had been.’

‘What about Claire?’

‘Well, it was different with Claire, obviously.’

Obviously.

I hear Claire’s voice, right on cue and I am back in the present, in my hospital bed, going nowhere. The irony is not lost on me; once again I’m sitting with my mother and waiting for Claire to fix us, to teach us how to be with each other and stop us from falling apart.

‘Here you are,’ says Claire. I picture them embracing, my mother’s face lighting up at the sight of her favourite child, gliding into the room with her long blonde hair and pretty clothes, no doubt. Claire sits down and takes one of my hands in hers.

‘Look at these hands, just like Mum’s but without the wrinkles.’ I imagine them smiling warmly at each other across the bed. I do look like Mum, that’s true. I have the same hands and feet, the same hair, the same eyes.

‘In case you can hear me, I need to tell you something,’ says Claire. ‘I hoped I wouldn’t have to, but you should know that he’d be here if he could.’ I feel like I am holding my breath, but the machine carries on pumping oxygen into my lungs. ‘Paul didn’t think the police were going to leave him alone and he was right. They’re saying his were the only other fingerprints in the car and they seem quite sure it wasn’t you driving. Then there are the bruises, the marks on your neck. Your neighbour said he heard you screaming at each other in the street. I know Paul didn’t do this to you, but it’s more important than ever now that you wake up.’ She squeezes my hand to the point where it hurts. I can feel the blanket of darkness rolling up over my neck, my chin, my face. I’m going to sleep, I can’t fight it any longer, but I have to hold on. Her final words are distant and distorted, but I hear them:

‘Paul has been arrested.’





Then

Wednesday, 21st December 2016 – Afternoon


I walk up our road enchanted by the little clouds of hot breath coming from my mouth and realise I’m smiling to myself. There is very little to smile about at the moment, so I promptly readjust my face. The sky is slowly killing itself up above while the street lights flicker to life to show me the way home. I close the gate behind me, while the cold fingers on my other hand switch to autopilot, searching for the key inside my handbag. When they’re warm enough to feel what they’re looking for, I let myself in. I can hear something. Without closing the door, I stumble through the tiny hall to the lounge and see Paul lying on the couch staring at the TV. The missing husband has returned. He looks up at me briefly, before looking back at the screen.

‘You’re home early,’ he says. That is all. I haven’t seen or heard from him for over twenty-four hours and that is all he has to say. I fold my arms without meaning to, like the stereotypical angry wife I’ve become.

‘Where have you been?’ I ask. My voice trembles slightly and I’m not even sure I really want to know the answer. I’m furious and yet at the same time so relieved to see that he’s OK.

‘At my mother’s house. Not that you care.’

‘What are you talking about? I’ve been worried sick. You could have called.’

‘I forgot my phone and the signal is shit at Mum’s house anyway. You’d know that if you ever bothered coming with me when I visit her. I left you a note and I called the landline. I thought you might make the effort to join me this time, given the circumstances.’