Sometimes I Lie(76)

‘Did you tell anyone?’ I asked.

She didn’t ask what about, just shook her head and looked down. ‘Good,’ I told her. ‘Bad things happen when you tell tales on people.’ She looked at me then, her face was sort of blank, not happy but not sad either. I tapped the patch of grass next to where I was sitting and eventually she came and sat down next to me. She wasn’t wearing a coat and I knew she must be cold so I reached out to hold her hand and she let me. I squeezed it three times and she squeezed it three times back. I knew then that we were going to be all right, that nothing had changed, not really. She’d got herself a bit lost, but I’d found her again. We might be sisters now, but we’ll always be peas in a pod.





Then

Christmas Day, 2016 – Night


Claire puts her head under my arm, taking most of my weight, then leads me back out to the car. I let her, I’m not sure I can stand on my own anyway. I’m still bare foot as we stumble down the driveway, wet gravel slicing at my toes. She lowers me into the passenger seat and I notice she’s wearing red leather gloves I’ve never seen before. I’m sitting sideways and I can hear someone crying inside the car, it takes a few seconds to realise that it’s me. She gets in behind the wheel, fastens her seat belt and closes the door.

‘Where are the diaries, Amber?’

‘I told you, I burned them.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘For God’s sake, just get me to the hospital.’

She’s never driven Paul’s MG before but reverses out of the driveway as though it’s her own car. One red glove on the steering wheel, the other resting on the gearstick at all times, like a racing driver; someone in control. I close my eyes and place my own hands over my belly, as though I’m trying to hold her inside of me. I’m sure it’s a girl.

Claire and I don’t speak as she steers us out of her road. The only voices I can hear are on the radio, but even they’re not real, it’s all pre-recorded. Occasionally, I open my eyes to look out of the windows, to make sure she’s going the right way, but all I can see is black. I have to press one hand against the dashboard to hold myself steady as we turn a corner.

‘I thought you couldn’t get pregnant,’ she says, changing into second gear. I think we’re on the main road now, it won’t be long.

‘Neither did I.’

Third gear.

‘Does Paul know?’

‘No.’

Fourth gear.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You always said we didn’t need anyone else.’

Fifth.

I open my eyes and realise that the cramping has stopped. I don’t know what that means.

‘The pain has gone,’ I say and try to sit up a little. ‘I think I might be OK.’ A trickle of relief floods through me. I look over at Claire but her face hasn’t changed, as though she didn’t hear me. ‘You bled once when you were pregnant with the twins, didn’t you?’ I ask.

‘You should still get yourself checked out at the hospital, better safe than sorry.’

‘You’re right. But you can slow down a bit now.’ She doesn’t respond, just stares straight ahead. ‘Claire, I said you should slow down, I think I’m OK.’ My hands move instinctively back to my stomach.

‘You should have told me,’ she says, so quietly I’m not sure I would have heard the words at all if I hadn’t seen her lips move. Her face has twisted into something ugly. ‘We used to tell each other everything. If you just did what I told you and stopped telling lies none of this would be happening. You’ve only yourself to blame if it’s dead.’

‘It’s not dead,’ I say. Tears burst the banks of my eyelids and roll down my cheeks. I’m sure of it too, I swear I can feel my unborn child’s heartbeat as well as my own. Claire nods. She believes me that the baby is still alive. I close my eyes and grip the side of my chair a little harder. I just need to hold on, it can’t be much further. We’re going so fast now, we must nearly be there.

‘Amber.’

Claire puts her gloved hand on mine. It’s cold and I open my eyes to see her staring at me instead of at the road. She smiles and the instant terror numbs me.

‘I love you,’ she says, before turning back to the road with both hands on the steering wheel.

I hear the brakes screech, and then everything slows down. My body lifts from the chair and I’m flying. I crash through the windscreen, hands first, as though diving through a pool of glass. A thousand tiny pieces rip through every part of my body. It doesn’t hurt, all the pain is gone. I fly high into the night sky. I can see the stars, so close I can almost touch them, but then my head smashes into the tarmac followed by a shoulder, then my chest, tearing pieces of my skin as I skid to an abrupt halt. Everything is still. I’m not flying any more.

The pain returns except now it’s everywhere and so much worse than before. I’m broken inside and out and I’m afraid. I don’t cry, I can’t, but I feel the blood run down my face like red tears. I hear a car door slam and the faint sound of the radio, a Christmas song is still playing. The agony increases until it turns everything black. And then I can’t feel the pain any more, I can’t feel anything, I can only sleep.