Undone(94)

I don’t let myself think about the dream of Kai and me ending up together. It was too painful to think about then and it’s even worse now. Plus I was never able to properly picture Kai loving me the way I wanted him to. My brain would never let me go there, probably because it knew there was zero chance of that dream becoming reality.

Wishful thinking doesn’t change anything. What happened to Sasha doesn’t change anything. Knowing the truth about Max and Louise doesn’t change anything.

I live in a world in which Kai doesn’t exist any more. I’m not willing to do that for much longer.





chapter fifty-seven


The rest of Saturday was not particularly pleasant. Mum wouldn’t leave me alone, asking questions and fretting about Sasha. Dad stayed out of the way, after hugging me and saying, ‘Thank God you’re OK.’ I couldn’t help wondering if that would be the last time I would get to hug him.

After a couple of hours of tea and sympathy that went exactly as I’d expected, I finally escaped to my room on the pretext of needing sleep. A nasty shock was awaiting me – a shock that wouldn’t have been a shock if I’d been thinking clearly.

Sasha’s things were everywhere. One of her boots was peeking out from under the bed. The top she’d been wearing when she came over was slung over the back of my chair, on top of my favourite hoodie. Her make-up bag was lying on its side, the contents spilling onto a purple folder on my desk.

I gathered everything up, trying not to think or feel. Put everything in her bag, put the bag by the door. Then lay curled up on my bed and closed my eyes. It was no good; I could smell the fire. My clothes, my body, were coated in the stench of smoke.

Even after a shower I could still smell it. That’s when I realized it was in my head.

I tried to sleep, but all I could think about was burning and blistering and screaming. I stopped trying after an hour or so, because what was the point? I could manage without sleep for another twenty-four hours and then it wouldn’t matter.

I needed to know if there was any news about Sasha. Mum was bound to ask, and it would be weird for me not to know. Lucas was the best bet, in spite of everything. The others were sure to ignore me. I rewrote the message seven times before I was happy with it: I know I’m the last person you want to talk to, but pls let me know how S is doing. Please. I won’t bother you again after this. I’m sorry. I didn’t add any Xs. It didn’t seem appropriate somehow.

I stared at my phone for God knows how long before I realized he wasn’t going to reply. When Mum asked at dinner I said Sasha was stable and that the doctors were pleased with her progress so far. I had no idea if this was anywhere close to convincing, but Mum nodded and patted my hand. She said, ‘There but for the grace of God …’ which was an odd thing for someone who doesn’t believe in God to say.

It was the last supper. I noticed every detail. Dad’s foot tapping out an annoying rhythm on the lino. Mum cutting up all her food before she started eating; Noah and I used to laugh at her for that. I’d say, ‘OCD much?’ and he would sing, ‘OCD! OCD!’ over and over again even though he had no idea what it meant.

Noah ate his lasagne and barely said a word. I desperately wanted him to be his usual motormouth self, as if I could store up the memories of the nonsense he spouted and take them with me to the grave. Mum and Dad both tried their best to engage him, but he was having none of it. The three of us exchanged glances before I spoke up. ‘So what do you say I kick your skinny butt on the X-box after dinner? Game of your choice, best of three. Loser has to …’ I was going to say ‘do the winner’s chores for a whole week’ but the words dried up in my mouth. Noah would be doing all the chores from now on. Or maybe none of the chores, because Mum and Dad would go easy on him because his sister was dead. I didn’t need to finish the sentence because Noah said he didn’t feel like it. Mum chipped in to ask him if he was sure. She even said she’d make him an ice-cream float, which was his absolute favourite. Noah just shrugged and said it was too cold for ice-cream floats.

As soon as he finished eating, Noah went up to his room. Mum followed him a couple of minutes later. Dad and I watched a David Attenborough documentary that he’d recorded during the week, and it was nearly finished by the time Mum trudged down the stairs. Noah had been crying. He was upset about Sasha. He was worried about something happening to me. He wanted to know why bad things kept happening to people he knows.

If hell exists, I will be going there.

On Sunday morning it’s the same routine as always. I seem to be the only one who remembers what day it is. One whole year.

Dad goes out to get the papers (stopping off for an espresso on the way home). Mum’s rushing around trying to find Noah’s swimming goggles, while he sits at the table rolling up his towel around his trunks. I choke down some Cheerios while Noah watches me closely. ‘What are you looking at, shrimp?’ He sticks his tongue out at me and I laugh. It’s one of our little rituals.

The only change in the routine is that I hug Noah before he leaves. Mum doesn’t notice; she’s halfway to the car already. Normally Noah would wriggle out of my grasp, but today he hugs me back. I tell him I love him and he tells me he loves me. It’s the perfect goodbye – so perfect it makes me wonder if on some level he knows. That’s not possible, but I can’t shake the thought as I get on the bus.