My Second Life (22 page)

“But I took my life. I must have”
—
and I paused
—
“hurt you … so much…” And as I said it I thought about Rachel, and how she would feel if I'd done this to her, and I couldn't bear to even think of it, of the pain.

“There is nothing for you to be sorry for,” Mum said. “We loved you so much. We felt so desperate that we couldn't help you, that we just never got the chance
—
” And she broke off.

“And I,” Frances said, “I have heard your apology and it means nothing!” She almost spat as she said it.

And then she screamed.

It was rasping and loud and desperate.

“I will never forgive you!” she said. “You crucified us all, Emma. All of us. And now you are here
—
you are actually here
—
to face it! Amanda and Richard might say that there is nothing for you to be sorry for, but how can they say that? Really? How can they mean it? You broke their hearts. And you broke mine too when you killed Catherine!”

She stood and she picked up the knife from the tray in front of her, and in one quick movement she bent down to where I was sitting and she held the knife to my neck.

I felt the cold point, the sharpness, the pressure as the tip threatened to gently pierce my skin like a needle in a balloon … and I wasn't sure what was happening and I looked at Dad, for an answer, because I didn't understand.

“Frances!” Mum screamed, and she stood up.

“Frances, for God's sake! What are you doing? Put the knife down!” Dad said. I could hear panic in his voice.

“It's not her fault,” screamed Mum. “It was never her fault!”

“No one has ever given me an explanation!” screamed Frances. “And then Emma came to me! And she must die for what she did. It is the only way to make this right!”

Dad took a step toward Frances. But Frances's hand was still on the knife, and I began to feel pain from the pressure
—
the clear point and the fine edges of the knife pressing my skin
—

“I've lost two daughters!” Dad screamed. “Two! And I can tell you now
—
this will never make things right! Never! Put it down, Frances! Put the knife down!”

“It has to be over now!” Mum screamed. “It has to be!” And she held out her hand
—
for the knife
—
and when Frances didn't respond she leaned forward and she took it. In one strong and quick movement she removed the knife from Frances's hand, from my neck. And I could see that it had taken all the strength she had left inside her to do it.

She had saved me.

My mum.

She had saved me.

 

42

I
TWITCHED AS THE
knife left my skin, and I thought I might collapse. But I didn't. I lifted my palm up to my neck, to feel it.

It was smooth. Uncut. Still, I didn't want to take my hand away from my neck. I might not have been cut, but I couldn't get rid of the feeling of sharp metal on my skin. I wanted to rub the feeling off me somehow.

Frances turned to face me.

I could feel my pulse in my hand, in my neck. I could hear the beat of it loud in my ears. I counted the seconds to the beat. One, two, three, four … One, two, three, four … One, two, three, four …

“Ana!” I could hear Mum's voice, calling me. “Ana
—
come
—
with me … Come on,” she whispered.

“Don't let them go, Richard!” said Frances. “Stop them! I haven't finished yet!”

“No,” said Dad. “No! This is enough!”

“You can't leave!” Frances screamed. “None of you can leave!”

“Ana!” Mum had taken my hand and she was helping me to stand.

“You don't understand!” said Frances. “Why don't any of you understand? I
—
have
—
nothing!” she screamed, and as she did her voice cracked like stone breaking bone.

It hurt me, all of me, to hear it.

I looked at her, where I stood. Her dry eyes, her sallow skin, her entire face
—
twisted. I'd seen that look before, many times, but I'd never recognized it until then. It was hate
—
and it was unmistakable, now that I knew.

“It
—
will
—
never
—
be
—
over,” she said, looking Amanda directly in the face. “Whatever you said, whatever you just did, to save her, it will never be over.”

“You're wrong, Frances,” said Mum, holding me up. “It's over now. It's completely over.” And she turned her back on Frances and looked at me.

“Ana, if you are the person you say you are
—
if you are Emma, and you came back
—
then I'm glad. I'm glad that I can take you by the hand and tell you that I loved you, and tell you that I am sorry. Because had I known what Frances had said that night, if I'd known that she'd told you it was your fault, I would have fought her with my own bare hands until she took the words back. I would have fought her to the death. I would have done that for you
—
I would have done anything
—
and at least now you can know that. I can say it, and you can know it.”

I thought about Rachel, and I knew, if this was me and Rachel, Rachel would have done that too. She would have done that for me too.

“So I'm glad,” Mum said. “I'm glad that I met you
—
Ana
—
Emma
—
whoever you are. I'm truly glad.”

I felt so light-headed. My legs were shaking, weak. I didn't want to pass out but I could feel myself sinking, lower and lower. I just wanted to get to the floor. To feel the solidness of the floor beneath me. To let it hold me.

I knew I was going to collapse. I could feel myself begin to go.

I looked at Dad.

“Amanda!” he said to Mum. “Hold on to Ana! Hold her!”

Mum was trying to hold me up but I was too heavy in her arms. I could feel that I was. She was struggling to hold me.

“Can you take her?” Dad said to Mum. “If you can, I'll deal with Frances.”

Mum nodded.

“Find out where she lives
—
get her home,” he said, and he looked up at me, and I blinked at him. A slow blink. In agreement, in regret, because a slow blink was all I could manage. And I realized, as I began to make my way across the room, toward the door, that when Mum closed the sitting-room door behind us, I was unlikely to ever see him again. And I didn't have the strength or the courage in that moment to tell him that I loved him.

*   *   *

Mum sat me down on a chair in the hall. I couldn't take another step. Not just yet. I needed a few moments of rest before I stood again.

“I'm sorry,” I said to Mum. “I'm so sorry.” And I started to cry.

“No!” said Mum. “Don't be sorry. You don't need to be sorry. You need to be strong now.”

“I should never have taken my life
—
I should never have done that to myself
—
to you
—
and to Dad…” And as I said it I leaned forward and rested my forehead on her shoulder. I was so tired.

“Let me look at you,” Mum said, and she turned me to the side and she looked at my neck. “You're okay,” she said. “You're okay.”

“You must hate me,” I said, still crying.

She shook her head. “No!”

“I hate me,” I said. “For what I did.”

“Don't say that! You were the most wonderful girl.”

“But these feelings, these feelings that I've done the most terrible thing
—
if I didn't kill Catherine, then
—
”

“You took your life, Ana. You didn't kill Catherine, but your life
—
it was not your own after we found her body in the water. And you took the decision that it was not worth living. You tried. You tried so hard to live, to be happy and to live. But ultimately, you couldn't. Not with what you knew
—
or at least with what you thought you knew
—
and with what you'd seen.” She paused. “I so wanted to help you, but I couldn't…” And she broke down and cried.

I took her hand.

“Frances has so much to answer for,” Mum said, through her tears. “If only I'd known what she'd said to you…” And she bit her lip, hard.

I squeezed her hand. I was surprised at my strength.

“I want you to have this,” she said, and she pulled out a letter from her jacket pocket and pressed it into the palm of my hand.

“What is it?”

“It's the thing I wanted you to have. The thing I mentioned on the phone. I kept it. I don't know why. Maybe it was always meant for you. I don't know. Anyway, you should have it. I want you to have it.”

“But why?”

“Because she never did. It never got to her. Not in time. I was too late.”

I nodded.

“You should go,” she said. “Go home.” And as she went to the front door to open it for me, Dad came into the hall.

We both turned and stood, in silence, and looked at him.

“She's still angry. She's raging. You should go, Ana.”

“Dad?” I said, my voice a whisper.

He looked at me.

“I love you.”

“So go now,” he said. “Just go. There is no reason for you to come back here again. You know the truth now.” And he took my hand and he squeezed it tight
—
and in that squeeze I felt the strength of his love. I knew it was all he could give me, but it was everything to me that he'd done it
—
it was more than enough. I squeezed his hand back as tightly as I could, and then he turned and left to go back to Frances in the sitting room.

“He's right,” Mum said. “You must go.”

“But, Mum?” I said, and I sobbed. “I want you, Mum
—
I don't want to leave you
—
I can't lose you
—
I've missed you
—
so much…”

“And you found me,” she said. “You found me. And now, you must go.”

“But I don't want to
—
”

“You must,” she said. “For me. You must go now, for me.”

And she smiled at me. A tired smile, and I remembered her smile, and how much I liked it, and how good it made me feel.

“Ana?” she said.

“Yes?”

“This is goodbye, darling.”

I looked at her.

“Goodbye,” she said.

“Goodbye,” I said.

And I turned.

And I left.

And at last …

we had said goodbye.

 

43

I
WALKED OUT ONTO
the Green, and sat behind the oak, and I reached into my bag for my phone and dialed home.

“Hello?” Rachel answered immediately.

“Rachel
—
it's me.” I was crying.

“Ana! Where are you? Where have you been? They said you weren't at school
—
I've been calling you
—
”

“Can you come and get me?” I said.

“Yes! Yes
—
are you okay?”

I couldn't speak, for the tears.

“Ana! Just tell me, are you okay?”

“Yes,” I sobbed. “I'm okay.”

“Where are you?”

“Teddington. The Avenue, in Teddington,” I said.

I took a deep breath in.

“Don't be cross, Rachel. Please don't be cross.”

“I'm coming. Now!” she said.

“Thank you, Rachel. Thank you.”

“I'm on my way,” she said. “I'm already on my way.”

I hung up.

I looked down at the letter in my hand. It was addressed to Emma. It was still sealed. She had never opened it. I opened it, while I waited. And I read.

October 17, 1994

My Darling Emma,

I got your letter this morning, and am just so sad. I had no idea that you were feeling the things you are feeling
—
still, now, all these years later. I've been trying to think of what I can do to make it better. But I've realized that this is something I just can't mend or fix or soothe. Not for you, not for me, not for anyone. What happened to Catherine that night was too awful, too painful. I can't go on pretending that it wasn't. Perhaps I haven't been there for you enough. Perhaps I haven't listened enough. Perhaps it will help if I tell you that even I sometimes find it hard to accept that Catherine is gone. Unless we go back, and somehow miraculously change the past, or rewrite history, we have to accept that she is gone. This is a lesson in life, and I'm learning it with you. I know I tell you not to wish, that wishes don't come true, that they are flippant things, but if I could have one wish it would be for you—not for me. And it would be to make what happened that day with Catherine less painful for you. If I could change anything—if I could go back and change one thing—I would never have taken you with me to look for her at the river. It's my fault that you saw what you saw that night. I know it wouldn't change what happened, but you should never have seen her in the river. And I am so, so sorry for that. But I had no idea what had happened. I didn't know that we would find her, as we did. Just like you didn't know, when you went out to play on the Green, that a game of hide-and-seek would end like it did. What happened cannot ever in any way be your fault, Emma. You have to remember that. You have to believe it. It never was, it never could have been. I have to tell myself the same thing, when I think of you feeling so very bad and I remember that in part, I am to blame.

I am leaving work early tomorrow and I will be with you by 3 p.m. Just think, by the time you are reading this I'll almost be with you. I'll take you out—fish and chips, curry, pizza—whatever you want! We'll talk. I'll bring those photos you love of me and Grandad on the beach in 1961—the ones where we all look miserable and it's cold and you can't believe what I'm wearing. They always make you laugh! I'll do anything I can to make it better for you, Emma. Anything at all. I can't wait to see you. I love you, darling. Don't ever forget that.