‘What do you think will happen, Deborah? That an apple tree will grow inside you?’
I’ve since learned that apple seeds contain cyanide, so I’ll be sure to tell her that if she brings it up again.
The steam from the bath starts to blur the glass.
‘You know it’s not meant to be like this.’
A man’s voice. It sounded like Uncle Charlie again. But what if it’s not him – what if it’s God trying to speak to me?
I open the bathroom door.
‘Mum? Is that you?’
Silence.
There’s nobody upstairs. What’s happening to me?
I dress quickly, putting on whatever’s on the back of the chair in the bedroom.
Downstairs, Mum has dressed Bobby, and a sleeping Annie is in her pram under the window. Mum looks up at me as I loiter at the living-room door again, as though it’s not my house.
‘Are you all right?’ says Mum. ‘You look as though you’ve forgotten something.’
‘I’m fine.’
I walk straight to the kitchen without saying another word. After the sleeping for a week conversation, I can’t tell her what’s actually worrying me; she wouldn’t understand. The voice I heard sounded as though it was outside of my head, but there was no one there. I feel like someone’s watching me all the time.
I don’t know what’s real and what’s not any more.
Anna
It has been five days since I read the email and I still can’t find the right words to write back. I searched the loft for the box of Debbie’s things, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. This morning, Jack suggested it might be in the storage unit with the rest of the belongings we haven’t seen for years. I must not have looked at her things for over three years. Jack promised he would go over later to collect what he can find.
I pull up outside Dad and Monica’s to collect Sophie. I haven’t seen nor heard from Monica since last week. I should have brought her a box of chocolates or something to let her know I’m thinking of her – that I appreciate all that she’s done for me.
Growing up, neither I nor Robert called her Mum. Robert had always known her as Monica, so I must have copied him. ‘Why do you call your mum by her first name?’ friends used to ask. ‘She just likes it that way,’ I’d say, too embarrassed to tell the truth.
Monica never treated us any differently to Leo. It must have annoyed him. I haven’t heard from him in months – he’s been living in America near his dad for almost ten years. It must be so hard for Monica, Leo being so far away.
Dad opens the door before I have the chance to ring the doorbell.
‘Good day, love?’ he asks, as though it is a normal, unremarkable day.
How can he act so nonchalant? My mother is alive! Perhaps he’s worried about Monica. Leo’s been gone for so long, and now my mother might be coming back to replace her. Like she did to Debbie.
I put my head around the living-room door. Sophie raises her hand in greeting, chewing something without taking her eyes off the television. There’s a plate next to her with an unopened tangerine.
‘Not bad, thanks,’ I say. ‘Is that chocolate she’s eating?’
Dad’s hovering in the hallway and doesn’t answer my question.
‘Do you want a cup of tea, or do you want to head straight off?’
‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’
I follow him into the kitchen. He puts the kettle on and beckons me to stand closer to him. He waits until the water starts to hiss until he speaks.
‘Monica’s not feeling too well,’ he says.
He points to the kettle, then up to the ceiling. What he means is that the walls are very thin in their three-bedroomed terraced house – you can hear next door sneezing, and I dread to think what else.
‘Shall I take her up a drink?’ I ask.
Making yourself heard whilst trying to be quiet is harder than it seems.
Dad shakes his head. ‘Best leave her to it, love.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say, pouring hot water into the teapot. ‘I want to see Monica for myself. I’ll take her up a digestive.’
Dad doesn’t look happy, but what is he going to do? Wrestle me to the ground to stop me? I pour tea into a china cup, and milk into a little jug, and place them on a tray with a biscuit she probably won’t eat. I carry them upstairs, everything rattling.
I balance the tray on the palm of one hand and knock on their bedroom door with the other. There’s no reply. She used to do this a lot when she and Dad had arguments about the boys when they were teenagers. Robert and Leo didn’t get on most of the time. They had to share a bedroom. Robert’s side was reasonably tidy; Leo’s not so much.
I knock again.
‘Monica, it’s me, Anna.’
Still no reply.
I open the door. My eyes go directly to their bed, but she’s sitting in the chair that faces the window. I place the tray on the little table, and sit on the footstool next to her.
‘Have you been crying?’ I ask.
She blinks several times.
‘Oh, hello, Anna. I’m sorry. I’m not with it today.’
‘That’s okay. Is it the news about Debbie?’
I can’t call Debbie my mother in front of her. It feels disloyal to Monica; she has always been here for me.
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ she says. ‘It’s all come as a bit of a shock.’
I pick up the cup of tea and offer it to her.
‘I’ve put two sugars in it.’
She purses her lips in a smile. ‘You’re too good to me. I don’t deserve it.’
‘Of course you do. Who else would put up with Robert and me?’
There is an answer that hangs in the air that neither of us even jokes about: Not my mother.
‘You know,’ she says, ‘I felt tremendous guilt getting together with your dad after your mother left. She was my best friend, you know. I met her in the third year of secondary school. I’d just moved up north, and spent the first couple of days sitting on my own at dinner time. Then Debbie came over to me – of course, she was Deborah, then. Her mum, you see, she always wanted her to be Deborah, never Debbie.’
I love hearing Monica talk about my mother like this. Grandad still calls her Deborah – when he talks about her, that is.
‘Has Dad told Grandad about the email?’
Monica drops a splash of tea onto her skirt as she sips from her cup. She frowns, disorientated at being interrupted.
‘I imagine so. You’ll have to ask him.’
I take the tea cup away from her as she dabs at the blotch.
‘Where was I? Oh yes, at school. She walked up to me, her dark, wavy hair flowing behind her – you’ve got her hair, you know, the exact same. She looked stunning. Who looks so beautiful while they’re a schoolgirl? Back