The Switch(71)

*

Mum texts me later to invite me around the next day. It’s the first time she’s suggested I come to her house, and I feel tenser than ever as I make my way over there, my fists clenching and unclenching beneath the sleeves of my hoodie.

As soon as she opens the door, I know she’s pushed things too far this time.

‘No, no no no,’ Mum says, grabbing me as I try to bolt. ‘Just come in, Leena.’

‘I don’t want to.’

The door to the living room is open. The room is exactly like it was when Carla died – all that’s missing is that bed. There’s even that chair where I used to sit, holding her hand in mine, and I can almost see the bed, the ghost of it, invisible blankets and invisible sheets—

‘I’m trying something new,’ Mum says. ‘This podcast I’ve been listening to, by that professor – she says looking at photographs is a wonderful way to help you process memories, and I thought – I wanted to go through some photos with you. In here.’

Mum takes my hand and squeezes. I notice she has one of those old photo envelopes from Boots in her other hand, and I flinch as she pulls me in to stand on the doormat.

‘Just try coming in, love.’

‘I can hardly bear to look at that photo,’ I say, pointing to the one on the hall table. ‘I really don’t think I can do a whole stack.’

‘We’ll just ease into it slowly,’ Mum says. ‘One step at a time.’ She turns and cocks her head, staring at the photo of Carla on prom day as if she’s seeing it for the first time. ‘That photo,’ she says.

She walks over to the hall table, picking up the frame, then looks up at me.

‘Shall we bin it?’

‘What? No!’ I say, eyes widening, and I walk towards her to grab the picture.

Mum doesn’t let go of the frame. ‘Carla would loathe it. It’s been there so long I’ve stopped seeing it – I’m not sure I even like it very much. Do you like it?’

I hesitate, then I let go of the picture. ‘Well, no. I kind of hate it, actually.’

Mum links arms with me and marches me down the hall. As we move across the living-room threshold my eyes skit over the space where the bed would be, and my stomach drops with the same sensation you get when you go flying over a bridge in a fast car.

‘It should go. It’s a terrible photo. It’s not Carla,’ Mum says.

She drops it into the bin in the corner of the living room.

‘There. There. Oh, that felt a bit strange,’ she says, suddenly pressing a hand to her stomach. I wonder if her emotions tend to boil there, too, like mine do. ‘Was that awful of me?’

‘No,’ I say, staring down into the bin. ‘The photo was awful. You were just … impulsive. It was good. Mum-ish.’

‘Mum-ish?’

‘Yeah. Mum-ish. Like when you suddenly got cross with the green wallpaper one day and we got back from school to find you’d peeled it all off.’

Mum laughs. ‘Well. In case you didn’t notice … you’re in the living room.’ She tightens her grip on my arm. ‘No, don’t go running off. Here. Come and sit down on the sofa.’

It’s not as bad as I thought, actually, being in the room. It’s not like I forgot what this place looked like. It’s seared on my memory, right down to the old stain in the corner by the bookcase and that dark splodge where Grandma fell asleep and let a candle burn down on the coffee table.

‘Do you like this as it is?’ I ask Mum as we sit down. ‘This house, I mean? You’ve not changed it at all since …’

Mum bites her lip. ‘Maybe I should,’ she says, looking around the living room. ‘It would be nice if it was a bit … fresher.’ She flicks open the wallet of photographs. ‘Now – looking at the photographs is supposed to move the memory into a different compartment of my brain,’ she says vaguely. ‘Or something.’

With enormous effort I suppress my urge to eye-roll. God knows which pseudo-science book she’s got that one from, but I very much doubt there’s a clinical trial proving the efficacy of such a technique.

But … Mum thinks it’ll help. And maybe that’s enough.

‘Paris,’ I say, pointing at the top photo. It hurts to look at Carla’s smiling face, but I’m getting a little better at this – if you sit with the hurt it’s a tiny bit easier, like relaxing your muscles instead of shivering when it’s cold. ‘Remember the boy Carla convinced to kiss her on the top of the Eiffel Tower?’

‘I don’t seem to remember him needing much convincing,’ Mum says.

‘And she never would acknowledge how awful her French was.’

‘You were on at her about pronunciation all week,’ Mum says. ‘Drove her up the wall.’

We move along, photo after photo. I cry, messy snotty crying, and Mum cries a lot too, but it’s not that choked sobbing I remember her doing after Carla died, when I had to hold it together on my own. This time they’re the sort of tears you can brush away. Mum’s doing so well, I realise. She’s come so far.

We break for tea then finish the photos. I’m not sure any memories have moved brain compartments, but when I get up to switch on the light, I notice that I’ve walked right across the space where the bed used to be, as if it’s just ordinary carpet.