Sometimes I Lie(59)

‘She’s crying.’

The black sky runs down over the house and spills over the top of the car. The memory is being painted over, but I need to hold on to it, I have to remember what happened. I sense her presence before I see her. The girl in the pink dressing gown stands next to me and slips her little hand into mine. I can see her face now, I know who she is.

‘Look, she’s crying,’ says Paul again, from behind a tree and I realise that I am.

The little girl starts to cry too and I pull her close to me, knowing that I must never let her go. She couldn’t have stopped it from happening, it wasn’t her fault. The picture darkens, stripping away the memory until all that remains is black. It is only then that everything becomes clear. She chose silence and now I must endure it. The little girl holds me tight, over two decades fall away and I look down at the girl I used to be. She’s travelled a quarter of a century through time and space to remind me who I was then and tell me who I must be now.

Some people are ghosts before they are dead.





Then

Christmas Eve 2016 – Afternoon


My hands are still shaking when I arrive home. I left Claire at the Christmas market, walked away without turning back. The sky is dark with unfallen rain and I just want to get inside and shut the world and my mistakes out for good. I take the keys out of my bag and realise I’ve picked up Paul’s set instead of my own. It’s not like me to be so careless. I need to calm myself down, keep it together, stay focused. I feel better as soon as I’m inside. I lean my back against the door and encourage my breathing and thoughts to slow down. I close my eyes for a moment and try to think clearly but I still don’t have the answers when I open them. It’s hard to see something that isn’t there.

I peel off my coat in the hall, hang it on the rack and bend down to take off my shoes.

‘I’m home,’ I say without cheer or expectation.

There’s no response.

I untie the second set of laces.

‘Paul?’

Nothing.

I’ve never been fond of being touched by others. I’ve trained myself not to flinch or pull away, but I’ve always thought it was pointless to hold on to someone when you know you’ll have to let them go. Despite all of that, I’d like to be held right now. I’d like to hold on to someone and let them hold me back.

I can feel that I’ve burnt my tongue on the mulled wine and I’m thirsty so I head to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water from the tap. I look around as I gulp down the cool liquid and spot it straight away. I put down the glass and stare at the oven. The dial furthest to the left is not in the correct position. I straighten it until it is completely turned off, then stare at it, as though it might twist itself out of shape again before my eyes. I look around for an explanation and feel a surge of anger that Paul could be so careless, today of all days. I hear a floorboard creak in another room and allow my anger to bubble to the surface.

‘You left the oven on!’ I yell at no one as I march from room to room, looking for someone to blame. But Paul is not here. I come to a standstill in the front room, which is empty apart from an enormous Christmas tree in the corner. It wasn’t there when I left this morning, we’d agreed not to bother with decorations this year, but there it is, taller than me and covered in tiny white twinkling lights. Almost every branch of the tree has a decoration that Paul and I have bought together over the years: a miniature little brown bag from Bloomingdales from a trip to New York, a tiny greenstone angel from New Zealand, a white lace snowman from Germany. We used to travel so much, we’ll lead that life again now that he’s written another book. I stand there transfixed by the memories hanging from each branch and realise that I’m smiling without an audience, I’m happy just for the sake of it. I switch off the Christmas lights, I’ve read about them catching fire when left on for too long, houses burning to the ground.

I hear a floorboard creak upstairs and try to shake off any remaining irritation as I climb the stairs in search of Paul. He’s done a nice thing so I must forgive the other. I walk from room to room, there aren’t many so it doesn’t take long, but he isn’t here either. I retrace my footsteps back to our bedroom, something seemed different about it, something was out of place. I scan the room and spot the offending wardrobe doors which are ever so slightly open. They should always be closed. I’m breathing faster than normal and the hairs on my arms are standing to attention but I tell myself I’m just being silly. I walk over to shut them and notice that my clothes have been moved, they’re not in the right order. I always hang things up according to size and colour, I have a system and this isn’t it.

Something is wrong.

I’m sure of it now.

I’m not imagining it.

I stand perfectly still and listen for the smallest sound. Nothing. I creep along the landing, peering around doorways, scared of what I might see. Even my breathing seems too loud. I stop at the bathroom door. Now that I’m looking properly, I can see the medicine cabinet is slightly ajar and the towels are not lined up how I like them. Paul would never do this, he knows it would make me crazy. Someone else has been here.

Claire.

Claire would do this to punish me, to teach me a lesson. I don’t understand how she got back here before me, or how she got in without a key. I hold my breath until my thoughts are suffocated and I can be sure they won’t be heard.