Her One Mistake(97)
She’d been curious to know more about Evergreen, as most people are. “And only one hundred people lived there?” she’d asked me, stunned.
I nodded. “Just over. I knew all of them and they all knew me.” I told her how wonderful it was as she gaped back at me. “I honestly loved it.” I laughed. I knew some people thought it was claustrophobic, but there was nowhere else on earth I wanted to be.
“And you didn’t find it too remote?” Another popular question, because even though the ferry only took thirty minutes, you couldn’t see Evergreen from the Dorset coast.
“I didn’t.” I’d smiled, careful not to let cracks show. My sister, however, hated the fact that in the winter months my dad’s ferry only ran once a day. But then, my sister hated all the things that’d made me love it.
I knew the therapist would soon be digging her fingers into the end of our last summer on the island and the years after we’d left. She would want to know what triggered my family to break down, and I wouldn’t be able to tell her. Every one of us held our secrets close, and because we’d never spoken about them, they’d cracked us apart in the end.
I wanted to help other families talk because that’s where we went wrong, only I wasn’t going to tell her that. Instead I breezed through what happened to us after we left, highlighting only the bare facts.
I try to banish the memories of the few sessions I’d endured, as a drop of rain splats on my head. Soon I need to dive for cover in the nearest shop before I’m drenched. I must have left my umbrella at work, I realize, as I meander toward the wine shelves of the convenience store, choosing a ￡10 bottle of sauvignon blanc while waiting for the worst of the rain to pass.
Back at my flat I pour a glass and sit by the window in the kitchen, watching the rain that is now steadily drumming against the pane. Despite having little to do this weekend, and regardless of the fact I don’t work a usual five-day week, I still get that Friday feeling and have gotten into a comfortable routine: once I’ve finished this glass I’ll make a curry, then have another drink with Marco in his flat above me, while ignoring his pleas to join him clubbing.
As it is, I don’t get back to my own flat until just before 10 p.m., but I’m not ready to go to bed. Instead I pull a blanket over me and snuggle down on the sofa, flicking on the TV and grabbing a magazine from the coffee table that I idly thumb through.
The news comes on and I glance up. A reporter is standing outside a house, a large umbrella over her while the wind whips her ponytail from side to side. My eyes drift to the ticker tape at the bottom of the screen and then back again to her. I don’t recognize any of the details behind her at first and am about to turn back to the magazine, when something catches my attention.
They’ve caught it at a funny angle, one you’d barely stop to look at, but there’s a distinguishable window on the top floor, circular with obscured glass. I inch forward on the sofa and grab the remote again, turning up the volume so I can hear what she’s saying over the hammering that’s beginning to beat in my ears.
It’s funny that I didn’t recognize it immediately, when every detail is etched on the inside of my eyelids. When all I need to do is call up my memory and I can paint a picture of a thousand pixels in intricate detail. But then, it doesn’t look the same. Not entirely.
The other windowsills are painted a deep teal, and now the camera is panning out so I can see more of it. There are colonial-style white fascia boards and a conservatory at the front. It doesn’t look like my house any longer. Yet unmistakably it is. The white picket fence that runs along the left-hand side is still there. Dad had put that up one summer to separate our garden from the path that runs alongside it. On the right, tall pines still drape the length of the garden.
I feel my pulse racing quicker and I try to ignore it to focus on her words. “Clearly the whole island is in shock,” she says.
I look back at the ticker tape reeling its breaking news, the words . . . Island last night, roll out of sight to the left of the screen and a new headline about Syria follows.
“And are the police able to release any more details?” This comes from a woman in the studio, but the screen is still filled with the view of my house and garden, panning out farther still and exposing a white police tent that is flanked by officers. It has been erected to the right, behind the house, tucked neatly between it and the trees that separate the garden from the woods beyond.
“Not yet, but the forensics teams have been working here all day,” the reporter says.
I look back at the tape. Body found on Evergreen Island last night, it now reads in full. I freeze, before scrunching my hands up tightly, willing the blood to rush through them and stop the numbness from spreading up my arms.
A body has been found on the island. And even though no one has said it outright, it’s clear it’s been buried in the garden of my old house.