My Name Was Eden, page 14
“So you’re not worried about what Dad might think, or—”
“He was a good dad to Eden, but he doesn’t believe in me. Not like you always have.”
I don’t know what to say. She reaches for me then. Her hand is hot—so hot that I almost drop it. “You know who I really am, Mum. You know.”
Eli. I’m deafened, suddenly, by the thumping pulse in my ear. But no. That’s impossible.
“Mum?”
“Yes, love?”
“I can’t trust anyone else. Not Alison. No one at school, not even Charlie understands. I can go along with it and pretend to be Eden, just like you told me to in hospital, but you . . . only you . . .”
Eden looks like she’s going to cry. You. Only you. I feel like I might, too, because despite being a terrible mother, despite everything that’s happened, it’s me she has trusted to look inside her soul. Not James.
“Shh. It’s okay.” I’m filled with a ferocious sensation, a love so overwhelming that I cannot think of anything to do except hold her tight. I’ve carried the loss of Eli for so many years, it’s like a knife embedded, a blade that I can feel sliding out of me now, my organs collapsing into the gaping cavity that remains. I can do this. I can play the part too. “It’s okay,” I whisper again, rocking Eden gently in my arms. “I’m here for you, Eli.”
25
It’s raining on the day of the funeral. The vicar talks about a door not closing, being left ajar to the next place. How Anna’s spirit will live on through a husband, two sons and a granddaughter. And a grandson, I think. Beside me, James draws in a heavy breath. This, the vicar says, is part of God’s plan.
I wonder though, was Elliott part of God’s plan too? If so, why would He want him stamped out, extinguished? What would be the point? What was the point, in any of this?
To my left, a woman weeps silently into a white hanky and I reach for James’s hand as the opening bars of “My Girl” rise, hauntingly, to fill the church. David blinks, appearing unmoved, and I wonder if he’s on sedatives. He hasn’t taken his eyes from the coffin the entire time.
I fix on a stained-glass image of Jesus Christ as the song fades away and the vicar talks again, this time about forgiveness. How we must forgive ourselves, as the Lord forgave His son for His sins. A slice of sunlight appears in that moment, illuminating the colors, and it looks like He is staring down at me from the cross. And I feel something, then. Not Jesus, but something heavy and light at the same time. Something that breathes across the hairs on my arms and neck, making them stand to attention. Something I can’t see, or explain, or prove in any shape or form, but it’s there—dancing in the dust motes and stretched taut, like a long shadow, across my consciousness.
The heads around me are bowed in prayer. I clasp my hands and stare at the floor.
“Already? Surely you’re not going in now? And you’ve had a drink.”
James shakes his head. “They’ve offered me compassionate leave, but I don’t want it. What am I going to do with my time if I’m off, Lu? I’d rather be busy.”
“You can be busy at home. The grass needs cutting. There’s a mountain of ironing to do,” I tell him, only half joking. “But seriously, you need to deal with this. You need to . . . process it. All of it. And not with bottles of San Miguel.”
“I’ve only had one drink. You can stay here, if you want.” James downs the remains of his beer and leaves the glass on the windowsill, beside a posy of white lilies.
No, I don’t want. We’re in a cramped village hall, making small talk with a group of people we’ll probably never see again. I’m about to ask: What about your dad and brother, but he already blames them for outnumbering him in the decision to turn off Anna’s machine, and I wonder if this is exactly his intention—to provoke their annoyance with this small act of rebellion.
I drop James at work and then head back home. There’s a letter on the mat from Dr. Oke’s secretary, following Eden’s appointment a few days ago. We hadn’t seen Dr. Oke, but another member of the team who was running late and confused Eden’s notes with another patient, before advising that Eden’s latest chest scan was clear. The letter acknowledges my comments that Eden has recently experienced the passing of her gran, but makes no reference to her personality changes apart from a single sentence at the bottom about how we’re “accessing private mental health services.”
I put the letter down and look across the lane to the fringe of trees concealing the lake. Forgiveness. Forgive yourself. Can it really be that easy?
I leave my cup with the single tea bag inside and go upstairs.
The loft ladder slides down neatly, like a zip. I haven’t been up here for years, and as I climb the rungs, the musty smell reminds me of church, guiding me forward. I click on the torch on my iPhone and cast it around. There, in one corner, are the Christmas decorations: a loosely taped box of baubles, or tinsel perhaps, judging by the feathery colored glint through the flap, a pre-lit tree that we bought in a garden center sale and used only twice in the past five years. Eli’s box should be tucked behind Eden’s dismantled cot that we never quite got around to putting on eBay—I hid it there years ago, out of sight.
I pick my way between a couple of empty boxes and a plastic tub full of old Mr. Men books and grope with my free hand behind the wooden slats.
Nothing.
It feels imperative, suddenly, that I find it. I want to place all the things around Eli’s tree, take a photograph of it, then give it all to charity. I need to process this, all of it: his existence, my refusal to let him go and, yes, his death. Because he did die—how can he possibly have just “vanished,” as the doctors so unhelpfully phrased it? I will get Eden on board and I’ll help her through this purgatory she’s in, the purgatory I created. All your fault. Yes, it is. I have never got my head around Eli’s disappearance but maybe, in the touching of the baby shoes he never got to wear, the unfolding of the blankets he never infused with his unique smell, I will find closure in the act of paying these things forward. That’s what it’s about, isn’t it, when people talk about the universe being connected? I’m reminded of my conversation with Eden about plants communicating through air and soil, and something starts to make sense, like a photograph developing in reaction to light. Somehow, I need to try and let Eli go. For both our sakes.
I can’t bring Anna back, but I can do this.
I rummage in the loft with renewed vigor. It must be in here somewhere. It must be. I sling old toys aside, yank things from boxes. Beneath my feet, I feel a crack as one of Eden’s cot bars snaps.
The shadows bounce, licking the walls. From the corner of my eye, it looks like someone is crouching in the corner, but I’m not letting my brain go there—it will only be a duvet, or a blanket, draped over a box.
It’s not here either.
It takes a few moments for me to realize that the landline is ringing. I scramble for the ladder, missing several rungs as I clatter down, not bothering to push it back inside itself, before running into the spare bedroom and snatching the handset. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Hamilton?”
“Speaking.”
“It’s Mrs. Ford here, Eden’s tutor. I’m afraid there’s been an incident.”
26
“You stabbed him with a compass?”
Eden stares out of the window. Mrs. Ford leans forward in her chair slightly, and places both forearms on the table in front of us. She looks too young to be doing this job. Beside her, the head teacher—Mr. Turley—clears his throat. “So far, Eden hasn’t given either of us a satisfactory explanation as to why this happened,” he says disapprovingly. “Which is a great shame, as she’s been doing exceptionally well in classes, from what I hear. But I am going to have to suspend her until Wednesday.”
I turn to Eden. “Why did you do it?”
When she doesn’t reply, I persist. “Is it to do with what happened to Gran?”
I’m clutching at straws here, offering a perverse get-out clause, for my benefit as much as hers. See? My child is not a mystery, she is not deranged. Just grieving.
“No,” Eden says, looking completely baffled at the suggestion. “I was protecting Charlie. That’s what best friends do.”
“I’m not sure Alex’s parents saw it that way,” Mr. Turley says. “I’m sorry for your loss. However, I’m sure you can understand that the safeguarding of all students is our priority.”
In the car afterwards, Eden is silent. “I don’t know where to start,” I say. I’m too wound up to have this conversation now but I do it anyway. “What the hell was that all about? A compass? I just . . . I can’t . . .”
“Don’t, then,” Eden says.
“Don’t what?”
“If you don’t know where to start, don’t start.”
I tell her I’m taking her phone. It doesn’t make much difference. Eden continues to track the passing scenery out of the window, completely unmoved.
That evening, while I’m cooking the stir-fry, I slide open the kitchen drawer and stare at the knives inside. Not the normal cutlery we used for dinner—the bread and steak knives, with their glistening blades and slick jagged teeth. I remember, when I was pregnant with Eden, hearing a news report about a nineteen-year-old man who had stabbed his parents to death while they slept. His parents. The two people who had given him life. James surmised that he must have been abused, or terribly mentally ill. But I don’t know. There’s a fine line between love and hate. If there’s a line at all.
“Lu? I missed your call.”
“Oh. Yeah.” I can hear voices in the background of James’s workplace; ringing phones. “Aren’t you on your way home?”
“No. I, um . . . look, it’s Rob’s birthday and a few of them are going out for a quick drink. Do you mind?”
Yes, I do mind. But I also know that this is how James deals with sadness. He pretends it doesn’t exist. He silences it by whatever means necessary—alcohol, in this case. And he has just buried his mother. “No,” I tell him, turning down the heat under the vegetables, which are starting to stick to the pan. “Do you want me to give you a lift back later?”
“It’s fine, I’ll leave the car here and get a taxi. What was it?”
“Sorry?”
“What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Oh.” Today seems to have stretched out, frayed and endless, like an old stocking. I don’t want to tell him about Eden’s suspension, not over the phone. “I was looking for a box in the loft earlier. Old baby stuff. Well, new baby stuff really—most of it hadn’t even been opened, and I was going to . . . I was going to give it to charity.”
“Really? I had a clear-out, got rid of all that years ago.”
There’s a strange taste curdling in my mouth, like sour milk.
“Lu?”
“It’s okay,” I manage. “It’s fine. Have a good night.”
The vegetables have turned soggy and transparent, long colored strings inside the pan. There’s too much for the two of us and I’m not hungry anymore. I drop the noodles into the boiling water anyway, and watch for a few minutes until they soften and submit, yielding to the furiously churning bubbles around them. My mind drifts to Anna, left to warp and shrivel inside a wooden box, and then Eden, stabbing the sharp point of a compass into Alex’s hand. My daughter, who wanted to rescue every animal she ever encountered, even the uninjured ones. She’s never wanted to harm anybody. Only me. Only with her words.
“Mum? Is dinner ready?”
Eden appears in the doorway, the way she often does these days, taking me by surprise. She’s changed into a loose, light-gray T-shirt and a pair of shorts I don’t recognize. Her feet are bare and her legs, stark in the vanilla light strobing across the kitchen walls, have shoots of long, stubbled hair sticking out from them like cactus spines.
I turn back to the pan. “Just about.”
“It smells delicious.” She pins her arms around me suddenly from behind, nearly making me drop the spoon. “I love stir-fry. I love Chinese.”
“Good. Can you lay the table, please? It’s just me and you tonight.”
She doesn’t let go. With anyone else I would feel uncomfortable at this point and gently remove their limbs, but there’s something so odd about the gesture, I wait. I let her cling on, and then over my shoulder I ask her if she’s okay. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
Finally, she drops her arms. “What would you like me to tell you?”
“I’d like to know why you stabbed Alex in the hand today.” I turn back to the noodles and shake them over the sink, partly to avoid eye contact. “What is it about this boy you hate so much? Has he done something to Charlie? Has he done something to you? You can tell me and I promise it won’t—Eden?”
She’s gone.
Before, I would have followed her out of the room, shouting for her to come back now. But in a way, it’s good, this glimmer of the old Eden. I wait for her bedroom door to slam, the shout for me to leave her alone. That, I can work with. Forgiveness. I can be a different mother.
She walks back in less than half a minute later, unruffled. She holds out her phone.
“Look at this. I know I’m not supposed to have it, but you can see what Alex has done. He deserved it.”
She stands, hands on hips, looking down at me as I take in the terrible shapes and colors of the image on the screen. It’s Eden, but not Eden. Eden’s head, superimposed onto a naked man’s body. His chest and thighs are muscled, and his penis emerges, meaty and stout, from a thicket of dark hair. I feel sick.
“Oh my God. Oh, love. That’s terrible.”
“I could hardly show Mrs. Ford that, could I?”
“Yes! Yes, you could, and she would understand why you did what you did. This is . . . sick. This is a criminal offense.”
Fuck forgiveness. I thought I’d feel relieved—my child is not a monster—but I’m not, I’m furious. “Did he send this to you? Who else knows about it?”
“Charlie. I don’t know if anyone else has seen it. Are you disappointed in me?”
“No. God, no—I am not disappointed in you. I just wish you’d felt you were able to tell someone. Me. Mrs. Ford.” I turn to slop the noodles and stir-fried vegetables into two bowls, but I’m shaking and they slide out too fast, slipping over the sides and onto the worktop. “Why didn’t Charlie stand up for you?”
“She wasn’t there.”
It’s too late to call the school—they’ll have locked up and gone home. I think of Eden’s classmates, agog at the sight of her driving the point into Alex’s hand, whispering about her from behind raised hands, seeing her as something to be feared and ridiculed. A nutter. My poor child. And hadn’t I feared her too, earlier?
The guilt of it. The shame. Who thinks these things of their own flesh and blood?
“Tomorrow we’ll sort this out with the school,” I tell her. “I know it’s difficult, but—just listen—they need to know. Alex can’t get away with this.”
Eden continues shaking her head. “No. Absolutely not. Everyone will find out.”
“He can’t get away with it.” I bang the bowls onto the table. “What if he does it to someone else?”
She shrugs.
I push my food around the plate, unable to eat. I watch Eden slowly wrapping a string of noodles around her fork before chewing carefully, mindfully. She looks miserable.
“Tell you what,” I say. “A compromise. Would you be okay with me telling Bex? We could pop round, see if they’re in. If they’re not busy, we could stick a film on, have a chat and a bit of a girls’ night in, as long as Matt doesn’t mind. I won’t show her the picture, obviously, but it might make you feel better once they can see what a dick he is.”
“Mum.”
“Sorry, but he is. What do you reckon?”
Eden’s mouth twitches into a half-smile. “Alright.”
It’s probably against some sort of parent code, doing this while she’s supposed to be suspended. But Alex hasn’t been punished, has he? Alex, it seems, can do whatever the fuck he likes.
“Eat up, then,” I tell Eden, taking my bowl and sliding the untouched noodles into the bin. “Eat up and we’ll get going.”
27
I didn’t want to stay in the house anyway. God, I hope Bex is okay with us coming round. I really could use a glass of wine; it’ll do us all good to talk about today. It’ll be good to see her again—we haven’t caught up properly for ages. And Alex . . .
I shudder. I want to kill him. I need to calm down.
Eden puts the radio on and, immediately, George Michael starts “Praying for Time.” “This song,” I tell her, turning it up. “It was playing on the way home from the clinic, just after you were implanted back into my womb. It felt kind of, I don’t know . . .”
“Prescient?” Eden offers.
“Yes, prescient! That’s exactly the right word.” And it’s not a word Eden would have ever used before; I’m impressed. “We were so excited, so scared. So desperate that nothing would go wrong because we wanted you so very, very badly.” My hands tighten on the steering wheel. It all seems like such a long time ago. James and I had driven home in the pouring rain, stopping off for a Pizza Express—the first restaurant we came across—where we talked excitedly about our child, or children, as we later found out, taking root inside my body. He stroked my damp face. I told him I loved him. We were respectful, united. I allowed myself to dream about the giggling, pink-faced children that would bring me redemption.
“Do you still?”
“Do I still what?”
“Want me badly?”
I glance at Eden. “Of course I do. Of course I do. Nothing will ever change that.”
This too must be down to Alex, making her question herself, making her feel so bloody insecure. I indicate and turn off the farm track too sharply, lurching briefly onto the wrong side of the road. I can feel my pulse, hot and thick inside my chest, a pendulum. Deep breaths. The glass of wine will do me good. I can imagine it now: cool, sweet, slightly sour. Feathering the edges.
