news about my sister, like she’s still out there in the world, surprising me.
‘Your grandma roped her into it, I think. You must’ve been at uni. I was doing teacher training, back for the holidays, and I bumped into her when she was out hiding the eggs. She looked at me absolute daggers. “You breathe a word of this to anybody,” she said, “I’ll tell everyone you smoke behind the allotments.”’
I laugh, delighted. His impersonation of Carla is brilliant. He smiles back at me, blue eyes catching the sunlight again.
‘She launched into it then, how it’s all a Christian appropriation of a Pagan ritual or something, you know how Carla was about that sort of thing, and then around the corner comes Ursula – she must’ve been six or so, then – and suddenly off Carla skips, bunny tail flapping. She wanted the kid to think she was the Easter bunny. Preserving the magic. Kind of like you did, for Samantha.’
I breathe out slowly, my paintbrush suspended in mid-air. It’s easy to forget, when you’re missing someone, that they’re more than just the person you remember: they have sides to themselves they only show when other people are around.
In the last few weeks I’ve spoken about my sister more than I have in the last year put together. In Hamleigh, people mention Carla without blinking; at home my friends stutter over her name, watching me carefully, afraid to say the wrong thing. I’ve always appreciated how Ethan will steer people off the topic if we’re out for dinner – he says he knows talking about Carla will hurt me.
And yes, it does hurt, but not like I thought it would. The more I talk about her the more I want to, as if there’s a dam in my brain somewhere with cracks forming and the water’s getting through and the faster the flow, the more the dam wants to break.
20
Eileen
It’s a long night, as any night spent in a hospital waiting room will be. I am reminded of Marian’s birth, and Leena’s, and Carla’s. But most of all I’m reminded of the day when Carla was first admitted to hospital. The careful way the doctor cast his warning: I’m afraid it’s not good news. The gaping, terrible panic on Marian’s face, how her hands clutched at my arm as if she was falling. And Leena, doing what she always did, setting her jaw and asking all the questions. What are our options? Let’s talk about next steps. With all due respect, Doctor, I’d appreciate a second opinion on that scan.
At about one o’clock in the morning Fitz suddenly seems to remember I’m old and might need to go home to sleep, but it doesn’t feel right to leave Martha. So I sleep on the floor under a heap of Rupert and Fitz’s jumpers and jackets. I haven’t slept on a floor for a very long time; I ache everywhere. It’s as if somebody has taken my body apart and jammed all the pieces back together again. My head is throbbing.
Fitz comes to fetch me at around lunchtime; I’m still dozing, but I’ve moved from the floor to a chair. He looks rather haunted, but happy.
‘There’s a baby!’ he says. ‘A girl!’
I try to stand too fast and clutch a hand to my head.
‘Are you OK, Mrs C?’ Fitz asks as he helps me up.
‘I’m fine. Don’t mind me. Did you get hold of Yaz?’
Fitz smiles. ‘I held the phone so she could see Martha and the baby. She’s on a flight back now.’
‘Good.’ Not quite good enough, in my opinion, but there we are. I get the impression Yaz is somebody whose gambles have so far always paid off – perhaps it will do her some good to realise that you can’t always cut everything quite so fine.
We turn a corner and I inhale sharply, my hand going to the wall for support. There is a young woman in a bed. Her hair is curly and her face is drawn with exhaustion.
‘Mrs C?’ Fitz says. ‘Martha’s just through here.’
I turn away with a lurch of nausea. This place is not doing me any good.
‘Are her family here now?’ I ask. My voice shakes.
‘Yes,’ Fitz says hesitantly. ‘Her dad’s in with her.’
‘She doesn’t need me, then,’ I say. ‘I think I’d better go home.’
He looks as if he’s thinking about going with me, but I’m glad he doesn’t offer to when I walk away. It’s impossible to find an exit in