That’s the first thought to voice itself inside my head. I don’t know how, but I’m alive and I’m back, I’m just not sure where I’ve been. It takes a moment to decide whether or not I’m happy to be here and what this all means. Edward tried to kill me, I’m sure of that, but I’m still alive. I suppose it must be hard to kill something that’s already dead.
Given my strong dislike for hospitals, I’ve spent a considerable amount of time in this one. Paul and I came here when we were trying for a baby, it’s where my sister gave birth and where my grandmother died. She didn’t die of cancer, like Claire’s nana, she died of old age disguised as pneumonia when we were thirty. Her death took its time and a toll on our fragmented family. We were temporarily united by over-stretched grief and despair. But it flicked a switch on inside Claire that could not be turned off. The anger she had felt about her own Nana’s death as a child returned. The recalled rage she had suppressed for so long had grown over time. The hate still needed somewhere to go. Claire still needed someone to blame. That’s when she traced Madeline. Imagine our surprise when she discovered who her godmother really was and where she still lived. Destroying Madeline became Claire’s obsession, which in turn became mine. She became volatile again, mistrusting of everyone around her. The change in her mood increased the need for my routines, to be sure that everything was as safe as it could be when Claire was upset about something.
They call it OCD. It’s not a big deal, but it’s got worse as I’ve got older. I had to visit this very same hospital once a week when I was a teenager. I used to meet a short man who liked to talk too much and listen too little. He always wore the same shoes, grey leather with purple laces, I spent a lot of hours staring at them. After four months of weekly visits, he told me that I had obsessive thoughts and demonstrated compulsive activities, to process an inexplicable level of anxiety. I told him he had halitosis. I stopped seeing him not long after that. My parents gave up trying to make me better and instead focused all their attention on Claire, the pretty, grade-A replacement daughter they had saved, forgetting all about the faulty original that they couldn’t fix – me.
I try to pull myself from the past back to the present, not really wanting to be in either place. That’s when I hear her crying. It takes me a while to translate the tears and to pinpoint where and when I am.
‘I’m so sorry, Amber, for all of it,’ says Claire’s voice from somewhere in the distance. The words seem to repeat themselves on the surface while I float down below. The sound of her voice pulls me up from where I’ve been and it feels like I’ve woken up from a very deep sleep. Something is different. The light and the shade have shifted. It feels unsettling, like someone has rearranged the furniture in my mind without even asking.
‘You tried to tell me about him, didn’t you? But I didn’t listen. I’m so sorry,’ says Claire. She sounds closer now, as though I could reach out and touch her. It takes me a while to understand what she is saying, but the casting process finally settles on Edward for the role of ‘him’.
I drift away. The words are too much to process in one go.
The mention of Edward’s name seems to make the edges of the space I’m in darken. Something happened, something bad. Something worse than what I can remember. Whatever it was, Claire knows about it, so maybe I’ll be OK now. She’s always stopped people from hurting me in the past.
‘Is there any change?’ I hear Paul’s voice.
‘No, not yet. Have they got him?’ asks Claire.
‘No. They’ve been to his flat but he’s not there.’
I try to focus and sift their words through the reality filter I’ve been building inside my head, but it doesn’t always work. I wish I could wipe some of the sad and bad memories that start to surface, but it’s like I’ve been switched on and I can suddenly remember all of it. Even the parts I wish I couldn’t.
I remember Edward in my room.
I remember what he did to me.
I don’t understand how they know.
Then I remember that Paul said he had set up a camera in my room. He must have watched what happened. The idea of it makes me feel sick.
It still feels like I’m underwater, but the murky liquid is becoming clearer and I’m getting closer to the surface all the time. And then there’s more.
I can remember the night of the accident, I can remember it all.
I know what happened now – it wasn’t me driving on Christmas Day and it wasn’t an accident at all. I’ve been away. I don’t know how long for, but I’m back now and I remember everything.
Then
Christmas Day, 2016 – Early Evening
‘You OK?’ I ask as Paul flops down on the sofa, picking up the TV remote.
‘What? Yes, fine.’
‘Drink?’
‘Whisky, please.’
I pause for a moment. Paul hasn’t drunk whisky for a long time now. At one time it was all he drank, but the amber liquid changed him and his dependence on it changed us. It became a part of him. An ugly part. He thought it helped him to write and would stay up in the shed all night, just him, his laptop and a bottle. A nightly literary threesome and a disappointing cliché. We became independent states with liquid borders and I was angry, lonely, scared. He did write, but they were the wrong kind of words; they didn’t belong together. When we couldn’t have a baby, things got worse. It was his drug of choice to heal the hurt and he poured it inside himself in its purest form. Neat. But the result was never tidy. It was like having a front row seat for a slow suicide. When I couldn’t watch any more, I threatened to leave. He said he’d stop, but he didn’t. He just poisoned himself in private. I left for ten days. He stopped then. That was over a year ago and I’m never going back to that.
‘I don’t think we have any, darling . . .’
‘Mum got me some, it’s in the cupboard,’ he replies without looking up. He keeps changing the TV channel, unable to find what he’s looking for.
I walk out to the kitchen and open the fridge. I ignore his request and take out the bottle of champagne I’ve chilled deliberately. I’m going to tell him about the baby, his mood will change once he knows and this will become a Christmas that we’ll never forget. I’ve already had more than I should, but one tiny glass won’t make any difference.
‘Makes you glad we don’t have kids, doesn’t it?’ says Paul from the lounge.
‘What?’
‘The chaos of it all. The whole day taken up with them, can’t have a single conversation without an interruption of some kind or another.’
‘It wasn’t that bad, was it?’ I say coming back into the front room.
A tear escapes my left eye, I can’t stop it.
‘No, the kids are fine. It’s just Claire putting me in a bad mood. I’m sick of her dictating how we should live our lives, she’s always interfering and you never call her on it . . . What’s this for?’ he asks pointing at the champagne.
‘I thought we could celebrate.’
‘We already celebrated my book deal. Are you crying?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘If it’s about Claire saying she doesn’t want you to come to America with me, then I don’t care what she says. She can cope without you for a few weeks, I’m sure.’
‘You told Claire about the book? When?’
‘It just slipped out when you were upstairs reading the twins a bedtime story.’
I understand now why she looked at me that way before we left. It was a warning. Paul carries on, oblivious to what he’s done.
‘Why shouldn’t we tell people anyway? And you’re right, we should be celebrating.’ He takes the bottle from the table and opens it.
‘What exactly did you tell her?’ I ask, hearing my voice shake.
‘Please can we stop talking about your sister, her dull husband and the terrible twins?’
‘What did you tell her, Paul? It’s important.’
‘Why are you getting all bat shit? She was acting nuts too.’
‘Because she’s upset about the idea of me going away, I knew she would be. I told you not to tell her yet.’
‘It wasn’t that, it was her stupid diaries. She asked me why I bought you one and I told her because I’d found hers in the loft, and then she went from nought to psycho in less than a few seconds.’