Again. I have no idea why I keep putting myself through this, apart that is, from loyalty. But of course, it’s not always this bad. There are times when Kim is kind and thoughtful, when she is humorous and makes me laugh till my belly aches. She has helped me many times over the years. And then there are occasions, such as this one, when her manner, the command she has over me is all encompassing, stifling me to the point where I can’t breathe properly.
‘I’m loving being back in Woodburn Cottage and yes, I’m delighted that Gavin and Gemma are coming home. His promotion is well deserved. Warren would be proud of him.’ I speak clearly, every word enunciated, spoken with true passion and pride. There are days when I am lonely. There are days when thoughts of Simon and his disappearance from our home continually prod at me but today is not one of those days. Today, I am blissfully happy and I refuse to let my sister spoil that feeling.
Kim’s face flushes dark pink, shadows sitting beneath her eyes. She bites at her lip, takes a sip of her coffee, wincing at the hot liquid as it touches her lips. She recoils, slumps back in her chair and runs her fingers through her hair, weariness oozing out of her in bucketloads. What she has to feel weary about, I will never know. Life has always fallen in her lap, the easy routes that the rest of us have had to carefully navigate with precision to stay on track, presented to her on a golden platter.
‘I know you think I’m bossy but I’m just trying to protect you, that’s all.’ Her words cut across the air between us, whip like. I shuffle in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable. A cold finger traces its way up my spine. ‘It’s all I’ve ever tried to do, Grace. I just want you to know that. I only ever wanted to protect you and look after you.’
When I do speak, my voice is shrill, like the scrape of metal against metal, loud and discordant. Heads turn to stare at me. I lower my tone, begin to whisper, moving closer to Kim, flickering flames simmering beneath my skin.
‘Protect me?’ I say heatedly, my voice low and hoarse. ‘What on earth are you talking about, Kim? Protect me from what? I’m a grown woman, for Christ’s sake. Who or what do I need protecting from?’
Her eyes are dark, something lurking there that I don’t recognise as she lifts her gaze and stares at me. When she does speak, the room takes on different dimensions, the ground falling away beneath me, the walls leaning in drunkenly. My head throbs at her words, the intent behind them. She looks away, her shoulders hunched.
‘Yourself, Grace. You need protecting from yourself. You always have, probably always will.’
15
I stand up. A noise escapes from my throat – a wheeze, like an animal in its death throes. Stars burst behind my eyes at my abrupt movement. I blink, steady myself, shake Kim’s hand away from mine. The chair scrapes across the tiled floor as she stands up, tries again to place her arm around my shoulder. I shrug it off and turn to leave, concentrating on my feet, making sure I keep my balance and stay upright. Making sure I don’t turn around and tell my only sister to fuck right off.
I haven’t paid. It occurs to me that I don’t actually care. Kim can sort it out, just like she sorts out and takes control of everything else in my life. I keep on walking, focusing on my feet, eyes downcast, body rigid. My spine feels like a steel rod has been inserted into it. Every step is an effort yet I stride ahead, refusing to stop, to turn around and look at Kim. I don’t want to see her expression, to see the look of superiority on her face. I just want to go home. Back to Woodburn Cottage, the place where I belong, where I have always belonged.
The air outside is chilly, welcoming. I gasp, take in lungfuls of it, feel the cooling breeze as it passes over my skin, caressing me, calming me.
I stagger home, my gaze fixed ahead, back straight.
Keep on walking. Don’t stop, just keep going. Don’t look back. Ignore her words. Ignore her.
Kim has no idea why I reacted the way I did. Or maybe she does. She knew about my childhood episodes of sleepwalking. Did she know that Simon was scared of me back then? That my nocturnal wanderings frightened him? I’d be surprised if she didn’t. She appears to know everything else about me and my life.
You need protecting from yourself. You always have.
I could have stayed, argued with her, asked her what she meant, but to what end? We would have gone around in circles, getting nowhere fast. Easier to conserve my energy, put it to better use elsewhere. Anger is exhausting. Putrefying and pointless.
What did I do back then? Is that what she meant? What the fuck did I do to make my own brother scared of me, for my own sister to tell me that I need and have always needed protecting from myself? What sort of a monster am I?
By the time I reach my front door, I have convinced myself that I did something terrible to Simon, that I was somehow responsible for him going missing. Trauma can wreak havoc with a person’s mind, conceal memories, block out important, life-changing events. Is that what I have done? Harmed my own brother and suppressed the memory?
I am barely in the front door before vomit rises up my throat, burning my gullet. Dizzy and sick, I rush to the kitchen sink and lean my head over the porcelain, heaving repeatedly until my stomach is empty. I stand up, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, try to clear my muddied thoughts, studying everything in greater detail.
Jesus Christ, what is happening to me? An hour ago, I was deliriously happy and now look at me, at what I have become. I’m a blubbering wreck, barely able to speak or think lucidly. This is the pendulum of my life, my emotions swinging wildly, oscillating between elation and despair in a matter of minutes with very little in between. I need to stop this, to get a hold of my emotions. I’m better than this. Better and stronger.
I gulp in more air – in through my nose, out through my mouth. I’m reading too much into Kim’s words. They came at a bad time, that’s all it is. I am being over-analytical, looking for flaws in my character, sifting through the sediment of her words and trying to connect the bits together regardless of how incongruous and clunky they may be. Gavin is coming home soon and I will hang onto that fact, use it as a focal point in my life, allowing myself the luxury of excitement and hope at his impending arrival.
What I need to do is avoid any future coffee dates with my older, overbearing sister. I head upstairs to freshen up, splashing my face with cold water, combing my hair and brushing my teeth. A minty zing bounces around my mouth as I sit down at my computer, rejuvenated and ready to do battle with my latest manuscript.
It’s two hours later when I come up for air, my wrists and back sore from poor posture whilst hunched over a laptop, my eyes heavy from focusing on an unfiltered screen. I lean back in my chair, stretch, yawn and stare outside, observing the birds that flit around the garden foraging for food, their small bodies dipping in and out of the shrubbery and hedgerows that line the perimeter of the lawn.
How little it has changed out there. I’m relieved about that fact. There is a certain level of comfort to be gained from knowing that time has all but stood still in this house. The same rose bushes are dotted about, strung up against the fence, the same old shed in the far corner of the garden, half hidden by undergrowth and ivy that has snaked over the wooden slats, creeping over the exterior like some monstrous creature trying to swallow it whole. One day soon, I will go out there, cut it back. The same brick coalhouse that provides a perfect place for mice to nest. They’re all there, standing the test of time.
It will be good to see that garden shed again. It holds such wonderful memories for me: days spent in there as a child playing; pretending to work in an office, sitting at an old desk that Dad had put in there simply because there was nowhere else for it to go. I remember shrieking at Simon that he was late and needed to clock in while I scribbled on large pieces of paper. I was the office manager and poor Simon was the junior clerk, forever at my mercy as I handed him lists of jobs, telling him I would dock his wages if he continued coming in late. We even had an old phone, a heavy, Bakelite model with a cupped mouthpiece that just about covered the lower half of my face. Glorious times they were, now forever stained with the murkiest of memories.
I make a coffee, sit back at my laptop and don’t look up again until after three o’clock. My stomach howls at me, a loud, grating sensation that rumbles deep in my abdomen, reminding me that I haven’t eaten anything after bringing up my breakfast earlier in the day.
On a whim, I decide to head out to the high street to pick up a snack. I do this rarely and view it as a treat.
Ignoring my flashing phone, knowing it will be Kim wanting to analyse our conversation, to question my abrupt exit, insisting she said nothing wrong, I head outside. The wind has built in strength, snatching the breath right out of me as I pull on my jacket and lock the door. The weather from this morning has lost its calm, morphing into an angry squall with the grey, bulbous clouds overhead threatening rain.
Despite the drab weather and plummeting temperatures, it feels good to be out in the open, to be out on my own, free from the pressure of writing and thoughts of Simon and coffee dates with Kim. To simply be me, doing whatever I damn well feel like doing.
My cheeks are numb, my hands icy by the time I reach the row of small shops at the end of the street. I curl my fingers up into tight fists, tuck them deep in my pockets, my hair strewn over my eyes in long, messy strands.
A smattering of shoppers scurry past me, bags slung over arms, faces set like stone as they battle against the freezing wind. It’s hard to tell what season it actually is with the ever-changing and unpredictable conditions that flash hot and cold from day to day, hour to hour.
I smell of the cold as I step inside, the aroma of the outside air clinging to my clothes, an earthy odour that transports me back to being a child, playing out in the street, running free, blissfully unaware of what the future held in store for me; for all of us. If we had known what lay ahead, would we have continued to get up every day and go about our daily activities or would we have chosen to stay in the safety of our beds, curling into a ball, hiding from the outside world and all the terror and suffering it throws our way? Simon was taken from his home, the place where he should have been safe. For all we know, he may have been taken from his bed. When we are not safe in those places, then what hope is there for any of us?
I brush away those shadowy thoughts and head down the narrow aisle, my clothes catching against the rows of breakfast cereals and loaves of bread.
I don’t hear it at first. My mind is focused on filling my basket, attempting to work out what I can cook with two tins of peas, a packet of dried pasta and a jar of mayonnaise as I throw in random items without any planning or thought behind it.
It comes again, first as a noise in the background, then louder as the person speaking steps in front of me, blocking my way, their face looming over me, ghoul-like. ‘Grace Goodwill. How many years has it been?’
The use of my maiden name catches me on the backfoot. I haven’t heard it said out loud for so many years now that it sounds peculiar and awkward. A frisson of annoyance darts through me. This person knows me. I don’t know them, their features unfamiliar as they continue to block my way. I don’t like it. It is a hostile move, threatening and menacing, as if they are trying to intimidate me.
I narrow my eyes, concentrate, cast my mind back as far as I can and come up with nothing. The woman standing next to me has a face I should remember. With protruding, slightly yellowed teeth and skin the texture of gravel, I’m sure any memories I have of her would stay with me. She has an expression and features that are hard to forget and yet no matter how much I try, I am unable put a name to her face.
My mouth opens but nothing comes out. Asking who she is and why she is blocking my route feels discourteous and that’s not who I am so I opt for saying nothing at all. Easier and less confrontational. I don’t have the energy for guessing games or arguments. I just want to buy my goods and leave.
