Sometimes I Lie

My eyes find my own clothes once again, abandoned on the stained carpet. My body feels bruised and persistently protests as I cover myself up with the clothes I can find, forgetting the ones I can’t. I spot my handbag and search inside for my phone but it isn’t there. Instead, I find the unopened pregnancy test kit and feel the nausea rise up my throat. I look around again, scanning through the debris of a life I’m unfamiliar with and spot my phone on a table. I check the date and time, it’s still Friday. The sound of the shower stops and I freeze. My legs switch to autopilot and start to move, forcing me to stumble towards the only door in the room.

I turn the handle and pull it open to reveal a long, narrow hallway. I can hear him whistling behind a door at the other end. The dirty brown carpet is almost completely hidden by stacks of old newspapers and there’s a strong smell of damp. I notice the two large cork boards on the walls and I recognise them instantly, he had them in his room at university. They were covered in photos of the two of us back then and they still are, but more recent pictures have been added to the collage now too, this time just of me. Me outside work, me reading a newspaper on the Tube, me sipping coffee at a café down the road from my home less than a week ago – I recognise my new coat. There must be over a hundred photos and my face stares out from every one. I make myself look away. I have to get out. Now.

I see what looks like a front door between the room I am in and where he is. I know I’m running out of time as I stagger along between the wall and the highly piled detritus. It’s an effort to steady my hands enough to unhook the chain and let myself out into the blacker darkness. I’m outside but high up, some sort of walkway within a large block of flats. I turn briefly to look at the number on the navy-blue door I have just walked through, then I start to back away. I don’t even stop to close it behind me. I enjoy the shock and pain of the cold air, I feel it sneak inside my sleeves, down my top, up and under my skirt. I blink back the tears. I don’t deserve anyone’s pity, not even my own.

Before

Tuesday, 15th December 1992

Dear Diary,

We’re all at home together now, Mum, Dad and me. I’m still suspended, not that anyone cares. Dad has stopped going to work. He says it’s so he can look after Mum because she’s not well, but he sits downstairs all day watching TV while she stays up in her bedroom. He says I’m old enough to be told the truth and that Mum was pregnant before she fell down the stairs and that the baby died. That’s why she drank so much she was sick and why she was shouting at Taylor’s mum that afternoon. I thought people only shouted rude things when they were angry, but Dad says some people do it when they are sad.

I didn’t know Mum was pregnant but I’m glad that she isn’t any more, it’s disgusting. I asked Dad if she would get pregnant again and he said no because they had to remove something from her tummy in the hospital. I was pleased about that. They can’t even look after me properly, so it doesn’t make any sense at all for them to have another child. I’m a bit worried that they might adopt a fake brother or sister to make Mum happy again. I don’t want one of those either.

Dad is always having to pop out for this or that, but sometimes he comes back with nothing at all. I think he should start making lists so he doesn’t keep forgetting things, that’s what Nana used to do. He asked me to keep an eye on Mum while he went out to get some bread, milk and a lottery scratch card. That was tricky, because I didn’t want to look at her. The bedroom door was slightly open so I decided to keep watch from there with one eye closed like Dad said. I thought she might like to hear me singing, seeing as she missed the Christmas concert this year. So I made up a funny song, which I sang to her from the landing.

What shall we do with the drunken mother?

What shall we do with the drunken mother?

What shall we do with the drunken mother?

Early in the morning?

I even made up a little dance to go with it, miming drinking from lots of bottles. She didn’t laugh, so maybe she was still sleeping. She sleeps a lot. Dad says the sadness tires her out.

When Dad got back he said we needed to have a little talk. He had forgotten the milk again but I didn’t tell him because he already looked very worried about something. We sat at the kitchen table and at first I thought he’d forgotten what he wanted to talk about, but then he pulled a face and said we have to move house again. I told Dad that I don’t want to move again but he said that we have to. I asked if it was my fault, for getting suspended and he said no. He started to explain but his words got all jumbled up on the way to my ears because I was crying without meaning to.

It’s something to do with a man called Will. Nana was supposed to talk to him before she died, but she forgot to and now we have to move because people keep forgetting things. Dad said Mum’s sister is very cross about Nana not talking to Will. I didn’t even know Mum had a sister. Dad said I met her a few times when I was really little but I don’t remember her at all. Dad said Mum’s sister hadn’t spoken to Mum or Nana for years, but when Nana died she decided she would like half of her house. I asked if we could still live in the other half, but Dad said no, it didn’t work like that. I asked if we could stay if he matched three things on the lottery scratch card, he said he’d already scratched it and we hadn’t won.

This all made me feel very sad, so I asked Dad if I could go upstairs and read in my room for a while and he said yes, so long as I was quiet and not to disturb Mum. He said we had to take very good care of Mum because she was even more upset about all of this than we were. I don’t see why I should take care of her at all. She was meant to look after Nana and she didn’t do a very good job because the cancer killed her. I can’t help thinking lately that if someone better, like Taylor’s mum, had looked after Nana when she was ill, she would have got better and still been alive now. Everything would still be good and we wouldn’t have to keep moving house. This is all Mum’s fault, even if Dad is too stupid to see it. Mum has ruined everything for everyone and I’ll never forgive her.

Now

New Year’s Eve, 2016

The sound wakes me, I’ve heard it before. My bed is tilting me backwards, so that my feet are pointing up towards the ceiling and the blood rushes to my head. They lift me a little further towards the very edge, I’m scared I might fall and that nobody will catch me, but then they carefully let my head lean right back and I feel the warm water and gentle fingers on my scalp.

I’m having my hair done today, I didn’t even need to book an appointment! I can smell the shampoo and picture the suds and, if I try really hard, I can convince myself for a few seconds that I’m at the hairdresser’s, that life has been restored to my version of normal. I try to extract some pleasure from the experience, I try to relax, try to remember what that means.