And the way I blanked Niall the last time I saw him.
Though I denied knowing him, I’m the one who feels crucified.
By August the university has been demonised enough. They take the decision to expel me, and I assume they do the same to Niall. The news comes in the form of a typewritten letter, folded into a small brown envelope that’s pushed through our letterbox at 8:33 a.m. In the space of a few months I’ve gone from an academic golden girl to drug-addicted dropout. My parents can barely bring themselves to look at me.
I miss him, I miss him, I miss him. The thought curls around my chest, squeezing it until it’s all I can do to breathe. When I close my eyes, it’s his voice I hear.
Just whispers on the wind.
The only thing that gets me out of bed is the fact I can’t stand to be alone with my thoughts. If I could escape myself, I would. I want to soar above the trees, far away from my body, my mind empty except for the feeling of freedom. For the first time I understand why people cut themselves. The urge to get rid of a bit of myself, to let it bleed out of me, is so overwhelming I can barely ignore it. Only the fear of my parents catching me in the act prevents me from trying.
September arrives, and I’m still a caged animal. Stuck in a routine of sleeping, eating and stagnating. With the occasional visit to a local group that labels me a sinner and urges me to give myself over to the Lord. I coast through my days as though I’m overdosing on downers, my emotions muffled by the depression that weighs down on my shoulders like an iron shawl.
I don’t cry anymore. I don’t feel anything. I hardly know if I exist.
The trees in our back garden fade into golds and oranges, curling and drying before they flutter to the ground. The air turns cold, coating windscreens and pavements with glistening frost, sparkling like diamonds under the autumn sun.
As the seasons move, I stand still. A statue amongst the blur of change. My parents go back to their normal routine: work and housekeeping, evenings at the club. Saturdays spent on the green or at the nineteenth hole. As the months pass, I gain a little more freedom, the ability to click online, visits to the library to borrow books I can’t afford to buy. Slowly, slowly, I come to the realisation that I can’t go on like this. If I don’t make the change, nobody will. It’s all up to me.
Maybe it always has been.
23
Two weeks later I move into a shared flat, carrying my belongings up endless staircases to a small room that overlooks an internal yard. Complete with dustbins, abandoned bicycles and a resident cat, it has all the elements to guarantee a sleepless night. Yet it isn’t rattling bin lids or screeching kittens that keep me awake, but a strange mattress and the lack of body heat. Not to mention an overactive thought process that just won’t shut up. I lie in the darkness and make plans. Determined this is a stopgap; I can’t live like a perpetual student forever.
The next week is spent doing all the crappy things you never think about before a move: changing my address with the world and his wife, setting up contracts, and finding the strength to telephone my parents and break the news to them. When I finally get around to it, I end up having to lean out of my window to get some reception.
“Bethany, how lovely to hear from you.” My mother has that ‘we have company’ tone to her voice. She’s overdoing the gushing. “How are you, darling?”
I can almost picture what she’s wearing: some variation on the skirt suits she always chooses when she hosts dinner. She’ll have been to the hairdressers in the afternoon to have a wash and set, possibly while the steaks marinated in the fridge. Dessert will be bought from the local delicatessen, because by the time they get to it, none of her guests will notice it’s not homemade. Even if they do, they’ll be too sozzled from my dad’s elderberry wine to care.
“I’m fine. Listen, Mum—”
“And Simon, how is Simon?” She’s always been a fan of his.
“That’s what I’m calling to talk about.”
“Is he all right? What’s happened?” An edge of alarm coats her words.
“Nothing like that. We’ve decided to separate. I wanted to give you my new address.” You know, in case you ever want to visit, I add silently. Fat chance.
A long, heavy silence, followed by a deep sigh. “Oh, Bethany. What have you done?”
If I live to be eighty, I’ll still feel like a small child who never lived up to her parents’ expectations. I sit down heavily on my bed. Why does everything have to be my fault? No mention of Simon’s role in any of this.
“It was a mutual decision. We both agreed it was for the best.”
There’s a pause for a moment, as if she’s trying to absorb my words. “I suppose you’ll want to come home like the prodigal daughter,” she says crossly. “I’ll have to move all of my scrapbooking. We’ve only just got rid of your bed.”
“I don’t want to move home,” I sigh. “You don’t need to move anything. I’ve found somewhere temporary to live and I’m looking for something permanent.” I rub my head, trying to soothe away the sharp, stabbing pain behind my brow.
“Well, I’m sure you and Simon will sort it out.” She lowers her voice. “Just wear a short skirt and appeal to his baser instincts. That’s what I always do with your fath—”
“Mum!” I don’t know what’s more appalling. The fact she’s trying to pimp out her own daughter, or the sudden vision I have of her dancing around my dad. “Anyway, I’d better let you get back to your guests. Have a lovely evening.”
“How did you...oh, yes. But we need to talk about you and Simon...”
I hang up before she can impart any more wisdom. My duty is done; she won’t be calling up Simon’s house and getting a nasty shock. I mentally tick that particular chore off my ever-growing list with a mental flourish, breathing in deeply to calm myself down.