Alexandra, Gone

6

“Little Man”

Take the world off your shoulders,
little man, little man, little man.
Jack L, Universe

February 2008

Elle had been lying in bed for twenty days. Ten days after New Year’s Eve she had taken a taxi to a hotel in Kildare. When she arrived, someone took her bag out of the car as she paid the fare. She signed her name on the form the receptionist handed her, took her key, and followed the man with her bag up to the third floor and into her room. She tipped him, and he left. She undressed, put a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, and got into bed with the curtains drawn, and the only time she had gotten out of bed in those twenty days was to pee, apart from the times the maids came in. They knocked every second or third day, and she’d get out of her bed and sit on the toilet while they cleaned the room, and when they were finished she’d get back into bed while they cleaned the bathroom. Some days she ate something small, and some days she didn’t eat at all. The television remained off, and days and nights blended into one. Some days she was numb and without any kind of coherent thought; other days her mind raced so much that her head hurt and she felt the need to put pressure on her ears. Her phone remained off. There were days she cried rivers; other days she simply breathed in and out, in and out, in and out, each breath becoming more and more laborious until every cell in her body hurt, so that even lifting her arm became almost impossible.
The manager knocked on her door after she’d refused the maids access for the sixth day in a row. He waited for a response but was met with silence, and so he knocked again but either she was ignoring him or she was sleeping, so he knocked louder a third time and in her head and for the second time she screamed at him to go away. As the general manager didn’t read minds, he made the decision to enter the room. He was accompanied by one of the receptionists to ensure that there was no misunderstanding as to the intention of his visit. He entered slowly with the girl following. Elle was lying on her side. He called out to her. She remained still. The girl seemed to be of a nervous disposition, so the general manager smiled at her to assure her everything was fine. He walked around the side of the bed, and Elle’s eyes were open and staring. She was pale and, because the blankets were tucked under her neck, it was unclear whether or not she was breathing. The girl mistook her for a corpse and screamed. Elle moved her eyes to focus on the screaming girl, whose nervous disposition had been long ago blamed on her twin brother, who had often chased her while pretending to be a zombie. Seeing the corpse’s eyes move sent her over the deep end, and so she screamed again loudly and ran out of the room and down the hall and stairs and out the front door of the hotel, leaving the general manager alone and decidedly uncomfortable. Thanks for nothing, Sheena.
“Are you all right, Miss Moore?” he asked.
“How many times have I told you to leave me alone today?”
“None.”
“Are you deaf?”
“I’m not deaf.”
“I just told you to leave me alone at least twice if not three times.”
The general manager decided not to argue. “Is there someone I can call?”
Elle slowly raised herself up in the bed; the blanket dropped, revealing her naked breasts. The general manager turned red and looked away.
“If I wanted you to call someone I would have asked you to call someone,” she said, letting the blanket rest at her waist.
The general manager turned from red to a funny purple color. He covered his eyes because he could still see her in the mirror and she knew he could still see her because she was watching him through that same mirror.
“Do you like what you see?” she asked.
“Sorry?” he said in a voice that had gone up one octave.
“My tits,” she said. “Do you like them?”
The general manager did like them. She had a lovely rounded, pert, full pair of tits, but there was no way in the world he was going to say that, and he wasn’t going to tell her he didn’t like them either, so instead he did what any man in his right mind would do: he ignored the question.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, “but we need to know that you are okay.”
“Now you know.”
“If there’s anything we can do for you …”
“You can go away.”
He nodded and left the room.
She lay back down, tucking the blanket up around her chin, and lay perfectly still in absolute darkness.
When capable of coherent thought, Elle reminisced about all the things about Vincent she had loved. His face: she had fallen in love with his face the first time she saw him across a crowded bar. It was a strong and pretty face, and he had an old man’s eyes—deep, dark, chocolate eyes nestled behind lush eyelashes so thick and long that any woman or drag act would sell themselves for them. His curly brown hair: she loved that it was always messy and sexy and soft and loved putting her hands through it, playing with it. She loved his height: he was taller than her but not too tall, and they could always kiss comfortably even on the rare occasion she wore flats. She loved his hands: soft and manicured and always perfectly clean. She loved the things he did with his hands and how those hands made her feel. His laugh: when he laughed his eyes leaked water and he threw back his head and slapped his thigh, and it was a throaty and giddy giggly laugh that encouraged her to join in. His mind: she missed him reading passages out of newspapers and books to her, she missed watching him read his books and the way he screwed up his face when fully concentrating and bit at his thumb before turning the page. Vincent was never without a book, and all his jackets had pockets big enough to hold at least one. She missed the poetry that loving him had brought into her life. She missed the fights where they’d scream and roar at each other, where she’d smash a plate and he’d stamp his foot and punch the wall. She missed making up, ripping at each other’s clothes and the heat between them and the way he often bit her lip and the feel of him inside her, his rhythm and the way he looked at her afterward when they lay still and sticky. She missed herself: the silly, giddy part of her that she shared only with him.
He had tried to end it in China, and deep down she had known that he loved what she represented rather than who she was. He was an out-of-work model studying design at night, and she was a successful artist, and with success came a lifestyle he had become accustomed to and, in a small town like Dublin, Elle was a big fish, ensuring minor celebrity status and entrance to every VIP room in the city. Vincent loved the champagne lifestyle, not Elle. He had never loved Elle, as the note said. He had wanted her, she had always been certain of that, he most definitely had needed her as she had paid for his lifestyle for years, but he was never going to love her no matter what she did to keep him. China had been a reprieve, and ever since she’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Elle’s love had died, and it was all she could do to keep breathing.
The hairdresser put her hands through Leslie’s short crop, and when Leslie confirmed that she had cut her own hair for quite a few years, the hairdresser admitted that the thought had certainly crossed her mind and then called over a fellow professional so that they could confer on what was the best course of action to minimize the damage Leslie had done.
“God almighty, did you use a bowl?” the other woman said.
“No.”
“Well, you may as well have. I’ve seen Trappist monks with better hair.”
“What’s your name?” Leslie asked.
“Sophie.”
“Well, Sophie, if I wanted to be insulted I’d sing for Simon Cowell. As it is, I just want my hair restyled.”
“Fine,” Sophie said curtly.
“And Sophie?”
“Yes?”
“No talking.”
“So you don’t want me to tell you what we’re going to do?”
Leslie could tell that Sophie wanted to slap her.
“After that,” she said.
The first woman walked away, leaving Sophie to it. Sophie explained to Leslie that she could no longer get away with black hair because of her age and the pallor of her skin, but she could give her a nice copper tone. Leslie was fine with that. Sophie called over two young girls, Esther and Julie, and explained what she wanted them to do. Then she walked away and they got to work. As instructed, they didn’t address Leslie. Instead they chatted about an apartment block that had gone up near the salon and whether or not one of them should buy a one-bed apartment in the inner city with her boyfriend, Joseph, for €390,000, especially as it was possible only with a 100 percent mortgage.
“You should just go for it,” Esther said.
“Yeah, I mean, what have I got to lose?” Julie said.
“Are you insane?” Leslie asked, and the two girls looked at her in the mirror.
“What do you mean?” Julie asked.
“How long have you been with Joseph?”
“A year.”
“What age are you?”
“Twenty-one. I’ll be twenty-two in April.”
“What rate are you buying your mortgage at?”
“Don’t know.”
“How much will you be paying back per month?”
“No clue.”
“What’s your rush?”
“I need to get on the property ladder.”
“You’re twenty-one. You’ve got another ten years to get on the property ladder.”
“Yeah, well, I want to do it now.”
“Look, it’s none of my business, but around here, well, let’s be honest, it’s a dump. You don’t want to pay three hundred and ninety K for a one-bed apartment in a dump, especially when you’re paying back a one hundred percent mortgage, no doubt on a noncompetitive rate, and with a boy you’ve been with for only one year. It’s madness.”
“It’s not a kip around here,” Julie said indignantly. “I grew up around here. My ma lives around the corner.”
“What happens if you can’t afford the mortgage?”
“But we can.”
“What happens if mortgage rates go up and you can’t afford the mortgage?”
“We’re going for a fixed mortgage,” Julie said, delighted she could answer at least one of the annoying woman’s questions.
“What if you lose your job?” Leslie asked.
“I’m not going to,” Julie said, looking around uncomfortably.
“What if you split up with your boyfriend?”
“We’re happy.”
“Happy now, but in six months’ time, with a ridiculously large mortgage to pay, in an apartment the size of a box of matches, you might not be. In fact, if I was a betting woman I’d put a hundred euros on it not lasting the year.”
Julie started to cry.
“What is wrong with you?” Esther asked, and she took Julie into the break room.
Sophie reappeared and silently resumed dyeing Leslie’s hair.
“Is Julie okay?” Leslie asked. “I was only trying to help.”
“No talking,” Sophie said.
Leslie nodded her head. Fair enough.
When the dye was finally washed out after what seemed like an eternity, the girl who’d originally consulted with her returned with scissors in hand. She worked quickly and silently, and Leslie relaxed. She blow-dried it and fixed it with a little gel. Then she stood back, and Leslie looked at herself.
Despite being forty and having a few age spots on her face and chest, she still had a tight jawline and protruding cheekbones, and the copper worked against her brown eyes and the short elfin style suited her facial features. The girl was smiling. Some other girls, not Julie, came over and all agreed they had done a fantastic job, and Leslie agreed.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
Bolstered by her new look, she stopped at a makeup counter in Brown Thomas. The girl did her makeup while highlighting to her what she was doing and using to cover up her troublesome areas. She’d asked for something natural, and the girl did as instructed: dark eyes, light lips, flawless skin. By the end of it she looked and felt like a new woman and was so impressed she ended up spending more than €200 on the products the girl recommended despite knowing that she was never going to be able to re-create the look at home.
It was after five. She decided to grab something quick to eat upstairs in BT’s before she headed to the pub where Jim would be waiting. When she’d invited Jim to Elle’s opening she’d felt good about it, but now that the time had come she felt slightly regretful. It had been so long since she’d seen him, a lifetime had passed, and they had never really been that close to begin with. What the hell am I at? she asked herself as she queued for a table.
Jane spent the day running around. She started by picking up boxes of wine at the wine merchant’s. She dropped the wine off at the catering company and then went to the gallery and hung the paintings. After that she went to a music shop and picked up some music she deemed appropriate for the theme of Elle’s exhibition. As the theme was Angels and Demons, most of whom were copulating, the music she picked was a mix of metal and classical.
After that she got her hair done, and after that she returned to the gallery to set out tables and to load the CD player. When the place was spic-and-span, the paintings secure on the walls, and the tables ready for the caterer, she drove home to shower and change.
She heard Kurt laugh in the kitchen, and then she heard Dominic’s voice, and then he was laughing too, and she couldn’t remember the last time she and her son had laughed together. She entered the kitchen, and Dominic stood up and surveyed her before hugging her.
“You look great.”
She smiled and told him he didn’t look so bad himself. She inquired as to what was so funny, but neither her son nor his father was willing to share the joke. In-joke bastards.
“Are you hungry?” Dominic asked.
“I’m not cooking for you. I’m too busy.”
“I know. Kurt told me you have the exhibition tonight, so I brought pizza.”
“Ah, thanks but no, I’ll just have a coffee.”
Kurt checked the pizza, which was heating in the oven. It was ready, and he plated up. Dominic and Kurt ate their pizza, and Jane drank her coffee.
“So Elle’s gone fishing?” Dominic said.
“Afraid so. Still, it’s probably for the best. I’ve heard a rumor that Pat Hogan is coming.”
“Who’s Pat Hogan?” Kurt said with his mouth full.
“Don’t talk with a full mouth,” she said. “He’s a critic Elle threatened to stab when she was at art college.”
“Yeah, well, that wasn’t yesterday,” said Dominic. “I’m sure it’s all forgotten.”
“No. It’s funny—he loves her work but, my God, she hates him.”
“Dad, tell Mum about your new bike,” Kurt said, and then he opened his mouth wide to show his mother that his mouth had been empty of food before he had spoken.
“Funny,” she said. “What’s this about a bike?”
Dominic was grinning like a Cheshire cat. “It’s a Harley.”
“A road king,” Kurt said.
“Black cherry.”
“And black pearl.”
“It’s a real beaut.”
“I’d swap my dick for one,” Kurt said.
Dominic laughed and Jane covered her ears and smiled.
“How’s Bella?” Jane asked.
“She’s not talking to me,” Dominic said.
“Because you’re a selfish prick who nearly killed himself on a motorbike a year ago and, having promised faithfully that you would never get on a bike again, you’ve gone behind her back and bought a Harley?”
“Got it in one.”
“Jesus, Dominic, what is wrong with you?”
He grinned at her. “Ah, come on, Janey, Bella’s already giving me hell. Can’t you just be happy for me?”
She smiled at him. “Okay, I’ll be happy for you. Congratulations on your new bike. Please don’t cripple or kill yourself.”
“Ah, thanks for worrying.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” He winked at her.
She smiled and blushed a little. Oh grow up, Jane.
“Jane, Jane, Jane? Are you there? Jane?” Rose’s voice came over the intercom.
Dominic stood up and pressed the button. “Hi, Rose.”
“Who let you in?” Rose asked.
“My son.” Dominic smiled.
“I want Jane.”
“I’m sorry. Jane is currently not available. Is there something I can do for you?”
“You can go back under the rock you’ve climbed out from.”
“I miss you too, Rose.”
“I want Jane.”
Jane stood up and pushed Dominic out of the way. “Yes, Rose.”
“Have you heard from Elle?”
“No.”
Rose hung up.
Dominic turned to Jane. “So are you going to invite me to this shindig or what?”
“Don’t you have a home to go to?”
“Maybe tomorrow when she’s cooled down.”
“Nice one, Dad. I’ll make up the spare room,” Kurt said.
Dominic reached into his pocket, took out a twenty-euro note, and handed it to him. Kurt pocketed the money and headed out the door and toward the spare room.
“You don’t mind?” Dominic said.
“I don’t seem to have a choice.” But she was smiling, indicating that she didn’t mind. In fact, it was obvious she was really happy.
Get a grip, Jane, he married someone else, she thought as she made her way up to the shower.
Leslie walked into the bar, and despite the fact that it had been at least ten years since she’d seen him, she recognized him immediately. His head was down and he was reading a newspaper, and when she tapped him on the shoulder he managed to appear slightly surprised that she’d shown up. He stood, and he was shorter than she remembered. They hugged awkwardly.
“You’re taller than I remember,” he said.
“Heels,” she said, and she pointed to her brand-new black wedge heels.
“Jeepers, the last time I saw you, you wore nothing but sneakers.”
She didn’t tell him that this was the first time in years she had worn anything but MBTs, which basically were posh sneakers that made her work harder when she walked.
They sat down, and he asked her if she wanted a drink, and she said a white wine would be lovely, and he went to get one, and she was alone waiting for him to come back, and her heart was racing and her palms were sweating. He had aged around the eyes, and he’d shaved his head. He was thinner than she remembered, but he still had his dimples, the ones that had made Imelda go weak at the knees, and that warm smile she had loved so much.
What do we talk about? I hope I don’t make him cry. That last time I saw him I made him cry. Why did I do that? What’s wrong with me?
As it turned out, they had little trouble finding things to talk about. He came back with her wine and she asked him what he had been reading, and he told her and they talked about it, and then they moved on to books, and they shared a taste in books and so that gave them at least another hour of great conversation. Neither liked the cinema, so they discussed why they didn’t like it and then Leslie attempted to persuade Jim of the benefits of broadband. She couldn’t believe he was not yet converted.
“So you’ve never sent an e-mail?”
“No.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Is it?”
“And you’ve never surfed the Net?”
“I wouldn’t even know how to. Besides, I don’t have the knees for it.” He laughed at his own joke.
“If only that were funny, Jim.” She shook her head. “You’re a dinosaur, my friend.”
“Sorry, I’ll try to do better.” He smiled. She had called him a friend. Imelda would be happy.
“What about you?” he asked. “Still thinking about surgery?”
She nodded. “I’ve been to three specialists since we last spoke, and I’m doing it.”
It was strange that Jim was the only one she had told, but then again, it wasn’t that strange. After all, who would understand better than he? She was hardly going to tell her new friends, and she didn’t have anyone else in her life.
“When?” he asked.
“July. The first of July.” She nodded. “That’s the date they’ve given me.”
“It’s going to be hard. You’re going to need help.”
“I’m going from the hospital to a hospice,” she said, smiling. “It’s a really nice place. It’s going to be fine. I’m a big girl.”
“You’re not as strong as you think you are. They’re going to take your womb and your breasts”—he hunched his shoulders—“and that’s not fine.”
For the first time since Leslie had decided on surgery she felt her eyes fill. It had been such a relief to think that she would no longer be burdened by an imaginary time bomb ticking loudly in her head. She would be free, and that was bigger than a pair of breasts and a womb she was almost done with anyway. And still, those words and the way Jim said it—They’re going to take your womb and your breasts”—struck her; she’d never really let herself focus on that before. A fat tear dropped from her eyelid onto her cheek and slid down to her chin. She stopped it with her hand before it made its way to her neck.
Jim saw her single tear and made no apology for causing it. He needed her to understand the gravity of what she was doing because, although he agreed with her decision, knowing her of old it had occurred to him early on that she wouldn’t allow herself to think or talk about the pain it caused her. They sat in silence and sipped their drinks.
After a while Leslie looked Jim in the eye. “Do you remember your wedding day?”
“Like it was yesterday.”
“Imelda insisted I be bridesmaid, and even though I kicked and screamed she got her way. She made me wear peach, which is a color I detest, and the hairdresser piled my hair so high on my head that I looked like Marge Simpson.”
“I remember.” He smiled at the memory.
“We got dressed together, we got our makeup done together, we drank a glass of champagne, and we laughed at my dress even though she swore that she loved it. We talked about the future and all the babies she was going to have.”
“Oh, don’t,” he said, and he closed his eyes.
“I wrote her a poem, and she laughed so hard she held her ribs.” She smiled at the memory. “‘Imelda sighed, Imelda cried, the day she met Jim the Ride / He was short, she was tall, he took her up against the wall.’” She thought for a second. “‘She had style, he had wit, he really thought he was the shit!’” She laughed a little. “I can’t remember …”
“‘Love is blind, that’s what they say, it must be, it’s her wedding day!’” Jim said, grinning.
“I can’t believe you remembered!” Leslie laughed.
“She repeated it often enough.”
“Yeah, well, I’m no poet laureate, but you must admit it has a kind of bawdy charm even if I do say so myself,” she said. “And after the church we all walked through a wood to the reception, and it was such a hot day—do you remember how blue the sky was?”
“Not a cloud in the sky.”
“And the band played all the best songs and we all danced all night.”
“It was a great day.”
“It was my sister’s wedding, and I can honestly say it was my best day. They may be taking my breasts and my womb, but for the first time I feel like I have a chance of having my own best day.”
Jim nodded and raised his glass and she raised hers.
“I’ll drink to that!” he said, and they clinked glasses. “And, Leslie, when you need someone, and you will, promise you’ll call me.”
“Why?”
“Because of a promise I made a long time ago.”
“Okay, I will.”
On the walk to the gallery they talked about relationships, and Jim told Leslie about the women who had been in his life after Imelda. There was Mary, a librarian from Meath. She was a fan of musicals and Shakespeare, and according to Jim she was passive-aggressive. They had lasted eight months, but it had been only a year after Imelda, and although she was a great cook and looked like a slightly chunkier and seriously paler Sophia Loren, his heart hadn’t been in it. Then there was Angela. She was funny, smart, attractive, and kind. She also had a psycho ex-husband and four kids under the age of ten so, after he’d been punched in the face on the street and warned to leave her alone or he’d be joining his wife in the ground, he had decided he needed space. She and the kids had moved to the UK a month later and he hadn’t heard from her since. Then the Russian woman he had told her about on their first phone call.
“I really thought we might have a future,” he said. “So what about you?”
Leslie laughed as he followed her across the street.
“Well?” he said.
“No one.”
“No one! In ten years there has been no one?”
“Eighteen years, but who’s counting?”
“Simon was your last relationship?” Jim was aghast and wasn’t too shy to reveal his astonishment. He slowed his pace and took her arm. “I know nuns who get more action than you.”
“That’s funny, because my hairdresser knew some Trappist monks with better haircuts. Coming up short against religious orders seems to be the theme of the day.”
“I like your hair,” he said.
She smiled. “Thanks.”
They entered the gallery and were met by Jane, who was surprisingly calm and collected despite her sister’s absence. Leslie introduced her to Jim, and they shook hands, and Jane complimented Leslie on looking stunning, which embarrassed her, and then she insisted they have a glass of wine and some savory snacks. The place was packed with people, and many were crowded around the paintings, so they decided to wait until the herd thinned. They sipped wine and chatted in the corner. Jane was doing a lovely job playing host. She was polite and pleasant to the three critics who came, and she made time for all five collectors who had been supporters of Elle’s since the beginning of her career. She made excuses for Elle and no one seemed to mind particularly, apart from the photographer, who was clearly high on cocaine and annoyed that he hadn’t been informed of Elle’s absence, despite the fact that plenty of other minor celebrities were there ready to pose for him.
“This is a joke,” he said to Jane. “Where the f*ck is she?”
“Freddie,” Jane said, “you’re not Herb Ritts. Take photos, hand them in to the media desks, and shut up.”
“That’s my girl!” Dominic said from over Jane’s shoulder. He was on his third glass of wine and was thoroughly enjoying his night.
Freddie stormed off and started to push a TV presenter and a rugby player together, pointing at them and shouting for them to move this way and that. They complied, and he moved on and pushed three blond socialites back against a wall. Jane made a mental note never to use him again.
Dominic put his arm around her, “Nice event,” he said. “Good wine, good food, good music, and who could have guessed Metallica would work so well sandwiched in between Beethoven and Bach?”
“It’s Rachmaninoff and Chopin.”
He nodded and leaned in to whisper in her ear, “And who could have guessed Metallica would work so well sandwiched in between Rachmaninoff and Chopin? You say tomato—”
“Get off!” She pushed him away playfully.
Leslie appeared with Jim, and Jane made the introductions.
Jane had filled Dominic in on Alexandra’s extraordinary disappearance and what they were doing to find her as they were driving to the gallery. He had been really shocked to hear the news—he had been friends with her before he had gotten Jane pregnant and dumped her at a disco, but after that Alexandra hadn’t had any time for him even if Jane had. The last time he’d seen her had been just before she moved to Cork to go to college. His son had been two months old and he hadn’t seen him yet. She had pushed a picture of Kurt onto his chest and told him to look at it. She had told him it was his son and he should be ashamed. He still had the photo, and he had been ashamed, but still it would be another four years before he’d have the courage to knock on Jane’s door to visit with his child.
Dominic smiled at Leslie and told her that she was doing a really good thing in helping to find Alexandra. “She was a great girl,” he said.
Later, when all the people had gone and Dominic and Jane were alone, he helped her clear tables and box up the unused glasses.
“I missed so much,” he said out of nowhere.
“So much of what?” Jane asked, too tired to try to work out what was going on in his head.
“Of Kurt.”
“Oh,” she said, and she sighed. “Yes, you did.”
“I was such an a*shole.”
“You still are.”
She was smiling, so he knew she was playing with him.
“I regret every day I wasn’t around.”
“Well, at least you got to have a life.”
“I really left you in it,” he admitted. “If I could go back …”
“You’d do exactly the same thing.”
“Don’t say that, Janey.”
“You know, I don’t think Kurt even remembers a time when you weren’t a part of his life.”
“But you do,” Dominic said.
Jane didn’t want to talk about it, so she got busy sweeping the floor.
“For a girl forced out of school, you’ve done an amazing job here,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“And, for the record, I would change it if I could just so I could stop you from naming our kid after a heroin addict with a death wish.”
Jane laughed. “That was unfortunate.”
Jane drove, and Dominic fiddled with the CD player.
“Dido, no. Dixie Chicks, no and no. James Morrison, shoot me. Ray LaMontagne—Jesus, Jane. Jack Lukeman …remember that night?” He grinned.
“Yes, I remember.” She blushed a little and laughed.
Dominic flicked along until he hit track 12. The track kicked off with a bass drum kicking. Dominic and Jane fell into silence, and she drove through the dark streets intermittently lit by fluorescent lights of different shapes and colors. The car was warm, and outside the rain came tumbling down. She turned on the windshield wipers, and Jack L began to sing.
Take me to the edge of town, watch the evening veil come down,
I’ll tell you all my hopes and dreams, hold your tongue ’cos I believe
For me there will be only one, yeah for me there will be only one.
Dominic turned in his seat so that he could watch Jane. She saw him staring from the corner of her eye, and his gaze made her both happy and uncomfortable.
I’ll take you to the silver well, make a wish, I’ll cast a spell
That you’ll remain here by my side, childlike thoughts I cannot hide
For me there will be only one, yeah for me there will be only one.
“Stop staring,” she said.
“Can’t help it. I’m remembering that night.”
“Well, stop remembering.”
“Can’t.”
“You’re married.”
“Memories are allowed.”
“I wish you’d stop.” She was becoming more uncomfortable.
“Sorry,” he said. “Inappropriate.” He turned to face the road.
Until stars come showering down, till the seven seas engulf this town …
Jane turned off the CD player and they drove the rest of the way to her house in silence.
Elle arrived home two days after her exhibition had opened. She walked through the side gate that led to her little cottage at the end of the garden. Her mother was tending to her witch hazels. She called out to Elle, and Elle stopped and turned toward her. Rose stood up slowly and took off her gloves. She pointed to the garden furniture and Elle sat. Rose joined her. They were both wearing heavy coats, but Rose could tell that her daughter had lost a lot of weight.
“Did you have a good time?” Rose asked.
“Brilliant.”
“Jane was worried.”
“Jane worries too much.”
“That’s what I told her. We all need to escape every now and then, don’t we?”
“We do.”
“And you’re happy to be home now?” Rose asked.
Elle laughed a little. “And what about you, Mum?”
“I’m as good as can be expected.”
“And Jane?”
“She’s fine. Dominic’s been sniffing around.”
“Bored with the new wife already,” Elle said, and her mother nodded.
“You know what that means, don’t you?” said Rose. “Poor Janey will no doubt make a fool of herself again.”
“Well, if anyone knows about being a fool, I do,” Elle said.
“Vincent is the fool, and if I ever see him again he’ll be a fool without a penis,” said Rose.
Elle got up. “It’s cold.”
“That’s winter for you.”
“I’m going inside now.”
“Me too.”
Elle walked toward her cottage and took down the GONE FISHING sign. Her mother called after her, and she turned to face her.
“Good to have you home.”
Elle smiled at her mother, then entered her home. Rose picked up her garden shears and walked down to the basement and to the promise of a nice glass of hot whiskey. She took a large gulp, and when her eyes filled with tears she wiped them away and finished the glass. Please don’t frighten me like that again.
When darkness had descended and Jane noticed the light on in Elle’s cottage, she ran through the garden and up the path that led to Elle’s door. She knocked before opening it slowly and creeping inside. Elle was in her sitting room, cuddled up on the sofa, music playing in the background.
Jane sat beside her.
“Hi, Jane.”
“Hi, Elle.”
“How was the opening?”
“We sold the lot.”
“Good. Sorry I didn’t make it.”
“It’s okay. Actually, it made my job a lot easier.”
“Oh good. Did you miss me?”
“I did.”
“I’m sorry for setting Vincent’s car on fire, I’m sorry for all of it.”
“I took care of it.”
“I know. You always do.” She sighed. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Jane smiled at her sister. “I’m glad you’re home. You look tired.”
“I’m exhausted.”
Jane took Elle by the hand and lifted her off the sofa; then, arm in arm, they walked to the bedroom, where Jane tucked her sister into bed.
“You fall asleep now, and when you get up I’ll make you your favorite breakfast.”
“I love you, Jane.”
“I love you too, girly girl.” Jane turned out the light and left Elle cuddled up under her duvet.
Jane always called Elle “girly girl” when she was being affectionate. It was a term she’d given Elle when she was a toddler and Jane was a teen. Their father had died suddenly, their mother was on medication, and so Jane had cared for her sister. She’d pick up after her, play with her, feed her, and put her to bed. She’d read her stories and tell her things about their dad.
“Where is he, Janey?”
“He’s in heaven, girly girl.”
“Where’s heaven?”
“Far away up there in the sky.”
“Daddy doesn’t like heights, Janey.” Elle remembered the day their dad had gotten dizzy and fallen from a ladder while trying to retrieve her ball from the eaves.
“It’s okay,” Jane explained. “He likes heaven.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s great.”
“Why is it great?”
“Because God’s there.”
“So?”
“God is really cool. Everybody wants to be with God.”
“I don’t. I’d rather be here with you,” Elle had said.
And Jane had been a mother to her sister since then.