Good Me Bad Me

  ‘I want to go home, I want to know what’s happened.’

  ‘Not just now, sweetheart.’

  I don’t get to go home for almost two hours. Valerie puts the TV on, does her best to look normal. Relaxed. But when David, her husband, comes home I can tell from the looks they exchange. News is bad. Bad news. The doorbell goes, David answers it, I hear him talking to Mike, brings him into the room. When I see him I burst into tears because his shirt is stained, all over the front, and I know what kind of stain makes that colour. He looks down and says in a monotone voice, ‘I should have changed, I didn’t think.’

  His voice is slow, his face terrorized. Aged. He’ll see red too now, a member of the same club as me.

  ‘Valerie, perhaps we should give them a minute,’ David suggests.

  ‘Of course, take as long as you need.’

  They close the door behind them, the atmosphere in the room serious. Charged. Mike sits next to me. I notice his hands are shaking. Normality, that’s what he’d been hoping for, the conversation with June.

  ‘I’m frightened, Mike, what’s going on? Please tell me.’

  He can’t get the words out, keeps starting and stopping. Mouth. Struggling to release the ugly it knows it has to. Finally, he says, ‘An accident, a terrible accident.’

  He covers his face with his hands, also stained, all over his fingers. I want to reach out and touch him but I don’t want any of it on my skin.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He doesn’t answer initially, shakes his head, looks down at the rug under our feet. Disbelief. I’ve seen it before in the detective I gave my first statement to. Mike takes his hands away from his face but immediately brings one back up to cover his mouth after saying her name. Hyperventilating. He finds it easy to calm other people down, it’s his job, but when it comes to himself he’s lost.

  ‘What sort of accident? Is she okay?’

  Breath laboured, hand reaches up at the tie he’s wearing. Tries to pull it loose. It won’t help I want to tell him, nothing will.

  ‘No, not okay,’ he says.

  But he doesn’t say she’s dead, so much red on his shirt though. So much red.

  ‘What do you mean not okay? Can I see her? I want to see if she’s all right.’

  He pulls at his hair, pulls at his shirt, hands won’t stay still, can still feel the shape of her body. He begins to rock, mutters to himself.

  ‘Mike, please, talk to me.’

  ‘She’s gone, the paramedics have taken her away, the police are at the house.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  He turns to look at me, grabs my knees. Hands like claws. The ‘don’t touch Milly’ rule gone out the window. I want to move away, close my eyes. I don’t want to see the look in his when he says what I think he’s going to say next.

  ‘She’s dead, Milly, my Phoebs is dead.’

  Then he starts to cry, removes his hands from my legs, hugs himself. Arms crossed over his chest, he begins to rock again.

  ‘I don’t understand, I saw her at school just after the bell went.’

  He stands up suddenly. Movement to diffuse the bad feelings inside, it helps me too. Sometimes. He walks to the fireplace, back again. Mumbling and muttering as he does. He paces for what feels like for ever then stops, looks at me, as if he’s just remembered somebody else is in the room with him. He comes over, kneels on the floor in front of me, psychologist’s hat inching back on. Solid ground. Knows how to play that role, it’s easier, more comfortable than being on the wrong side of grief.

  ‘I’m sorry, Milly,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why are you saying sorry?’

  ‘You’ve already had so much to deal with.’

  Then he breaks down, huge racking sobs, every breath an effort. I start to cry again too, his pain flooding the space around me. I try to tell him it’ll be okay, somehow it’ll be okay. I reach out, place my hand on his head. I think it helps as he stops crying so hard, sits back on his heels and begins to massage each side of his temples, runs his fingers through his hair, two, three times. Big breaths, that’s what he takes now, in through his nose, out through his mouth.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask him.

  ‘We think she fell, the police are investigating now.’

  ‘Fell?’

  ‘I can’t go over the details, Milly. Please. Not now.’

  ‘Where’s Saskia?’

  In hell, I think his answer would be if he could say it out loud, if he could bring himself to. I smell whisky on his breath when he speaks. He said he couldn’t go over the details but he can’t help it, they’re playing on a loop, a broken record inside his head. Her phone was on the floor next to her, he keeps saying. I told her not to sit up there, one day she’d fall. She never listened though, did she. She never bloody listened. He begins to cry again, covers his face.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Mike.’

  I hear the doorbell ring, voices again. A gentle knock at the door. Valerie comes into the room, says, sorry, but the police want to talk to you, they say you can go home if you like. Mike nods, uses both hands to pull himself up on the sofa, legs not to be trusted. Valerie leaves, says she’ll wait in the hallway.

  ‘We should go,’ he says.

  ‘I’m scared, what will I see?’

  ‘You won’t see anything. There’s a tarpaulin over where she –’

  He walks over to the window, leans his hand against the glass, looks into the garden, composes himself. Tries to. He turns to face me, says, we have to go. When we leave the room Valerie and David are waiting outside, they both say how sorry they are and if there’s anything they can do, just to call, no matter what time of day. Mike nods.

  The first thing I see in the driveway is two police cars, no ambulance, already gone Mike said. When we get to the front door I don’t want to go in.

  ‘I’m not sure I can, Mike.’

  ‘We have to. I’ll be with you the whole time.’

  A group of uniformed officers are standing in the entrance hallway. Mike introduces me as his foster daughter. One of them nods, and says Steve’s in the kitchen waiting. The floor, new tiles will be needed. I hold on to Mike as we pass.

  ‘You’re okay,’ he says, his hand on my back. I ask again where Saskia is.

  ‘The ambulance crew gave her an injection, something to calm her down, she’s in our bedroom.’

  Another officer is seated at the table, stands up as we walk in.

  ‘You must be Milly. Is it okay if I ask you some questions? I understand this must be a terrible shock for you.’

  ‘Can I stay with her?’ Mike asks.

  ‘Of course, it won’t take long, routine stuff really. Please, sit down.’

  He opens the notepad in front of him, takes the lid off a biro.

  ‘Can you tell me the last time you saw Phoebe?’

  ‘At school, at the end, it would have been about four o’clock.’

  ‘How did she seem to you?’

  ‘Normal, I guess. She was on her phone.’

  ‘Do you know who to?’

  ‘No, she was reading an email. Seemed excited about something.’

  He makes a note in his pad.

  ‘And did she tell you what she was excited about?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And she said she was going straight home?’

  ‘I think so, yeah, she said she had some stuff to do.’

  ‘Was anything else said between the two of you?’

  ‘Not really no, I had a meeting to go to. I’m helping design the set for our play.’

  ‘And that’s where you’ve been this evening?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, there’s about fifteen of us and one of the teachers, Miss Kemp.’

  Another note in his pad.

  ‘What time did you leave school?’

  ‘I walked out with my teacher, just after seven, that’s when Mike called me.’

  The officer looks at Mike, he nods to confirm what I’ve said is corr
ect, his face looking older by the minute. I can tell it’s over when the officer closes his notebook, the lid back on his biro. The detail of people.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss. I think we’re done here,’ he says.

  He pauses a few seconds, a polite response to what he sees, awake in his training, he was. As he stands, his chair scrapes across the tiles. Mike flinches, every noise and sensation heightened now.

  ‘Will you be staying here tonight?’ he asks.

  ‘Possibly, depending on how my wife is. They gave her an injection.’

  ‘Would you like me to arrange a clean-up team to come in? It’ll not be a perfect job at this time of day but enough to get you through the night.’

  ‘If you could, thank you,’ Mike replies.

  I shield my eyes as I pass the tarpaulin. Mike tells me to stay in my room until he says otherwise.

  ‘If Saskia’s awake we’ll move into a hotel tonight, if not, first thing tomorrow.’

  Three messages on my phone from Morgan asking if I’m okay and what’s with the police cars at the house. I text her, tell her I’m fine but Phoebe’s not, she’s dead, she fell off the banister. Fuck, she replies instantly, she was well mean but I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, accidents are the worst.

  Yes, I reply.

  The worst.

  37

  We’ve been living in a hotel for the past week, Rosie in kennels. The house no longer felt like home, the marble in the hallway needed lifting. Replaced. The area, deep cleaned again. I can’t help imagining how Mike and Saskia would have reacted when they found Phoebe’s body. Saskia. Dropped to her knees I bet, screaming, Mike there by her side. Footsteps. Urgent. He would have run to Phoebe’s body, checked for a pulse, that’s why his hands and his shirt were stained. He’d have crumpled on to the floor, gathered her body into his. Saskia, mute, after the shock set in.

  I worry for them both, the spotlight on their grief shines twenty-four seven. Mike, going through the motions, moving more slowly than usual, each step reminds him of what he saw. He’s the keeper of the pills, both Saskia, if she makes it out of bed, and I line up in the mornings. She takes whatever he gives, her hand outstretched for more. She slept all day, Mike told me when I returned from my first day back at school, a sense of structure, normality, enforced on me. I thought I’d be glad to escape but I just want to be with them. Mike feels it too, says it helps when I come back each day.

  During the night, through the wall, I hear Saskia weep, their room in the hotel next to mine, a sad continuous noise, childlike. Grief does that, it ages with its horror yet diminishes too, back to a state where we want to be coddled and protected from the world. Yesterday we were given the all-clear to return home. Not so long ago I would have gone straight to my room, taken out a sketch of you, traced the outline of your face, but I don’t. I spend as much time as I can with Mike, providing warm drinks, snacks, taking care of Rosie. Being useful. Sevita has been given time off, as much as she needs. Devastated Mike said she was when he phoned her the day after it happened. Phoebe and she were so close, he said.

  I heard him crying on the phone yesterday, talking to his dad in South Africa, too elderly to travel, won’t make the memorial being held in the Great Hall at school today. Saskia’s seen nobody, calls nobody, her parents died when she was in her twenties, no siblings. Mike’s been rescuing girls for years.

  Yesterday a steady stream came to the house. Hushed voices, cards, flowers. Friends. Enemies. Frenemies. There’s been a marked change towards me at school as if Phoebe’s death has evaporated a force field of isolation erected by her around me. Clondine hugged me the first time she saw me, cried into my neck, I went to the toilets afterwards, washed her tears off my skin.

  Today when we arrive in the Great Hall we’re met with a sea of pink, Phoebe’s favourite colour. Hats, skirts, a feather boa, one big, pink sorority gathering. Hundreds of eyes on us as we walk to the front. I managed in court but this crowd feels worse, somehow.

  Ms James talks about Phoebe’s achievements and the promise she held for the future, successful at whatever she’d have chosen. A wave of sobs and nose-blowing fills the hall. Girls lean into each other, some genuinely sad, others enjoying the drama such as teenage girls do. Clondine next, dedicates a poem to Phoebe. The last two lines, do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there, I did not die.

  Mike goes on to the stage, thanks the school for their support. I slide into his chair so I’m next to Saskia. Eyes. Glassy like a doll. Distant. Lost. Chemicals take her there. Izzy ends the service by playing guitar and singing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’. Drinks are served in the library afterwards. Miss Kemp comes over, offers her condolences, the skin on her hands still dry. People mill in the spaces around the three of us, hands touch my back, my shoulders and my arms. I do my best not to flinch. Such a terrible accident they say, yes, I reply. Terrible.

  Just before we leave, Izzy’s mum approaches us, small and French. Toxic. Now I know where her daughter gets it from.

  ‘What good can come from this?’ she says. ‘A mindless tragedy.’

  Mike nods, she turns to look at me.

  ‘Have you enjoyed your time at Wetherbridge?’

  Enjoyed. The past tense.

  ‘I heard you’ll be moving on somewhere new soon, Sas told me before this happened.’

  Saskia says nothing, cat’s got her tongue, or it’s the chemicals she swallows every day.

  ‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘quelle bonne nouvelle. What wonderful news.’

  She kisses Mike and Saskia, ignores me. When she’s gone, Mike apologizes. I nod, try to look brave, but all around me tiny angels raise tiny trumpets, for Phoebe, not me.

  After the school memorial Mike and Saskia went on to Phoebe’s funeral. A small service, family and close friends. Mike left me at Valerie’s, said it was better if I didn’t come, he and Saskia needed time to say goodbye. I said I understood but I felt disappointed he still doesn’t view me as family and I know it’s selfish to be thinking like that but I can’t help it. Like a carrot being dangled. Room for me now.

  You came to me, in the middle of the night, the first visit in weeks. You said it was time. Time for what, I asked. You didn’t reply but shed your skin before you left, a scaly outline under my pillow, so real I check for it now.

  I’m not able to sleep, find myself opening the door to Phoebe’s room. Her smell remains strong, sweet and inviting. I close the door behind me. Her room is as she left it, school bag and folders dumped on the floor, a copy of Lord of the Flies on the bedside table. In time Mike and Saskia will go through her belongings, dismantle her life. I open the drawer in her desk but her laptop’s not there, I check in the bottom of the wardrobe and inside her bag. She might have left it at school but she hardly ever took it. I don’t like the fact it’s not here, I don’t like the way it makes me feel.

  38

  My birthday tea was cancelled, it was supposed to be last weekend but we were staying in the hotel. So we’re having it today instead, the Saturday before term ends, a quiet dinner, no guests, Mike said. Just the three of us. When I go down to the kitchen there’s a present on the table addressed to me. I open it. It’s a watch with a message inscribed on the back: HAPPY 16TH WITH LOVE M & S. The feeling it gave me. Like I belong.

  When Mike comes in I notice the way he moves, still much slower than he used to before Phoebe’s accident. Simple tasks like filling the kettle require more effort, the exhaustion of being alive when someone you love isn’t. His shirt is done up wrong but I don’t have the heart to tell him so I take the kettle from his hands and ask him to sit down. He does without protest.

  I’ve hardly seen Saskia but when I do her eyelids are red, swollen, like living up close with one of the mothers you stole from. How they must have felt knowing they’d never see or hold their child again. Once I’ve made a pot of tea, I ask Mike if I can take her a cup.

  ‘You can try,’ he says. ‘She’s going to make an effort for today.’
>
  I take the tea up to her room, knock on the door, no response. I knock again, this time she says, come in. The room’s dark, a small amount of natural light creeping in from the window in the bathroom. The air is still. Dusty. She’s thinner in frame, doesn’t see Benji any more, doesn’t see anybody.

  ‘I made you some tea.’

  She nods but doesn’t move from where she’s sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Shall I leave it here for you?’

  She nods again, I place it on the dressing table, her eyes fill up with tears. Kindness when you’re wounded hurts more.

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have disturbed you.’

  She wipes the tears away, shakes her head.

  ‘The house is so quiet without her. Silly really, all I ever wanted was peace and now she’s gone all I want is her.’

  I don’t say anything, not yet. I’ve been reading articles on the internet on what to do, how to help people when they’re grieving. Little things like hot food on the table, emptying the bins. Being visible but not intrusive, letting them talk if they want to.

  ‘I miss her, even the times she hated me. Don’t say she didn’t, we all know I’m not the best mother.’

  Her fingers trace the edges of the name necklace. Gold. She smiles a little, a sad smile. A realization of sorts. She yanks hard on the chain, it breaks, dangles from her fingertips before dropping to the floor.

  ‘I never got it right with Phoebe, any of it.’

  I sit next to her on the bed, take one of her hands in mine, tell her I think she did get it right, that she’s a good mum – I remind her of the crystal she bought me. She cries, leans her body against my shoulder. We sit like that for a while. I feel her tears soaking through the cotton of my T-shirt. I don’t like it but I stay, hoping these are the moments she and Mike will remember when decisions are made about where I might go.

  ‘I should shower,’ she says.

  I nod and as I leave I remind her to drink the tea. When Mike sees me, he asks me how she is.