My mother’s words ricochet around my head as I make my way home.
This is your fault.
And Claire’s face crowds my vision.
You look like Mom.
And the letters swim in my mind, lines disjointed. Everything feels as if it’s coming to a head.
I suppose, in some ways, you were where it all began. My first, in more ways than one.
I can’t begin to tell you how good the attention felt. How much it fed me.
I suppose you were the point of no return.
I now live in constant fear of that thing. I’m trying to starve it out, but I don’t think it’s working.
In the end, my humiliation was so complete that I died a little before you did.
If you gave me the chance to do it all over again, I’d do everything differently with you. And then maybe I wouldn’t have to live with this unbearable regret.
My thoughts concertina against themselves until I can’t make sense of any of them. I can feel the string holding me together growing more taut by the minute. My cup is primed to overflow; I simply cannot hold anything more. And yet, it feels like there is more.
More.
Somehow, more.
More than my father’s fists.
More than my mother’s words.
More than the death of my sister.
More than Marc.
More than Luca.
More than George.
More than James.
I stop in my tracks. The string is fraying, I’m sure it’s fraying. I stagger to a bus shelter and collapse on the red plastic of a free seat. My neighbors glance at me, shuffle away. My breath has fled my chest and is in my mouth. It does no good in my mouth. I cannot breathe, and I know it is pure panic, only panic, but it feels like perhaps I’m dying.
For a moment, I wonder what I’ll leave behind if I go. I once thought I’d leave an indelible mark on James, that I’d leave an indelible mark on our children. And I suppose that at least on James, I have, in a fashion. But it’s not a beautiful tattoo, handpicked and carefully drawn. No, it’s a scar acquired in a horrific accident. A scar he’ll pull his sleeve up to hide. To hide with the other scars I suppose he’s been concealing all this time.
James.
I’m twisting around that deep wound now. I’ve been doing my best not to wriggle, but my god, I can’t keep still anymore. It’s clear that I never really knew him, and he never really knew me, and it hurts. My god, does it hurt.
Breathe, Natalie.
My own breath fights me, the shallow rise and fall of my chest seeming to shout,No.
A bus pulls up.
The car. I was making my way to the car. I should go.
And I do. I get to the car and climb in, hands almost shaking. I want to tell myself to get a grip, but I’m not entirely sure what I should be holding on to.
