“The teacher said I wasn’t eating. They think I’m anorexic. I don’t eat because I can’t,” she added theatrically. I could understand her being upset about a teacher poking her nose in, but her hysteria left me mystified.
But as I found out, it was always the same. Like her clothes, Hollie’s defenses are paper-thin. Every barbed word pierces her skin, is personal. She has no armor against a world she believes is set against her.
The day after my parents went to the pub with everyone else, when I come back from school, before the bus stops, Hollie’s sitting on the wall, waiting for me, her eyes red, as if she’s been crying. As the bus slows and I get off, she falls into step beside me. Even before she speaks, I feel her restlessness radiate into me. “I hate this place,” she tells me, meaning the village. “Is your mum home?”
“I don’t know.” I lose track of when she’s flying. Every week, my mother’s roster is different. “You can come in if you like.”
Hollie looks wary. “Not if she’s there.”
I frown at her. Hollie doesn’t usually mind my mum. “Why not?”
“I just don’t want to see her. OK?” Her voice is fierce.
At the bottom of the drive, I glance toward the house. My father’s car is there, which is odd. “She’s out. That’s my dad’s car.” I look at Hollie. “Are you coming in?”
She hesitates. But she knows we won’t see him. “OK. But if she comes back I’m going . . .” There’s an odd look on her face.
Whatever it is that’s on her mind, I know she’ll tell me. It’s the reason she comes here. She doesn’t have anyone else. I try the back door, finding it locked. “He must be out.” I unlock the back door, and Hollie follows me in. I sling my bag on the floor, while Hollie goes over to the huge vase on the table. Usually empty, today it’s filled with all kinds of flowers.
“D’you want a drink?” As I look at her, it’s like she’s inhaling them.
Then she looks up at me. “What is there?”
Shrugging, I go to the fridge, frowning as I pass the sink filled with several more bunches. What is it with my mother and all these flowers? “Orange juice, milk, Coke...”
“Is it diet?”
Hollie’s skinny. That her teacher phoned her dad didn’t surprise me—I hardly ever see her eat, but when she does, she wolfs down food as though she’s been starved for a month. Checking the can, I nod, passing it to her, getting another for myself, before going to the pantry for a bag of chips.
“Let’s go to your room.” Hollie’s more on edge than usual, constantly glancing through doorways and windows, as if expecting someone to appear.
“Yeah.” But she runs ahead as I pick up my bag and walk upstairs.
In my room, Hollie collapses on my bed, gazing at the ceiling. “God. This is the only place I feel safe.” It’s the kind of thing she often says, overly dramatic. “No one asks questions or expects anything from me here.”
I half listen, wondering why she’s avoiding my mum. Then suddenly she sits up. “You want to know, don’t you? I saw her this morning. Your mum... I bunked school.”
I’d guessed that already; otherwise she wouldn’t have been waiting for me at the bus stop.
“She gave me one of those talks about not missing school. I thought she was different but she’s just like everyone else. I used to imagine I could talk to her.” Hollie sounds tearful. “No one knows how I’m feeling, Niamh.”
Suddenly I’m irritated. It’s like last night all over again. Hollie tells me something terrible is going on, something she can’t talk about, and I’m supposed to just let her lie on my bed and wallow. Folding my arms, I stare at her. “I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s happened.”
Before she can reply, there’s the scrunch of car tires on gravel. Hollie leaps up and runs to the landing window. I follow more slowly.
“She’s back. I have to go. Shit.” She sounds hysterical again. “I don’t want to see her.”
Running back to my room, she goes to the window and opens it. It’s the craziest overreaction. My window is too high for her to jump from. I put my hand on her arm. “Wait. She might go into the garden or to the bathroom or something.”
From my bedroom, I hear the back door open as my mother goes into the kitchen, then cupboards opening and closing, before she runs the tap and turns on the kettle. Then I hear her boots on the wooden floor as she comes to the bottom of the stairs.
“Are you up there, Niamh?” At the sound of my mother’s voice, behind me, Hollie shrinks back.
“Yeah.”
“I’ve put the kettle on. Would you like tea?”
“No. Thanks. I’m doing homework.”
As I turn to go back into my room, Hollie’s distraught, cowering behind my door. “Why are you so upset? Does it matter that you’re here?”
“Shhh...” Hollie’s eyes are wide as she shakes her head. “She’ll know you’re talking to someone. You have to help me. I have to get out.”
Just then, I hear my mother coming up the stairs. Holding my breath, I glance at Hollie, then I hear the door to my parents’ bedroom open, then another door inside to the en suite.
“Now,” I tell Hollie urgently. “She’s in the bathroom. Just be really quiet.”
Without speaking, Hollie flies down the stairs. I don’t hear the back door open, just glimpse her from an upstairs window, running across the grass, before I go back to my room and get my homework out. Five minutes later, there’s a knock on my door, and my mother pushes it open.
“I just saw Hollie running across the garden.”
I look away. “Yeah. She suddenly remembered something she had to do.”
My mother gives me an odd look. “Be careful, Niamh. I know you and Hollie are close, but there’s something going on. I’m worried about her.”
My mother is now an expert on Hollie? I don’t think so. I raise my eyebrows at her. “I have homework,” I say pointedly.
Heat rises in my cheeks as she glances toward my unopened schoolbooks. “No doubt you do.” Her voice is cool. “In that case, I’ll let you get on.”
5
Elise
In this house of charades, Niamh pretends to do her homework, while I arrange the rest of the flowers, then start dinner for my disunited family. On the outside looking in, there’s nothing to set us apart from anyone else: Soft gray curtains are drawn against the darkness; the smell of caramelizing onions filling the house; the serene sound of Classic FM floating in the air; the teenage daughter reluctantly studying in her bedroom; the wife cooking dinner for the doctor husband, who’ll soon be home after another day of healing people. Ludicrous façades, when underneath, we barely know each other. For a moment I imagine a different kind of life—one with honesty, laughter, lightness; where love is demonstrated, not withheld or wielded with intent.
My daydream is interrupted by the sound of a car outside. It pauses while a door slams; then as footsteps on gravel come nearer, it drives away. When the back door opens, it’s clear the day hasn’t improved Andrew’s mood. If anything, it’s worse.
“You’re early.” I’m icily polite, imagining he’s been stood up by his lover. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here.
“Hardly,”