“But you will. One day you will. Because this won’t work out the way you want it to, Sebastian.”
My body doesn’t feel like it belongs to me any longer. It’s weak, tremors spreading out through every limb, muscles not obeying what I tell them to do. “I have to give it a chance.”
And she stands firm, tilting her chin at me again like a gladiator going into battle. “Then you’ll also lose me.”
Staring at her—tiny, frightened, beaten down by life—I think I can’t go against her. It will break my heart to even try. Tear out such a sizeable chunk of me I’ll need life support.
The futility of it all washes across me, bleaching all the colours until the beauty around me fades.
In the moment, it’s all too much. “I won’t lose you, Mum.”
And she comes to me, hugging tightly, pouring out her inexhaustible supply of affection as my future turns from colour to grey.
Then I give her another solution. A better one.
“I won’t lose you because you’re going to help me.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
ESME
My party frockis a white floaty number with giant hibiscus flowers printed on the silky material. The deep colours remind me of blood on ceramic tiles. Not the greatest parallel to draw in the middle of a friendly get-together but one my mind can’t quite shake.
“Richard,” I say, greeting a guest I’ve seen little of since I was a child, maybe ten or eleven.
Back then, of course, I saw far more of him than any little girl should, so perhaps it all evens out in the end.
My stomach feels like someone’s doing backflips in there; images crowd my mind, each new one flowing in quicker than I can push the last one away. I make my lips smile, hoping the effort will fool my brain into thinking I’m happy, just for a moment, just for a second.
It won’t, but I still try, even knowing the only thing that stops the flood of horrifying images is a long cut in my skin to let them escape.
“Can I fetch you a drink?” I tip forward to whisper, “There’s a good bottle of muscatel Dad’s hidden away in the back of the cabinet, and if you want me to pour you a glass, I won’t tell.”
“Lead the way.”
We weave among the other guests, me purposely ignoring the increasingly annoyed glances from Marnie because I don’t want to get dragged into another lecture on putting my best foot forward and how I should be so grateful for… insert whatever her current mood is fixated on, here.
There’s a dearth of staff members, enough that a few dishes have built up in the sink. I quickly insert myself between the imperfect view and our guest. It never pays to let any subpar visuals show.
Another titbit from the bank of Allain. A branch I’m growing rather tired of, myself.
“Here you go,” I say, filling a sherry glass and trying not to gag at the sweet smell of the fortified wine.
“You’re not joining me?”
I hold my glass of water up, smiling broadly. “On the next one, I promise. Still got to finish this.”
The slice of lemon on the side makes it look like a gin and tonic, but it’s just an easy cover story. I’ve lost my taste for alcohol.
On the morning Marnie fetched me home from Kingswood, the hangover and the codeine clouded my judgement, perhaps robbing me of a better outcome. No crying over spilled milk and all that, but today’s another important day and I don’t want a blurred mind ruining it for me.
This morning, I paid a visit to the old shed hidden back in the adjoining woods. It was my favourite hidey-hole as a child, whenever things became too much, I would run there. Listening to the constant noise from the undergrowth, sometimes just lying on the clay floor and staring at the ceiling, thoughts floating through my head, none of them sticking in place.
With each year, it’s lost more and more of its structure to the surrounding wilderness. Its wooden slats were never waterproofed; in summer they swell in the heat, in winter shrinking so the chilly breeze off the lake blows through the widening gaps.
Moss has now eaten through a large part of the ceiling, letting in rainfall to do more damage. I had to pick my way among the detritus on the floor, my favourite sitting spot now a refuge for oyster mushrooms.
The wind might have been bitter, but the memories were warm. Even the last one, the one I’d shied away from, scared it would do me harm.
