But I’m not strong enough. I need Mum to shake senseinto me, like she did to the lasagne. I’m only strong enough to work for Travel Solutions, to swim in the evenings and to have dinner with Mum afterwards. I’m certainly not strong enough to see you again.
The fury comes fast, like hot coals in my throat. I need to get away. Away from this flat, from Mum and all that she’s done for me. I lunge for the door, fumbling with the keys she always leaves in the lock.
‘Why does anyone lock a third-floor flat? You’re paranoid!’ I shout. ‘WHO WANTS TO COME IN HERE ANYWAY?’
She grabs my arms and shakes me. Now I’m split in two. I know this feeling: it’s when I’m not here, not there, not with her, not with you. Not anywhere. Not anyone.
‘Kate!’ Mum yells. And then, ‘Gemma!’
She never uses my dead name.
‘It’s okay, calm down. You’re here, in my flat.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘NO!’
Because you are here now too. So close I can’t see anything else, your hands over my eyes, down my throat, scooping me out.
‘You have to stop, Gemma!’
Her face is right in front of me, and I see the lines of make-up around her eyes. The green eyes you liked so much in me. She holds my wrist with one hand, tries to wrestle the key from me with the other, but I grip hard and turn it in the lock. Panic constricts my throat as I tumble out into the hallway.
Mum grabs at me as I hurtle down the stairs. The concierge at the front desk sits up in his chair, staring as I skid past. I want to smack his face until he lowers his eyes.
‘Kate!’ Mum yells. ‘Gemma!’
I can’t respond to either of my names. I hurl myself out of the heavy wooden doors and onto the quiet street, where I can breathe and there’s only the dark presence of the park opposite. I make myself listen for foxes, vixen calls, night-time birds.
‘I’m sorry, I was stupid,’ I say, trying to be calm. ‘I don’t want to go back. You’re right.’
Mum looks around—likely checking for prying passersby—then touches me lightly on the shoulder. I’ve returned to being breakable.
‘I can bring Nick round for dinner,’ I continue. ‘Next week, soon…’ I stumble for what she wants.
She’s smiling now. I’m fooling her again, fooling myself.
There were rules in the Victim Impact Box, I remember:
Don’t resume contact.
Never react to communications.
Inform those close to you of any new developments.
I should tell her. I look at cracks in the pavement. Mum reaches her hand out again, but I stumble away, steady myself on the window of her local florist. I press against the cold, slick glass, and stare at the flowers.
‘You’ll be okay,’ Mum whispers. ‘Time helps, remember? Breathe.’
But time hasn’t done shit. You took me for only a few months, and it’s been ten years since then. Time is making things worse. Time has made a deeper chasm, one I’m still stuck inside. And there are no handholds here. There’s only a freezing high street in West London between Christmas and the new year, and a florist’s expensive window display, and no fox calls from the park. Roses. Carnations. Lilies. There is nothing here that would grow near you. Only weeds grow there.
Mum rubs my back like I’m a child. ‘Shh, it’s okay. Soon you’ll settle down and find something real, and it’ll feel just right, you’ll see.’
But you were the only real thing.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I can’t…!’
I make a strange, strangled noise when my words run out, not quite a scream. Mum’s eyes widen. Her hand comes towards me, as if she wants to muffle me, like you did once, but she drops it almost immediately. I want to run, like I wanted to run from you.
Why can’t I tell her?