The drive home was short, less than an hour. Every street and building new to me. It was light when we got there, a big house, white pillars at the front. Okay? asked Mike. I nodded, though I didn’t feel okay. I waited for him to unlock the front door; my heart spiralled up into my throat when I realized it wasn’t locked. We walked straight in, could have been anyone. He called out to his wife, I’d met her a few times now. Sas, he said, we’re home. Coming, was the reply. Hi, Milly, she said, welcome. I smiled, that’s what I thought I should do. Rosie, their terrier, greeted me too, jumped at my legs, sneezed with joy when I reached for her ears, gave them a rub. Where’s Phoebs? Mike asked. On her way back from Clondine’s, Saskia replied. Perfect, he said, dinner in half an hour or so then. He suggested Saskia should show me to my room, I remember him nodding at her in a way that looked like encouragement. For her, not me.
I followed her up the stairs, tried not to count. New home. New me.
It’s just you and Phoebe on the third floor, Saskia explained, we’re on the next level down. We’ve given you the room at the back, it has a nice view of the garden from the balcony.
It was the yellow of the sunflowers I saw first. Brightly coloured. Smiles in a vase. I thanked her, told her they were one of my favourite flowers, she looked pleased. Feel free to explore, she said, there’s some clothes in the wardrobe, we’ll get you more of course, you can choose them. She asked me if I needed anything, no, I replied, and she left.
I put my suitcase down, walked over to the balcony door, checked it was locked. Secure. The wardrobe to the right, tall, antique pine. I didn’t look inside, I didn’t want to think about putting on clothes, taking them off. As I turned round, I noticed drawers under the bed, opened them, ran my hands along the back and the sides – nothing there. Safe, for now. An en suite, large, the entire wall on the right covered with a mirror. I turned away from my reflection, didn’t want to be reminded. I checked the lock on the bathroom door worked, and that it couldn’t be opened from the outside, then I sat on the bed and tried not to think about you.
Before long, I heard feet pounding up the stairs. I tried to stay calm, to remember the breathing exercises I’d been shown by my psychologist, but my head felt fuzzy, so when she appeared at my door I focused on her forehead, as close to eye contact as I could manage. Dinner’s ready, her voice more like a purr, creamy, a dash of snide, just as I remembered her from when we met with the social worker. We couldn’t meet at the unit, she wasn’t allowed to know the truth, or be given the opportunity to wonder. I remember feeling intimidated. The way she looked, blonde and self-assured, bored, forced to welcome strangers into her home. Twice during the meeting she asked how long I’d be staying. Twice she was shushed.
Dad asked me to come and get you, she said, her arms folded across her chest. Defensive. I’d seen the staff at the unit calling patients out on what their body language meant, labelling it. I quietly watched, learnt a lot. It’s days ago now, but the last thing she said before she turned on her heels like an angry ballerina stuck in my head: Oh, and welcome to the mad house.
I followed her smell, sweet and pink, down to the kitchen, fantasizing about what having a sister might be like. What sort of sisters she and I might become. She would be Meg, I thought, I would be Jo, little women of our own. I’d been told at the unit, hope was my best weapon, it would be what got me through.
Foolishly, I believed them.
3
I slept in my clothes that first night. Silk pyjamas chosen by Saskia remained unworn, touched only to move them from my bed. The material slippery on my skin. I’m able to sleep better now, if only for part of the night. I’ve come a long way since I left you. The staff at the unit told me I didn’t speak for the first three days. I sat on the bed, back against the wall. Stared. Silent. Shock they called it. Something much worse, I wanted to say. Something that came into my room every time I allowed myself to sleep. Moved in a slither, under the door, hissed at me, called itself Mummy. Still does.
When I can’t sleep, it’s not sheep I count, it’s days until the trial. Me against you. Everybody against you. Twelve weeks on Monday. Eighty-eight days, and counting. I count up, I count down. I count until I cry, and again until I stop, and I know it’s wrong but, somewhere in the numbers, I begin to miss you. I’m going to have to work hard between now and then. There are things I must put right in my head. Things I must get right if I’m called upon to present in court. So much can go wrong when all eyes are looking the same way.
Mike has a big part to play in the work to be done. A treatment plan drawn up between him and the unit staff detailed a weekly therapy session with me in the run-up to the trial. An opportunity for me to discuss any concerns or worries with him. Yesterday he suggested Wednesdays, midway through each week. I said yes, not because I wanted to. But because he wanted me to, he thinks it will help.
School begins tomorrow, we’re all in the kitchen. Phoebe’s saying thank god, can’t wait to get back, and out of this house. Mike laughs it off, Saskia looks sad. Over the past week I’ve noticed something’s not right between her and Phoebe. They exist almost entirely independently of each other, Mike the translator, the mediator. Sometimes Phoebe calls her Saskia, not Mum. I expected her to be punished the first time I heard her say it, but no. Not that I’ve seen. I also haven’t seen them touch each other, and I think touch is an indicator of love. Not the kind of touch you experienced though, Milly. There is good touch and bad touch, said the staff at the unit.
Phoebe announces she’s going out to meet someone called Izzy, who just got back from France. Mike suggests she take me too, introduce me. She rolls her eyes and says come on, I haven’t seen Iz all summer, she can meet her tomorrow. It’ll be nice for Milly to meet one of the girls, he persists, take her to some of the places you hang out. Fine, she agrees, but it’s not really my job.
‘It’s nice of you though,’ says Saskia.
She stares her mother down. Stares and stares, until she wins. Saskia looks away, a pink flush imprinting on her cheeks.
‘I was just saying how nice I thought you were being.’
‘Yeah, well, nobody asked you, did they?’
I wait for the backlash, a hand or an object. But nothing. Only Mike.
‘Please don’t speak to your mother like that.’
When we leave the house there’s a girl in a tracksuit sitting on the wall opposite our driveway, she looks at us as we pass. Phoebe says fuck off you little shit, find another wall to sit on. The girl responds by giving her the finger.
‘Who was that?’ I ask.
‘Just some skanky kid from the estate.’
She nods towards the tower blocks on the left-hand side of our road.
‘Don’t get used to this by the way, I’ll be doing my own thing when school kicks off properly.’
‘Okay.’
‘The close just there runs right past our garden, there’s nothing much up there, a few garages and stuff, and it’s quicker to get to school this way.’
‘What time do you normally leave in the morning?’
‘It depends. I usually meet Iz and we walk together. Sometimes we go to Starbucks and hang out for a bit, but it’s hockey season this term and I’m captain so I’ll be leaving early most mornings doing fitness and stuff.’
‘You must be really good if you’re captain.’
‘Suppose so. So what’s your story then? Where are your folks?’