Apples Never Fall

Joy stood outside Savannah’s bedroom and pushed tentatively on the half-open door.

When Amy was a child and this was her bedroom Joy hadn’t hesitated to do some sleuthing when Amy was safely at school, searching for clues that would solve the mystery of her daughter. She never found much: a packet of ordinary cigarettes, one “funny” cigarette, a bottle of crème de menthe that Amy had stolen from her grandmother’s house. (None of these items came close to what she found under Troy’s bed.)

Joy had been far more distressed by the confusing, rambling diary entries that were so difficult to decipher because Amy had a habit of scribbling over the most important words: I am really worried about scribble scribble and scribble. I wish I never scribble with scribble.

But Savannah was her guest and Joy had no parental rights to justify her actions. The only justifications she had were Logan’s bizarre accusation about the television documentary he’d seen on TV the other day, and the gently ringing alarm bells in her own head.

Savannah was not at home right now. She’d announced earlier today that she was “going out.”

“Where are you off to?” Joy had asked. “Do you need a lift?” Apparently Savannah was having dinner “with a friend” and she didn’t need a lift, she’d walk to the station and catch the train into the city.

Joy had managed to stop herself asking, What time will you be home?

Savannah had suggested that Joy and Stan eat the leftover cottage pie from the night before, and she’d even prepared a pea, fennel, and feta salad before she went, leaving the good salad servers resting conveniently on the drum-tight piece of cling film as if Joy and Stan were her children, incapable of finding the right cutlery in their own home. It was very sweet.

It was peculiar without her in the house. For such a small, quietly spoken person, Savannah’s absence was strangely noticeable. Joy felt as if a spell had been broken. There was a buzzing sensation in her ears, as if she’d walked out of an intense movie or a loud party.

She didn’t really believe that Savannah was out with a friend. She couldn’t even imagine her having a friend. What sort of friend? That was the problem. She was so very fond of Savannah, but she didn’t understand her. She didn’t really know her. All she had were these tiny jigsaw pieces of a personality that didn’t fit together: a love of cooking and a dislike of eating, classical ballet and foster care, grandmotherly manners and a tattoo of a vine.

Joy wasn’t angry or frightened, but she did want the facts, before her children proudly presented her with them, which she suspected they desperately wanted to do. Brooke had made such a big deal about the fact that Joy had initially said Savannah’s surname was Polanski rather than Pagonis, which could happen to anyone. She’d acted as if Joy was a dithery old lady. Joy had reminded her that Brooke had believed that carpenters laid carpet until she was sixteen, and Brooke said, “That was actually a completely logical assumption, Mum,” and Joy said, “So Jesus laid carpet then, did he, Brooke?”

Remarkably, they’d both got the giggles at that point. It was nice to hear Brooke laugh. She had a lovely laugh. Grant was very witty, very clever, but he never seemed to make Brooke laugh like that.

She had a lightweight duvet folded up under her arm, as an excuse, should Savannah suddenly, impossibly materialize and catch her snooping. “The nights are getting warmer,” she’d say. It was also in case Stan caught her. She didn’t want him to know that she had any concerns about Savannah. He already seemed to have turned against the girl.

As she stepped into the room, the house phone rang and she gasped as if there had been an explosion. For goodness’ sake.

“Can you get that?” she called as the phone stopped mid-ring and she heard the deep rumble of Stan’s voice. Good. That was him out of the way. It would either be for him or a telemarketer, not Joy. Everyone called her on her mobile, because she was progressive.

Savannah’s room was spick and span, in stark contrast to the cyclonic aftermath that appeared when Amy lived here, both as a child and when she intermittently moved back in as an adult. Savannah’s bed was made with hospital corners, the covers pulled army-straight, and the windowsills and skirting boards gleamed in a way that neither Joy nor Good Old Barb ever achieved.

Amy’s old school desk was clear except for a foolscap-sized hardbound journal, sitting right there in the middle of the desk, with a pen next to it. Well, if it was a diary, Joy certainly would not read it. Absolutely not. That sort of gross invasion of privacy was only appropriate for one’s own children. Anyway, hadn’t Savannah implied that the problem was that she remembered too much about her past? She wouldn’t need to record her days if they were permanently recorded in her memory.

Joy looked over her shoulder, walked toward the desk. She would not look. There was no point in looking. It was not a diary. If Savannah had something to hide, she wouldn’t leave it there in plain sight.

Who was she kidding? Of course she was going to look.

She flipped open the book. The pages were covered in tiny, rigid handwriting. She put her fingertips to the page. The surface was bumpy. Joy’s mother used to write like that, pressing so hard with her pen it left an imprint on the page, as if she were trying to engrave her words forever.

She squinted. She needed her reading glasses. Heavens to bloody Betsy. Leaving the room to retrieve her glasses made the whole process feel too calculated. Perhaps if she got them fast? She darted from the room, ran down the hallway. She could hear Stan on the phone. His voice was raised. She hoped he wasn’t telling off some poor telemarketer who was only trying to earn a living.

She retrieved the glasses from the kitchen table, ran back down the hallway. He was properly shouting now. She dithered. Should she go try to help sort it out?

But the volume of his voice dropped, became conciliatory. That was Stan. The telemarketer might even be making a sale now.

She went back into Savannah’s room, put on her glasses, and picked up the book. Right, then. She read:

Sunday

Quarter apple

Five sultanas

1 x Toast. No crusts. No butter.

Bolognese pasta. Eleven spoonfuls.

Half orange