Right, I decide, and march up the stairs.
I know I have a bikini top somewhere. It doesn’t look like Amy’s; all white with a gold, half-moon-shaped, fancy-button thing on the front.
The first place I look is my underwear drawer. It makes sense I’d keep it here because a bikini top is not unlike a bra. I dig through bunches of socks, maybe a million pairs of tights, briefs that are anything but, and a couple of sports bras before I become acutely aware of how comfortable and safe everything I own is. Everything is white or black, no frills or patterns because that’s what’s comfortable. And I can’t be worrying about itchy lace or a cutting thong while I’m trying to manipulate the big bad world.
God. That’s a depressing thought pattern. How did I not notice that my illness has taken over my wardrobe too? I pick up a pair of once-white leg warmers that have gone a gross shade of dishwater grey. This. This drawer is a visual representation of my life, I think, as I volley the leg warmers into the trash can at the end of my bed.
I find the bikini top scrunched up amid thick woollen socks. It’s plain black and clips around the back of my neck. I think I got it free with a magazine. I know I haven’t bought one while I’ve been sick, and I didn’t have any boobs to put in it before that.
Leaving the safe, warm fabric of my sweater, I slip the top on, handling the clasp like I’m wearing Mickey Mouse gloves. I pull my hair back into a bun and head to the bathroom for sunscreen.
We have two different kinds stockpiled in the bathroom cabinet, one with SPF 20 and one with SPF 50. I read the backs of both bottles like they’re how-to guides on defusing a bomb. I opt for smothering myself in the stronger stuff and head back downstairs fifty shades whiter than I was when I went up.
Several panic attacks and a perpetually tight stomach have seen me lose a few pounds over the past couple of weeks. I hug my hips, notice more sharp edges on my body than usual. In conclusion, I look ridiculous. Maybe I should skip sunbathing, I think as my fingers curl around the door handle. Who wants to see a picture of a bag of bones in a bikini anyway? That’s not a good enough reason for you not to try, I can hear Dr Reeves saying in my head. She would tell me, Don’t do this for the picture, forget that. Do it because you want it.
Need it, I mentally correct as I pull open the door.
I’m a wave breaker to the wall of heat that hits me. It’s so warm it sends a shiver down my spine. The sun is a slice of lemon. A soft hue, like fine smoke, blurs the contrast of Mom’s blooming garden. The scent of flowers hums as it sails across the patio and nearly knocks me off my feet. For a second, I wonder if I’ve accidently opened the door to an English country garden in the nineteenth century.
The space is big enough for a swimming pool. I know this because my grandma wanted to buy us one before she died. Alas, Mom said we didn’t need it. At the time I thought it was because she hated fun. I later found out she’d had a chat with the Trips and they’d guilt-tripped her about our carbon footprint.
My mind is whirring, already building a case to keep me inside. I lift my eyes; there’s not a single cloud out now. But I’m not really surveying the weather. I’m checking for planes because I’ve read about them falling from the sky. I eye the trees because I know they can topple over too. Earthquakes are what worry me the most. I can’t see them coming. And then there’s the spiders, and snakes. Anything that can force me to step away from the house to visit a hospital is a major cause for concern.
Thing is, my survival instinct seems to have been malfunctioning since the day this all started. It’s pretty messed up, probably makes zero sense to a person with normal thought processes, but I’m not sure I could trust myself to leave the house for help, not even if my life depended on it.
My bare foot hovers over the mosaic flags that mark out our patio. I wriggle my toes in the fresh air, testing the outside, as if too much exposure will scorch my skin.
Fifteen minutes later, my toes are cramping and I haven’t made it any further. My heart’s been hammering out Slipknot songs and I can’t feel the right side of my face. I’m tired, frustrating myself to a dry whimper.
Screw it. Screw this. Screw thought patterns. Screw roots. Screw Amy’s photos. Screw everything.
Life was never this complicated before life got involved.
I slam the door shut on the world outside, storm back through the kitchen and into the hall, where I’m forced to stop dead. The front door is wide open and Luke is on the porch. I can’t be sure, but I think I see the smudge of a champagne car, careening away behind him.
The door is open.
Why is the door open?
My first reaction is to eye my surroundings. The door is open because someone must have come through it.
‘Hi . . .’
‘Mom?’ I cut Luke off to call up the stairs. He stays silent as I wait for a reply. ‘Mom? Are you home?’