22
I know I’ve been in my room for two days because it’s been light and dark and light and now it’s an hour into darkness again. For two days, questions have thrashed around the vortex of my mind and I’ve been unable to find an answer amongst the disarray. In no order, thoughts, concepts, subtle movements and noises are being absorbed but not processed. I’ve begun to notice some things for the first time: small, insignificant things. Like the seal of my white, Georgian sash bedroom window allows air to seep inside and gently blow the curtains. The door between the kitchen and hallway squeaks as it opens and closes, loud enough to be heard upstairs. Scotch appears to grow lighter in colour as the volume in your glass diminishes.
I hear voices sometimes, coming and going, saying nothing of consequence. Generally, people are sorry, sorry for our loss and the tragedy of Alzheimer’s. They never apologise for hiding from my dad as his illness got worse and they never acknowledge that it was not Alzheimer’s in the end but me, his only child, who killed him.
The day it happened, the day he was murdered, I kicked and punched but Jackson still brought Sandy and me home. I’m vaguely aware that he carried me into the house and onto the sofa where Sandy covered me with a blanket and gave me neat Scotch to drink. The first mouthful burned through my insides, along my veins, exactly as I deserved. The second burned less, the third and fourth less again.
I woke on the sofa during the night and poured another whisky, which I carried with me to my dad’s bedroom. It was different: cold and desolate. I’d intended to sleep in his bed, to cover myself in his sheets and sleep with his familiar, loving smell. But that smell was gone, replaced with the smell of stale urine. Medicinal products filled his room and displaced all that used to be safe and homely. I wondered then whether I was happy, not for myself but for my dad, or rather, relieved, relieved that he’d suffer no more, that he could sit on his cloud and play chess with old friends in good health. Perhaps he could even help people, put his skills to work.
Then I retched. I retched with hatred of myself and my disgusting thoughts because I knew that in no world could I justify what I brought upon my dad. After that, not even the Scotch could take away the agony I felt. That agony stayed with me as I left Dad’s room and entered my own. It stays with me now, burning like fire. My eyes sting constantly, the skin on my lips is broken and to speak feels like shards of glass ripping the flesh of my throat.
I loathe myself. I detest Gregory and his father and the fact that either of them ever came into my life. I can’t get hold of which of us I hate more and I fear for how I’ll feel when my anger finds its rightful home. I fear that the vicious circle of darkness hasn’t ended. That for me, it’s only just begun.
I think somewhere, deep inside me, I knew she’d come, so Lara’s voice offering sympathy to Sandy at the front door is no surprise. Their voices are quiet but it’s clear that Sandy, Jackson and Lara are taking turns to speak. I hear the kettle being filled then placed on its holster and I imagine they’re sitting around the breakfast bar, Lara in a long, black coat, elbow-length, black gloves and a veil across her face. Jackson in his black suit and tie, wearing a black homburg and carrying spare silk handkerchiefs in his pocket.
Sandy taps on my bedroom door before stepping inside. For some reason, I feel compelled to change from my leggings and hooded jumper before I see Lara. Fleetingly, I wonder what Gregory would think of my dowdy clothes, my pale skin and the black rings beneath my eyes.
I change into chinos and a cream blouse but, reaching to release my hair from the messy knot on top of my head, I realise my arms are devoid of energy and the desire to cover my shame in make-up no longer exists. I want the world to see what I’ve done.
The light in the hallway is much brighter than the dim lamp in my bedroom, forcing me to squint. Anxiety or nervousness builds as I descend the staircase and I clutch the banister to steady my weak legs. The house feels different: detached and unfamiliar. The curtains seem old and the gold frames around the hanging pictures have lost their shine. Each step moves me forwards in slow motion, like a scene that’s been time-stretched in a movie for dramatic effect.
She can’t see you like this. You can’t let her see what they’ve done to you.
With each inward breath, my back straightens, my shoulders move back. Suddenly, vicious anger takes over my body until I’m biting down on gums and the taste of iron seeps into my spit.
A low, careful voice says, ‘Scarlett. I wasn’t sure you’d see me.’ Lara hangs her head.
‘Do you think I have good reason to refuse?’
I acknowledge Jackson’s presence and note his position on a stool close to Sandy. Perhaps for her sake more than my own, I thank him for bringing me home from the hospital. He only nods.
‘Let’s go to the lounge,’ I say, already walking in the direction, my back to Lara.
I was wrong about her clothes. She’s immaculate but understated in tapered, black trousers and flat shoes. She hasn’t removed her three-quarter-length, black, wool coat and zebra-print scarf. That she truly didn’t expect to see me, that I have enough control to send her away, makes me feel stronger.
Pouring myself a neat Scotch from Dad’s decanter, I finally look at her face.
‘Why are you here, Lara?’
She sighs, squeezing her eyes shut. ‘I realise I have no right to ask anything of you, Scarlett. I know what that beast has done and I wish I could undo it. But I can’t, so I also know that I can tell you how sorry I am about your father as many times as I like and whilst it might make me feel better, you either won’t believe me or won’t care. But please know this: Gregory’s a good man. He’s not like his father. There’s nothing of that hateful man in my son. I’m here to tell you how sorry I am but also to beg you not to blame my son for his past.’
Unwillingly, my body whispers loud enough for her to hear, ‘I would believe you.’ I think part of me knows Gregory couldn’t have stopped this and I do know that little boy in my mind is not to blame. The other part of me hates everything that’s happened and everyone I’ve met since that pitch in Gregory’s boardroom. The knife already buried in my gut twists. A searing pain threatening to tear me apart.
Lara exhales, long, slowly, purposefully, as if she’s been holding her breath. Her bright-red lips are pursed.
I walk to the fire that Sandy has lit and rest my hand on the old, wooden mantelpiece to give myself a chance to remember that I can’t feel sorry for this woman. I drain the Scotch in my glass, pinching my eyes shut to feel the burn.
‘Scarlett, I want to tell you a story. Can I tell you a story?’
I’m terrified of what she might tell me. I don’t know whether I can take any more of this family and their convoluted web. I say nothing and continue to stare into the orange flames.
‘Imagine you’re five years old.’
I close my eyes but don’t see a five-year-old version of myself; I see the little boy from my dad’s operating theatre.
‘You’re five years old. Your mum has cuddled you to sleep in your bed because you can’t sleep alone. You’re terrified of the dark, you jump whenever you hear a bang or a creek in the house, you shake when you hear the sound of your own father’s voice. Your mum has tucked you into bed in the knowledge that in an hour, maybe two, your father will be home. You both hate it when he’s drunk but he’s drunk so often that you only pray he’s drunk enough to pass out when he comes home. Even when he’s that drunk, you’ll probably wake and most likely wet the bed at the sound of his keys fumbling for the door lock. Your mum will be back to change your bed and cuddle you to sleep again.’
I open my eyes and watch the roaring fire. Taking my glass back to the bar table to top it up, I pour Lara a drink too, which she sips elegantly without looking up. I retake my position by the fire.
