My Mother's Silence (ARC) Read online

  I’m sorry, too, for the outburst. Mum hobbles back over. ‘Shh.’ She bends down unsteadily and tries to tuck the blanket around me. ‘It’s OK. You’re safe now. Everything is going to be fine, my wee bird.’

  That strange, glassy flicker is back in her eyes. But I’m fully back to my senses. There was only one person she ever called her ‘wee bird’. And it wasn’t me.

  The name stemmed from Ginny’s roof incident. She was fifteen, and she and some friends were sunbathing and passing a bottle of whiskey around. Someone – I don’t remember who – dared her to jump. I remember, because Dad had sent me on my bicycle to tell her to come home. I came just as she stood there with her toes curled over the edge…

  My breathing constricts even further. I hate the fact that I’ve caused Mum stress that’s made her lose her grip on reality. She stares at me for a second, and I reach out and touch her hand. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I say. My voice seems to bring her back to her senses. Thank God.

  ‘We’ll be off,’ Maureen says to Mum, seeming not to notice anything amiss. ‘Remember, Lorna’s coming back to sit with you, and we’re just the other end of the phone if you need us.’

  ‘Yes, fine.’ Mum insists on walking Maureen to the door where Dougie is waiting. They talk for another minute about Bill and his family. When they’re finally gone, Mum comes over to me. I manage to shift so she can lower herself down to perch on the edge of the sofa. ‘I didn’t… understand.’ Her voice is shaky. ‘I didn’t realise that you were feeling so low.’

  ‘Mum, listen to me…’ I reach out and take her hand. Her skin feels like paper, her knuckles hard and gnarled. ‘I’m the one who’s sorry – it was stupid of me to dive into that water. But I did it because it felt good to be out there on the beach. I’ve missed the sea – and this place – so much.’ Hearing the words, I realise how true it is. ‘I wasn’t doing anything else.’

  She turns away and looks up at the photographs. But she leaves her hand in mine. I wonder how many more times I’ll have to have this conversation. She’ll no doubt tell Bill and Fiona, and everyone’s going to be walking on eggshells. I don’t want that. I want to be sensible, reliable, trustworthy Skye again. The less beautiful, less talented sister, but the one you’d go to in a pinch. How can I convince Mum that I’m that person?

  ‘Yes, well…’ Mum removes her hand. She traces the wooden veins on her cane. ‘It’s just awful, you know? To get a message like that. I immediately thought the worst.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I say.

  ‘I mean, to do that…’ She turns to me, her eyes dark with anger. ‘I just don’t understand.’

  I stare at her, looking for the meaning behind her words. ‘What happened was an accident. I didn’t do it deliberately, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  ‘How do I know that? You’ve been away for so long. Fifteen years! I don’t know you. Maybe I never knew you – or your sister – at all.’

  ‘I left because that’s what you wanted.’ I lower my voice. ‘Because you blame me. You told me to bring Ginny home and I didn’t do it. That’s why I didn’t come back. Because I know that each time you look at me, you think of her, and what happened.’

  Mum clenches her teeth and for a second I think she’s going to slap me. I wish she would.

  ‘That is simply not true.’ She emphasises each word. ‘And I don’t know how you can believe it.’

  ‘Because I heard you say it. The day before I left. I don’t know who you were talking to, but I can remember every word you said.’

  She opens her mouth then closes it again. I’ve struck a blow, that much I can see. Maybe a fatal blow to our relationship. Which was not what I intended.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re referring to.’

  She makes a move to stand up. I can’t let her. Can’t allow her to go off and make a cup of tea, change the subject, plead ignorance. I need this out in the open.

  ‘Look we’re both grown-ups here,’ I say. ‘Can’t we talk about it?’

  ‘Talk about it.’ She looks genuinely surprised. ‘What is there to say? Do you want me to say I’m sorry? That I wasn’t there for you, that I couldn’t cope with your pain as well as my own. That I pushed you away?’

  ‘That would be a start.’

  She shakes her head. ‘You didn’t have to deal with funeral arrangements, and all that awful business with the grave. You didn’t have to talk to people, see people. Put on a brave face. You seemed not really there, like you’d already left to get on with your life. And I was happy for you. Happy that you didn’t have to live with her memory every single day.’

  ‘But I do live with it. Don’t you understand? She was my twin.’

  ‘She was my daughter!’ Mum’s anger is flowing freely now. ‘And so are you. I lost both of you. Two children, in the span of only a few weeks. You don’t know what that feels like, Skye, believe me. Until you have your own child – and don’t worry, I’ve given up hoping for that – you will never understand.’

  My throat feels raw, my breathing raspy. There’s a faint little voice in my head that’s saying ‘yes, this is good. Get it out, clear the air’. But my emotions are churning with a sickly, dizzying vertigo. On the one hand, I feel so angry with Mum, comparing her pain and mine like it’s some kind of competition. On the other, I feel a whole new sense of guilt at her words. Mum lost Ginny because she died in a terrible accident. But I chose to stay away. If I’d faced her at the time, told her how much she hurt me on top of all the other pain, then maybe things would be very different now.

  ‘Maybe I won’t ever understand,’ I say, my voice hoarse. ‘But that’s neither here nor there. Ginny’s not coming back. But I’m here now. You asked for me…’

  She looks at me sharply, and I feel a cold, searing pain in my chest. Bill. My lovely brother. The messenger between the trenches…

  No. Surely he wouldn’t have lied. Surely! And yet, Mum’s reaction tells the truth. She didn’t ask for me. She doesn’t need me, or want me here.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I blurt out. ‘Bill said… I thought…’ I can barely get the words out. ‘I’ll leave again. As soon as I can make arrangements. I think it’s better for both of us… I see that now.’ A sob catches in my throat. I start coughing again, water gurgling in my lungs.

  Mum levers herself to her feet. The argument seems to have strengthened her, because she stands straight, barely leaning on the cane. She goes over towards the photos on the mantle shelf.

  ‘You and she were always so different,’ Mum says, her voice softer now. She picks up my school photo and looks at it. ‘It was as if you were years older than she was, rather than only a few minutes.’ She sighs. ‘She looked up to you so much.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true.’

  She sets down the photo and picks up one of Bill, Fiona and the kids. ‘I think the problem between you and me back then was that we were so alike,’ she says. ‘I saw myself in you. Much more so than Ginny. I guess I paid less attention to you, gave you less praise because of that. I always imagined that I knew what you were thinking and how you would react to things. With Ginny, I never knew, so I always felt worried. She was like the child captured by fairies. There was a part of her that none of us could reach.’

  ‘You think I’m like you?’ Of all the things she’s said, this is what my mind hones in on. I’ve always considered myself closer to Dad than Mum, but maybe this explains why. Mum always seemed so strong, logical, and distant. Perhaps we were like two magnets with the same poles. But if that’s true, then what future do we have?

  ‘Oh, you’re much better than I ever was,’ Mum says. ‘I’m not talented and creative like you. And I never had the wanderlust either. We’re different in a lot of ways. But I always knew that I could rely on you.’ She turns back to me. ‘I know you didn’t go into that water deliberately to drown, Skye. Maureen’s wrong about that. I have to believe that lightning doesn’t strike twice.’

  She turns away again and I hear a s
trangled sob.

  ‘Mum?’ I say, alarmed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I… no. Never mind.’

  ‘Please,’ I say. ‘Whatever it is, tell me.’

  ‘No. It’s nothing. I’m just being silly.’ She takes a moment to steady herself. ‘The bottom line is, she’s gone. You’re here now, so let’s end this silly conversation. Of course you’re staying. All these years, I’ve wanted nothing more than to see you. To have you back. I’m sorry if I never said so. I’ve got on with things while you were away, as have you. That’s the kind of people we are. But that doesn’t mean that I haven’t been waiting for you. Praying…’

  ‘Mum…’ The single word is all I can manage. I’m so tired. I close my eyes…

  18

  I wake from a fitful sleep where my dreams are haunted by flashing lights; a girl on a cliff, a dark body pulling me underwater. The first thing I feel, though, when I come back to my senses, is a stifling pain pressing down onto my chest. For a second I worry that I’m coming down with pneumonia, just like Dad. Then I recall what Nick Hamilton said about the CPR and chest compressions that would naturally make me sore. Nick Hamilton: the ‘kiss of life’; removing my wet clothes by the fire… I’m ashamed that the righteous indignation I feel is tinged with a frisson of adrenalin.

  As the room comes into focus, I feel confused. It was dark out when I was brought here, and, surely, I’ve only been out for twenty minutes; half an hour at most. And yet outside the curtains, there’s daylight.

  The room is also different. The photos have been taken down from the mantle and replaced with a set of copper lanterns. There’s a garland of pine and holly hanging above the hearth. The boxes from the attic have been neatly stacked to one side. How did Mum manage all this?

  I replay the conversation – row, really – over in my mind. I suppose it really was unforgivable, me going into the water like that, given what almost happened – given what did happen to my sister. I guess that’s what Mum meant by lightning striking twice. But even though it was painful to get things out in the open, we’re probably better off for having done it. There’s still a long way to go in patching the rift between us – but we’ve made a start. My love for her is less hazy, less cluttered by unspoken things.

  But my brother… Bill lied to me. Mum never asked for me at all. The all-important words that brought me back here were never even spoken. I close my eyes until the wave of anger subsides. I’m sure he had only good motives. He doesn’t know what I overheard all those years ago, or why I stayed away. He did what he felt he needed to do for Mum, and for the family. And I’m here as a result. Isn’t that an end that justifies the means?

  I make an attempt to sit up but the pain in my chest is excruciating. This is stupid… I clench my teeth and just do it. I swing off the sofa and stand up. My breath is raspy as I slowly make my way to the kitchen where I can hear the sound of dishes clanging.

  ‘Oh!’ Mum says when she sees me. She grips the edge of the sink to steady herself.

  ‘Sorry to startle you,’ I say, smiling.

  ‘Sit down. Let me put the kettle on.’

  Walking to the kitchen seems like heroics enough so I pull up a chair and sit down. I feel bad not only for being utterly useless, but now a huge additional burden that Mum doesn’t need.

  ‘Maureen gave me some painkillers for your chest,’ she says. ‘Do you want them?’

  ‘No.’ I hold up my hand. ‘Just a cup of tea. Please.’

  ‘You should take them if you’re in pain.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Throw them away.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Your dad was just the same.’

  I decide to take that as a compliment. I don’t want another row, so I change the subject. ‘Tell me about your tenant,’ I say.

  The kettle boils and Mum takes out two white cups. ‘Oh, well, there’s not much to tell. You probably know as much as I do.’

  ‘I doubt that. When Maureen came, she called him DCI Hamilton.’

  ‘DCI?’ Mum looks surprised. ‘Like Vera?’

  ‘I don’t know who Vera is,’ I say, ‘but I mean like, Detective Chief Inspector.’

  ‘She’s a TV detective,’ she says.

  ‘Right. I thought he was an artist, not a detective.’

  ‘Yes, he is an artist.’ She brings the cups over to the table on a tray. This time, they don’t rattle at all. She sits down facing me. ‘His paintings are quite good, I think. Did he show them to you?’

  ‘We really didn’t get that far.’

  ‘Of course.’ Her smile is brittle.

  ‘I’ll have to go over there again,’ I say. ‘To thank him for rescuing me.’

  ‘You must take him something,’ she says. ‘I’m going to start baking now. For when the hordes descend later.’

  ‘Later? I thought they were coming tomorrow.’

  She stares at me, her brow creasing. ‘It is tomorrow,’ she says. ‘You slept for almost eighteen hours. Lorna was here, helping me out. I woke you a few times, like Maureen said. But you just went right back out.’

  ‘God… I had no idea.’ I can’t remember the last time I slept for eighteen hours, if ever. I was hoping that the day after the incident I’d feel a little better than I do.

  ‘What time are they getting here?’ I sip the tea, fighting the urge to cough.

  ‘Around two, I think,’ Mum says. She finishes her tea and gets out of the chair, her joints creaking as she rises.

  I stay in the chair trying to gather my strength, which I’m going to need when Bill and his family arrive. I want to be at my best, to prove that I do belong here, even if he told a lie to get me back. When Bill was growing up, he was a typical wild, energetic boy, three years younger than Ginny and I. When Dad died, he stepped up immediately to become the man in the family, something that I will always admire and appreciate. He buckled down, got an after school job, four A-levels, and eventually a degree in accounting. He met his wife, Fiona, his first year of uni in Glasgow.

  Getting married young was the only ‘rebellion’ that Bill ever did. In fact it wasn’t rebellion, but him stepping up once again, because Fiona got pregnant. She was from a well-off Glaswegian family, who didn’t exactly approve of my brother who came from the back of beyond. But as far as I know, they’re happy, and how many couples who have been married for twelve years can say that?

  I didn’t go to the wedding. Another black mark against me. I couldn’t afford either the cost of the flight or the time off. Bill and Fiona had every right to hold it against me, but they’re not that kind of people. Though we were usually thousands of miles apart, Bill was an anchor, reminding me of where I came from, who I was, and that I ought to ring Mum once in a while. Sometimes I resented it, but most of the time, it was just nice to know he was there.

  I’ve seen them in the States a few times when they’ve travelled over to visit Fiona’s parents, who now live in a retirement community in Florida. Each time, I’ve felt a little nervous: that I wouldn’t know how to act around the children, or that they wouldn’t know me.

  Now, those worries pale in comparison to my new ones about Mum and the effect my presence here is having on her. Reminding her of the past, loosening her grip on reality. The last thing I want to do is ruin Christmas for Bill and his family – or any of us. I’ll have to watch my step.

  I finish my tea and wash out my cup at the sink. Mum is getting ingredients out of the cupboard: flour, sugar, cans of mince. She’s slow and a bit unsteady, but her mouth is set in a determined line.

  ‘So what can I do to help?’ I say. If she thinks we’re alike, then she’ll realise that I’m not going to take no for an answer. ‘Do you want me to get out the rest of the decorations, or go check that the cottage is ready?’ I give a little laugh. ‘Like I said, it’s probably best if I don’t help out with the cooking.’

  Mum leans against the worktop. ‘Skye, you almost drowned. I really think it’s best if you rest.’

  ‘No, Mum.’ I keep
my resolve. ‘I’ve slept long enough. I feel fine… much better. I’m going to have a shower. And then, I’d like to help.’

  She sighs. ‘Didn’t you say you’d brought some gifts? There’s gift wrap in my room. You can get on with that.’

  ‘That’s it?’ I feel so useless.

  ‘Really, Lorna has seen to everything. And I think we’ll leave the decorations in the boxes for now,’ she says. ‘The children will like getting them out.’

  ‘That’s true.’ As a child it used to be so exciting to open up the ornament boxes: like opening up a treasure chest full of jewels and sparkly things. Mum’s right – it will be good to have children about the house. I want them to like me. I want them to think: ‘That’s my Aunt Skye – she’s cool.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, giving in. ‘I’ll go wrap the gifts.’

  ‘Good.’ Mum seems relieved. ‘There’s sellotape and scissors on my work table.’

  ‘OK.’

  My breathing is laboured as I go upstairs. I take a shower, and then find the bag of gifts that I picked up at the duty free at LAX during the layover from Vegas. Sunglasses and Mickey Mouse beach towels for my seven-year-old twin nephews, Robbie and Jamie, and a notebook with a picture of the Hollywood sign for my twelve-year-old niece, Emily. There are also some shot glasses, a couple of T-shirts, and an ‘I love California’ oven glove for Mum.

  I feel embarrassed about the gifts. They seem inappropriate, like they don’t belong here. Ginny would have laughed if she’d seen what I bought. I can almost hear the sound of it as I go to Mum’s room to start wrapping. I push my sister from my mind.

  Like most of the house, Mum’s room has been revamped. There’s a scroll iron bed, a wall of white built in wardrobes, a flat screen TV, and a table in front of the window with her sewing machine and basket of knitting. It’s a calm space, without photos or pictures on the pale blue walls. Outside the window, the sky is grey and hazy, but a weak sun is trying to break through. The village across the water looks dull and sleepy, the boats in the harbour stationary, like ships in a bottle.