The Devil Inside, page 19
She looked down at the purse. She should open it herself but ‘Yes’ slipped out instead.
Phil picked up the purse and opened it. He pulled out a lipstick—the red one of her memory—a compact, a pair of eyelash curlers remarkably well cared for given how old they must be, and a small leather pouch for holding keys. Nothing unusual for a woman’s purse.
He handed her the leather pouch. She opened it. There was a key inside. She glanced at the trunk, back at him. Held it out. He took it and moved to the chest, inserted it and turned. The lock clicked open. Her heart caught in her throat.
His brow arched as he glanced back at her. She nodded. He threw back the lid.
‘Well, that’s not what I expected.’
‘What?’
He reached in and pulled out a diary. It was leather with a year embossed in gold on the front, but otherwise completely plain and unremarkable. ‘It’s filled with these.’
‘Seriously?’ Her fingers curled over the edges of the trunk as she peered into it. Could these be diaries written by her mama or papa? She hadn’t ever seen them journaling, but maybe that was something they made her forget too. Did these journals hold the truths she was looking for?
She picked one up and, breath a tight fist in her throat, opened it.
Chapter 17
As Mel opened the diary, Phil found himself praying that it gave her answers. He hated the look of pain in her eyes, tightening her jaw. Finding out her parents had lied to her about her past, about where she came from and who she truly was, had knocked her for six. She was desperately trying to find a way to keep her head above water but the waves kept coming. How much more could she take?
‘What the hell?’
His head snapped up. Mel had a disappointed frown on her face as she put down the diary she’d been flicking through and picked up another. She quickly threw it aside and grabbed another. He picked up one from the trunk.
The pages were slightly yellowed and hard around the edges—its cover had the date 1972 on it. If these were her parents’ diaries, that would mean that her mother would have been only seven when this diary was bought. Strange that a seven-year-old would have a diary like that. Her dad had been a few years older than her mum, but he still would have only been nine in 1972. He flicked through the pages. They were blank. He picked up another and another. The only difference was the year embossed on the cover, but they were all blank. What the hell?
‘Why hide blank diaries?’
He shook his head as he went through another. ‘Maybe someone bought these for your mama or papa to use when they were young, but they didn’t start journaling until later. Try a later one.’
Mel rifled down a layer and pulled out one that said 1980. Her mum would have been fifteen. Typical age for journaling.
She opened it up. It was empty. She flicked through the pages quickly, right to the back cover. Nothing. She picked up another, flicking through, then another and another, a steady pile of diaries from 1963 through to 2020, all of their pages blank.
‘What the hell?’ Mel stared at the final diary in her lap, its empty pages flipping over as she let it go. ‘Why would they keep empty diaries locked away in a chest all these years? It doesn’t make sense.’
Phil didn’t know what to say. If this had happened before she’d lost her memory, he knew exactly what he’d do—he’d take her in his arms and hold her tight, smoothing his hand over her hair in that way she liked, his fingers drumming a steady rhythm on her arm—she said his drumming fingers always soothed her, like he was tapping out the rhythm that suited her heartbeat the best. But now … she wasn’t quite his Mel. Wasn’t even truly the Mel he’d met eight years ago because the memory loss coupled with these secrets she uncovered every day made her different.
Hell.
What was he supposed to do? Or say? He’d never been confused about this stuff with her before. It was why he’d known she was the one. The first person with whom he’d never been confused around, aside from Dae and Craig.
As he struggled, she swiped at her eyes. ‘I don’t understand them. I don’t understand any of this. What was the point of keeping this from me but then keeping all these things so that I found out about them anyway in the most confusing way?’
‘Maybe they meant to tell you.’ She snorted but he persisted. ‘They kept these for a reason. Maybe it was to tell you, maybe not, but one thing we do know is that they must have been important to them.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘They kept on buying a new one every year.’
‘So?’ She picked one up again and let it fall open. ‘There’s nothing in them.’
He rubbed his jaw. ‘My mother had these Lladdro statues. They held pride of place in the formal lounge room on shelves that had been specially built for them. Every year, my father would add one to the collection on a particular day of the year. They’d pick the spot it was to go together, often spending an hour or more figuring it out. I thought maybe it was a sign that my parents really did have a heart and cared about each other if not for me.’
She reached over and gripped his hand, looking deep into his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry they made you feel like that.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Of course it matters.’ She glanced around her. ‘My parents hid things from me—big things as it turns out—but I always knew they loved me. That they had my best interests at heart. This is difficult enough to deal with. If I thought they didn’t love me …’ She gripped his hand tighter. ‘Your parents are arseholes.’
His shrug was a bit jerky—she hadn’t let go of his hand and he wanted to savour every moment of it before she let go. ‘Thanks. But I’m not telling you about the statues to show you my parents were arseholes. I’m telling you because I think maybe your parents might have been doing something similar with these diaries that mine did with the figurines.’
She frowned. ‘What was that?’
‘I never asked my parents about the Lladdro thing. I just assumed I knew what it was about. But my aunt found me staring at them when I was about fifteen and made a comment how they were a lovely tribute to little Samantha. I had no idea what she was talking about, so she told me the whole story. Father wasn’t buying the figurines for my mother. They were for my dead sister. He bought one every year on her birthday. They numbered seven before she died, and at the time I was fifteen, there were twenty-five in the display.’
‘Oh, god. You had a sister and you lost her.’ That tight grip on his hand again. ‘I’m so sorry, Phil. You must have been devastated.’
‘No. I never knew her. My aunt mentioning her was the first I had ever heard of her. Mother and father had me three years after she died. My elder sister was born just before Sam died, so she never remembered her either. They never mentioned her, and there were no photos around the house. The only proof she’d ever existed was the growing collection of Lladdro figurines.’
Sadness temporarily rose up to drag him down, but he pushed it away, making a swiping motion with his hand. ‘The point is, my father continued to buy a figurine for my sister and presented it to my mother, on my sister’s birthday, every year. Do you see?’
She stared at the diaries. ‘You’re saying someone either my mama or papa knew journaled and so they bought these to remember that person?’ She frowned deeply as she said it—no wonder. It sounded so stupid when said out loud.
‘You’re right. Why would anyone do that?’ Lladdro figurines to remember his sister were one thing, but buying diaries to remember someone and never writing in them? Only he with his stupid jumping-all-over-the-place brain could have thought of something so weird and convoluted. ‘I was just trying to think of a reason why they start at your papa’s birth year.’
She looked up at him slowly. ‘Maybe some of it’s a bit far-fetched, but you’re right. There has to be a reason they start with my father’s birth year. And a reason he kept adding to them every year and hid them in this chest.’
He raised his brow, smiling at her, knowing how fast her mind was whirring right now. ‘It’s a mystery to solve.’
She smiled at him. ‘I love a mystery.’
‘I know. And you’ll solve this one. I know you will. And I’ll help.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course. What else would I do?’
‘Stay here and finish the album with your band. I know they’re waiting for you.’
He forced the smile to stay on his face even as the panic rose in his chest, his breathing suddenly harder. ‘This is more important.’
‘I don’t want to get in the way of your work any longer.’
He put his hand over hers, stopping her fingers as they picked at the edge of the diary. ‘You don’t have to worry about that. You and Arwen—you come first. Every time. Dae and Craig understand. Okay?’
She nodded jerkily and looked back down at the diary. Something flashed across her face that made him frown and sit forward. ‘I know you hate me asking this, but are you okay?’ All of this, it was a lot to take in.
She picked up the Russian birth certificate again, her finger running over the dates as her gaze shifted from it to the diaries to the albums to the lockbox and back. ‘No. I’m not okay. None of this is okay.’ There was agony in her eyes as she looked at the trunk, the diaries. ‘I don’t want … I can’t do this. I’m not brave enough. It’s too much. Too much.’
‘Let’s get out of here, then. We can deal with this later.’
She nodded, everything about her defeated. He helped her to her feet, bent to pick up Krolik and the blankie, handing them to her.
‘Thank you.’ She looked at him as if he’d done something huge, something life changing.
He hadn’t. Not even close.
They made their way gingerly across the mess scattered across the floor. She’d be upset later that she’d left the room like this—she hated mess. He’d come back to put it all away. In the meantime, he’d ask the others not to come down here until he’d had a chance to sort it out.
It was the least he could do to put her mind at ease when she remembered about it later.
Chapter 18
Mel wouldn’t sit when they got upstairs, pacing, unable to settle to anything.
After a few minutes of watching her, Phil stood. ‘Do you want to go to Mansfield? We could go to the sports store and buy your sneakers.’
‘No … I don’t feel like that right now.’
‘Then what would you like to do?’
She shrugged. ‘What did we used to do together?’
‘We liked to watch movies. Noir was your favourite.’
‘That sounds great. Although, maybe not the noir.’
‘We could do a run of your favourite Jane Austen’s.’
‘You’d watch those with me?’
He leaned in close to her and whispered, ‘Don’t tell the lads, but I kind of like them.’
She snorted a little and he smiled and she smiled back and it almost felt normal.
‘Do you mind if I run up to get Arwen first?’
‘I’ll come with you.’
Before they got to the door, Jerry arrived with Arwen in her pram and a big platter of scones, jam and cream. ‘I brought Arwen back and this.’ He pointed with his head to the platter as he pushed the break on the pram into place. ‘Bev said you deserved something yummy to eat after your endeavours.’ He handed over the platter to Mel and then picked Arwen up out of the pram. ‘And while I’m here, I might as well do this little sweetheart’s checks.’
Mel put the platter on the kitchen bench then hovered next to Phil as the nurse weighed and measured Arwen and did some general health checks. Even though it was a regular occurrence, it was the first time she’d really watched and taken an interest, asking a few questions about the baby’s feeding and sleeping routine.
When Jerry was almost finished packing up his things, Mel gestured at the platter. ‘You going to stay and have some of these? Given we missed out on our catch-up.’
‘I’d love to, but I have a hot date.’ He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Tell you about it tomorrow though.’
‘Deal.’ She smiled for the first time since they’d been in the storeroom. That smile filled Phil with relief.
Mel gave Arwen Krolik after Jerry left and they played with her. Then when the baby started getting a bit whingy, they fed her, changed her and put her to bed, Mel even holding her while he got things ready, then learning how to swaddle her—huge strides forward, although he didn’t want to make a fuss about it, so said nothing. Except, he was pretty certain the smile he couldn’t keep off his face said everything.
Afterwards, they cooked dinner together, which felt both strange and wonderful. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it didn’t. She seemed like she wanted to be here doing these things with him, even if there was still an edginess to her.
While he set up the movie, Mel made popcorn—just like they used to. Then they sat on the couch together, close, but not touching. He wondered if she was as aware of him as he was of her. Wondered if she was thinking about their kiss too. Perhaps it was a bad idea to sit here in the dark with her so close. She’d given no indication she wanted to repeat the kiss, and he wanted to give her space to find her way back to him.
They got through three episodes before he turned the TV off and suggested it was time to get some sleep—she’d been yawning for the last half hour.
Mel stood, rubbing her hands down her shorts, looked down, away, then up at him. She cleared her throat. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’
‘Oh.’ His mouth was so dry he barely got the sound out.
‘I thought … maybe … can I … stay with you tonight? Just … you know … to sleep.’
Heart in his throat, he nodded, picked up the baby monitor and then led her to the room he’d been using.
They lay down, fully dressed, him on the covers, her under the light blanket he pulled up for her. She fell asleep in his arms, her head on his chest.
Heaven.
He lay still for hours, unwilling to sleep, wanting to fill himself with this moment and not let it go.
Arwen’s cries woke him first thing—by the light coming through the window, the little darling had slept through the night for the first time.
Mel mumbled and rubbed her nose, her eyes fluttering open. ‘I’ll get her,’ Phil said softly. ‘Go back to sleep.’
‘No. I’ll come with you.’ She rubbed her hand over her face then smiled up at him.
Despite the fact she still looked tired and dark circles marred the skin under her eyes, he couldn’t insist she stay. Not in the face of that smile.
Craig looked up as they walked into the kitchen area with Arwen, a shit-eating grin on his face. ‘Morning, you two. Sleep well?’
Obviously finding tact wasn’t on Craig’s job list for the day. He shot his friend a ‘shut-the-fuck-up’ look and went about getting Arwen her breakfast while Mel held Arwen and chatted to Craig as she rocked back and forth, making shushing noises he was certain she had no idea she was making. A natural. He knew she’d be a natural at mothering. Even so, when he offered Mel the bottle to feed Arwen, she shook her head and handed the baby over. ‘The next one,’ she said, then quickly set about getting herself some toast and juice.
‘Why are you up so early?’ he asked Craig when Arwen was settled and sucking on her bottle.
‘Don’t tell me you forgot?’
‘Forgot what?’
‘The meeting. About the album. The one that’s scheduled for ten this morning. With Lexi.’
Fuck. He had forgotten. ‘Yeah. Of course.’
‘You’re coming, right?’
‘Yeah. Of course. But that still doesn’t explain why you’re up so early.’
‘Dae and I wanted to do some more work on those songs. He’s going to be busy out with Karl doing some fencing later today, so this was the only time. You gonna join us?’
Phil’s mouth dried. ‘Umm, I can’t. I’ve got Arwen. And Mel. We need to call Alan and get some stuff sorted. But I’ll be there for the meeting.’ He ignored Craig’s disappointment and concentrated on feeding Arwen then put her in the pram to take her for a walk. ‘Do you want to come for a walk, Mel?’
‘I would, but I really feel the need to paint this morning. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all. I won’t be long.’ Only long enough so that he wouldn’t have to see Craig before he left for the studio.
Shit damn and fuck. He wished he could find some reason to get out of this meeting, but he’d already put it off for so long. There were things they needed to agree on in regard to finishing the album, bits of recordings that would need to be redone, not to mention talk about the release and a tour. How was he going to tell them he couldn’t do any of it?
His mind whirled over all the possibilities, coming up with nothing more than he needed to be with Mel, to help her figure out all the secrets her parents had kept from her. It wasn’t a great reason—it wasn’t like Mel needed his help twenty-four-seven—but it was the only one he had.
He shuddered at the thought of sitting behind his kit again, even as the tingling urge to tap out a rhythm started in his fingers.
No. He wasn’t going there again. He couldn’t.
Hours later, he pushed the pram back in the front door, still frowning over his thoughts.
‘Phil?’ His head snapped up to see Mel standing in her nook looking worried—shit, he shouldn’t have left her alone for so long. He hadn’t been thinking.
‘Is everything okay?’
She waved her hand at him. ‘I’m fine. It’s just … Have you seen the painting I did first thing yesterday?’
‘No. Why?’
‘It’s not here.’ She flipped through some of the canvases piled up in the corner. ‘I thought I left it on the easel. And one of my sketch books is missing.’
‘Are you sure?’ He went over to help her look.
She rubbed her head. ‘I think so. It was here on the table. I did a few quick sketches in it before starting to paint yesterday morning.’
‘Perhaps you took it to your room.’
