My Second Life (7 page)

“So what did I used to say … about Catherine?”

“Oh, I don't remember…,” she said.

“You must remember something?”

“Actually, yes
—
you played hide-and-seek a lot. I remember that now. It was always hide-and-seek.” She stood up and went over to the sink. “Why are you asking?” she said over her shoulder.

“Oh, nothing. Just wondering … about the name … I don't know…”

“Right.”

“I think I'll have an early night, Rachel,” I said.

“Okay. Call down if you need anything,” she said.

I took myself up to bed and slid under the duvet again in all my clothes. I closed my eyes, but sleep just wouldn't come. Because all I could see was Catherine in the water. Her hair splayed out and her head motionless as she lay in the darkness of the river, her eyes wide open as if she too could see the horror of what I had done. Had I known about Catherine
—
had I known but never allowed myself to think about her? Had I blocked out Catherine and what had happened to her because it was just too awful to face?

I stared at the ceiling while the hours passed and I waited. I waited for the light to return so that I could get up and go straight back to The Avenue. It was the only thing I could think to do.

 

friday

11

I
TOOK
R
ACHEL A
cup of tea in bed at seven o'clock and told her I had to be in early for auditions for the school play, that I'd forgotten to tell her last night, that I'd see her later. She nodded and gladly took the tea.

And I took the bus and went straight to The Avenue and stood on the Green by the trees. They hid me and I wanted them to. I didn't want anyone to see that I was here. I might have been wrong about Frances's house number, but not about Catherine. We'd played hide-and-seek. I'd wanted my dad to myself. I'd taken her to the river and told her to go and hide, and it was dark, and she'd died because I'd killed her. I might have played with Catherine in this life as if she were my imaginary friend, but she was real. She was Frances's daughter, and she had lived and she had died, and it was because of me.

I looked up at number 38. I stood and I looked at it.

I felt an urge to go inside.

But why? To do what? To see Frances again? Frances was old, and she was ill, and how could I go to her after what I had done? I couldn't. Except she was the only person in all the world I could talk to now. The only one.

My heart started to pulse in my chest.

I looked around.

I was frightened.

I wanted Mum.

I wondered whether I'd ever find her.

Ever see her again.

If I was here living a second life to face the horror of what I had done, if I had to pay for it in some way, then I'd do that
—
I'd face it, I'd pay. But I needed my mum. I needed her.

Dry grief grazed my throat raw. I felt so full of feeling and yet so empty. Since seeing Frances, nothing was normal anymore. Normal life had been replaced by huge swaths of emotion. The fear of what I'd done and the longing always for my mum was twisting tighter and tighter around me all the time now. It was suffocating me, and there was nothing I could do.

I stepped out from under the trees and started walking toward the houses. Putting one foot in front of the other grounded me.

I should go. I should go to school.

I took a deep breath and looked up again.

And that's when I saw her.

Frances.

She stood at her front door, and she was beckoning me over.

I went toward her.

“It's you,” she said, when I reached the front path. “I've been watching you.”

I didn't answer.

“You know I have very little else to do these days but look out at the world from here.”

There was silence.

“Did you come to see me?” she said.

I nodded. I hadn't thought that I had, but she was right. I had.

My throat was still so dry.

I wasn't sure whether my voice would be there if I tried to speak.

I swallowed.

“Come in,” Frances said. I didn't reply.

Suddenly I felt unsure about going inside. Frances looked at me.

“You know, you never told me your name,” she said.

“Ana,” I said. “It's Ana.”

“That's right,” she said. “I did know that. Millie told me. Ana what?”

“Ana Ross,” I said.

“Well, Ana Ross. I think you should come in.” And she opened the door wider to let me through.

And I went.

Because in that moment I knew I had no choice but to do exactly as Frances said.

 

12

F
RANCES INDICATED FOR ME
to go into the front room. The windows were vast, the curtains were heavy. I saw her young. Her slim waist, her navy dress. I heard the muted laughter. It was all with me again in an instant. I felt uncomfortable in this room. I had wanted my dad here. An overwhelming need for him came over me. For a moment I thought I might cry the tears I had cried as a child, when I had needed him then.

“Please, sit down.” Frances pointed to a chair. “Do you want tea?”

“No, I'm fine,” I said. I looked at my watch. It was still early, but I'd need to start making my way to school really soon. “I won't stay long.”

“Good,” Frances said, sitting down in an armchair. She looked like she was in pain as she sat.

“I didn't mean to upset you when I came to the hospital,” I said. “I really didn't mean to
—
”

“I was surprised you knew her name,” Frances cut in. “Catherine's name.” And as she spoke she looked me directly in the eye in a way that made me feel so uneasy.

“I … I came to the hospital because
—
”

“I may be old,” she interrupted, “but I'm certain we have never met before, Ana.”

It felt wrong, her saying my name the way she did. So I just said it.

The words that had been going around and around in my head.

“I'm Emma,” I said. “I'm Emma Trees.” And as I said it, I felt as if a sweet warm wind had blown across my face, and it bathed me, all of me.

Frances sat utterly still. “You can't be Emma.”

“I know it seems impossible, but
—
”

“You said you were Ana.”

“And I am Ana
—
now
—
”

“Emma Trees died.”

“I know,” I said.

“Emma Trees is dead,” she said again. “She died thirteen years after Catherine. If you know that, then you know you cannot be her.”

“I was playing, with Catherine
—
”

“Emma was twenty-two, she was twenty-two, and you
—
you're
—
”

“We were playing, on the Green, out the front
—
here
—
”

“You can't be more than sixteen
—
”

“We were on the Green, and
—
”

We were both speaking fast, we were both listening to each other but desperately clinging to what we knew. Frances took a short breath, and neither of us spoke for a minute.

“Everyone knew Catherine was on the Green before she died,” she said. “It doesn't make you Emma Trees.”

“But I was there. I remember it. I was with her…” The desperation in my voice was back.

“I think you must be mistaken,” she said.

I looked at her, and as I did all I could see was Catherine's pretty face looking back at me. Mother and daughter, they had the same almond-shaped eyes.

“I fixed her hair clips,” I said. “The tartan bows.”

Frances looked at me.

“They matched her skirt,” I said. “The bows. She was dressed for a party. White tights and black patent shoes with buckles. I did them up for her, here, in the hall. The hair clips wouldn't stay in. She said she didn't want to wear them, but she
—
”

“I made her wear them,” Frances said. “For the party.”

We sat in silence for a moment. I didn't know where to look anymore. If I looked away and looked back at her my eyelids started flickering, blinking with nervousness, fear. I felt like I shouldn't say any more, but I wanted
—
needed
—
to carry on, to tell Frances what I knew.

“Tell me something else,” Frances said. “Something you think you know about Catherine, about that night.”

“We were playing ball. On the Green,” I said. I could see the ball now. It came back to me. “We had a blue ball. You wiped it clean before we played with it. You got the ball out of the shed and you wiped it clean in the kitchen…” I pointed through to where the kitchen was, desperate to show her what I knew. “Through there.”

“Go on,” she said.

“You tried to wipe the ball with a wet cloth and the dirt smeared across the ball, across your hands,” I said. “You were angry, with the mess. You went to a drawer and got a dry tea towel and you wiped it clean and told us to go out onto the Green and play. I think
—
”

Frances raised her left hand. She wanted me to stop talking. I stopped at her command. I looked at her, waiting for her to allow me to carry on, to keep talking. She was utterly still.

“Why are you here?” she said.

“I need to know what happened. I need to know how she died.”

“You don't remember?” Frances said, her voice rising steadily, but with the utmost control. “You don't remember what you did?”

I shook my head.

“You're lucky,” she said.

“Why?”

“Don't ask me that!” she barked back. “You can't ask me that!”

There was silence.

And then she spoke again. “Why did you come here?” she said.

“The answers
—
they're here. They must be.”

“Why?”

“You, Catherine, this house, that night … It's all here. Isn't it? We were here
—
”

“How long have you known?” Frances interrupted.

“That I'm Emma?” I said.

Frances nodded.

“I've always known that I'm Emma,” I said. “But I hadn't remembered about Catherine. Not until this week. Not until I saw you in the hospital. We were there, weren't we? Both of us, that night?” I said. “I … I just had to speak to you. Since I saw you in the hospital I've been remembering things, things I haven't remembered before. I have no one else to talk to. There is no one I can tell.”

Frances continued to look at me. She was searching me with her eyes, and even though I didn't like it
—
how it made me feel
—
I let her, because I was desperate for her to let me stay and talk.

“I don't know why I should believe you,” she said.

“Because you have to!” I said, my voice getting louder. “Because there is no explanation for what I know
—
”

“There are no explanations,” Frances said. “None! I've been searching for an explanation. I've been waiting for a reason, an understanding, an answer why she died. I've been asking for a sign, for something
—
anything
—
to come to me through every day of every one of the long, long years since she died. And there has been nothing.”

“Maybe I know things you don't…?” I said.

“I doubt that,” she said.

“I have memories, images, inside my head
—
”

“I have those too, Ana.”

“But they won't be the same. I was with her, wasn't I? Before she died?”

“You were,” Frances said slowly, looking at me again. “So you remember that?”

I nodded.

“Would you talk to me?” I said. “Please. Could you do that?”

There was another silence between us.

“We aren't the same
—
you and I,” Frances said. “What you did sets you apart. If I agree to talk, you must never forget that.” And she looked at me in a way that made me cold, all over. I could feel my skin rippling with the chill.

I shivered. And I opened my mouth to speak
—

“What I want to know,” she said, “is why you are here.”

I shook my head. “I don't know.”

“So what do you know? It seems to me the answer is not very much, young Ana.”

“I need you, Frances. To help me,” I cried.

“Ah!” she said. “Help!” And her voice was getting louder now. “Where was my help when I needed it?”

“Maybe … maybe,” I said, stuttering, “maybe it's me? Maybe I'm here, now, to help, to help you … to help you understand…”

Could it be that I'd come back to make things better? I didn't know, but I grasped on to any reason I could find if it meant that Frances would keep talking to me.

“But you can't change what happened, can you? You might have come back, Ana
—
Emma
—
whoever you are. But Catherine. She's never coming back. Is she?” Her voice was low, controlled, challenging me.

“No,” I said quietly. “I don't think so.”

“Nothing will bring my Catherine back,” she said, her voice rising again, angry. “Don't you see? Nothing! And yet you
—
you are here.”

“I know,” I said. “I'm sorry.” I could feel tears welling in my throat.

“There must be a reason!” she said again. “I want a reason!”

“I
—
I can't explain it,” I said. “I
—
I just feel so bad
—
I…” And the black, black feeling was rising up inside me.

It filled me up
—
all of me
—
and the tears came
—
heavy. I thought they would never stop. “You should try!” Frances shouted, standing up awkwardly from her chair to look out of the window. “You should at least try after what you did!”