“Mum?” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer.
Memories are shapeshifters. Some bend, some twist, and some shrivel and die over time. But our worst ones never leave us.
“Mum?” I say her name a little louder, but she still doesn’t answer or open her eyes.
I have rehearsed my mother’s death in my imagination for years. Not because I wanted her to die; it was just something that happened from time to time inside my head. I don’t know whether other daughters do that too—it isn’t the sort of thing people talk about—but now that it might be happening for real, I know I’m not ready.
I reach out, then hesitate before touching her hand. When I do, her fingers are icy cold. I lean down, until my face is next to hers, trying to see whether she is breathing. Despite the pills, the pain in my head is so bad now that I briefly close my eyes, and it feels as though I fall back in time.
I hear a scream and it is several seconds before I realize that it is my own.
Him
Tuesday 10:10
My own memories of this place in the past invade my present.
I watch Anna stand outside the house she grew up in, and it’s as though the years fall away and I’m seeing a little girl. I could get out of the car right now and stop her, but I don’t. Sometimes you have to let things play out, no matter how unpleasant. I already know what she is going to find inside, and I feel horrible about it. I also know that she has her own key, but watch as she bends down to take the spare one from under the flowerpot, before disappearing behind the peeling front door.
The cottage used to be beautiful, but, a bit like the woman inside, it has not aged well. Anna’s mother was a woman who knew how to make a house a home, and it was always by far the nicest cottage on the lane. Picture perfect. At least on the outside. People used to actually stop and take photos because it looked like a doll’s house with its pretty little front yard, window boxes, and white picket fence. Nobody stops to take photos of it anymore.
But, back then, she was so good at cleaning, tidying, and making a place feel cozy, that she did it for a living. Anna’s mum cleaned for half the village for over twenty years—including the house where I live now—and she didn’t just clean. She’d buy little scented candles and flowers and leave them in people’s homes. Occasionally she’d bake a bunch of brownies and leave them on the kitchen table. She even babysat my sister from time to time too. Sometimes, it was just the way she made the bed, or plumped the pillows, but you always knew when Mrs. Andrews had paid a visit. She was never short of work or references.
I wait in the car. When nothing happens, I wait a little longer, but then the familiar mix of boredom and anticipation distracts me, and I get out to stretch my legs. I walk along the street, keeping an eye on the house, then stop to examine Anna’s Mini. There is nothing out of the ordinary about it—aside from the garish red color—there are no dents, no marks, no scratches. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I guess sometimes in my line of work—as well as in life—you don’t always know what you’re looking for until you find it.
And then I do.
I see a pay-and-display parking lot ticket with a familiar National Trust logo on the floor of the passenger seat. Discarded and a little crumpled, the small square of printed white paper doesn’t seem like anything of significance at first. I know she parked outside the woods this morning—I was there, I saw her. But I’m surprised that anyone in the media would have paid any attention to the parking meter, given the circumstances. I’m sure the National Trust was far more concerned with a body being found on its property than a few people forgetting to pay and display.
I stare at it a little longer, without knowing why, as though my eyes are patiently waiting for my brain to catch up with what they have seen. Then I check my watch before looking back at the ticket one last time. The date. It isn’t today’s. I push my face right up against the car window, squinting inside until I am absolutely sure of what I see. According to that little square of black-and-white paper, Anna visited the parking lot where the body was found yesterday.
I look up and down the street as though wanting to share this information with another human being, to have them verify that it is real.
Then I hear a woman scream.
Her
Tuesday 10:15
I stop screaming when my mother opens her eyes.
She looks as terrified as I feel at first, but then the creases in the skin around her mouth stretch into a smile, her face lights up in recognition, and she starts to laugh.