The Woods, page 2
“But I wanted to be Maeve Larson, top detective with fourteen brothers and sisters. And you—I would have called you Nibs as a nickname and you could have told them all about your charmed life as…”
“A single, broke woman. Living in a one-bedroom flat. Who has to be up for school in the morning to teach five classes of snarky teenagers.”
“Ugh. The truth does not make for a sexy story. Although do I really want fourteen brothers and sisters? Sometimes I wish I was an only child. My brother is twenty-five going on twelve and a total pain in the ass most of the time.”
I pause by the door to stare at a blond girl walking away from me. It’s another game I play a lot—the pounding heart, the twist in my gut when I see a blond girl in skinny jeans, or hear a laugh that sounds familiar, the tilt of a head. Sometimes I make myself look away. Sometimes I follow her, just to check, just to see…
Of course it can’t be her. Could never have been my sister.
“Shit,” Sophie mutters, going pale and touching my arm. “Sorry, Tess. I didn’t think—my crass remark about wanting to be an only child…”
I sometimes wish I’d never told Sophie about Bella—it’s such a tragic mess. It’s easier to be what I pretend to be to the rest of the world, my own permanent version of our games: an only child, a city girl with a nice flat and a good job.
“Oh God, I don’t want to go to school tomorrow,” Sophie says as we walk toward the bus stop.
I laugh and tuck my arm in hers. “A sentiment echoed by every kid we’re teaching tomorrow.”
“At least we get paid for it, I suppose. And I do love it most of the time.”
“Do you? Really love teaching?”
“Of course.” She sounds surprised. “Why on earth would I put myself through all the crap bits if I didn’t love it for the good bits?”
Do I love it? Even the good bits? Have I ever loved teaching, like properly “it’s-my-vocation” loved it? It’s a question I’ve been asking myself too often lately.
“Do you want to stay at my place tonight?” I say as I see a bus heading toward us. “It’s not late—we can be sensible and drink tea, but continue the evening.”
I’m feeling…melancholy. Flat. None of the night-out buzz I felt earlier, getting ready for two-for-one happy hour with my best friend.
“Aw, Tess, I can’t. I haven’t got any of my stuff with me and I can’t go to school tomorrow dressed like this.” She gestures down at her sequined skirt.
I smile. I laughed when she turned up earlier in sequins and high heels. If it’s over the top for a Tuesday night in town, it’s definitely over the top for teaching. “That’s fine. It was just a thought.”
“Are you okay? You’ve been a bit down tonight.”
“Things are…I’ve been having bad dreams. Bad thoughts that keep creeping in and…” Sophie frowns and I shake my head. “No, don’t worry. I shouldn’t have had gin-based cocktails, that’s all. Gin makes me maudlin.”
“But it’s not only tonight…” Her voice trails off and she sighs. “No, sorry. Not the time. But let’s catch up tomorrow, okay?”
She gets on her bus and I wave as it signals to pull away.
“Good night, Maeve Larson—I love you and your fourteen brothers and sisters!” I shout, and I see her laugh and blow a kiss through the window as the bus accelerates away.
My smile fades and I pull my coat closed as I wait at the empty shelter for my own bus and the bad thoughts crowd in around me to keep me company. I’m lucky, I tell myself. I have a good job—a great job. I have amazing friends. A flat of my own. My life is good. It is. All I need to do is believe it.
Chapter 2
I’m late. I’m bloody late. I took forever to fall asleep last night and when I did my slumber was filled with tangled fragments of dark dreams that kept jerking me awake.
My phone buzzes—a message from Sophie: Where are u? Not still sleeping off the cocktails?????!
I call her. “I overslept! Can you—shit!” I bang my leg on the table and lean down to rub my calf through my trousers. “Can you cover for me?”
“Again? Oh Christ, Tess…I’ll try.”
Eight forty. Shit. It’s the third time this term I’ve been late and we’re only five weeks in. Sophie’s got her own class to teach—I can’t expect her to keep this from the head of the department for me.
The anxious knot in my stomach grows as I wait at the bus stop and it passes nine o’clock. There are going to be twenty-three teenagers waiting at school for their English lesson and I’m still fifteen minutes away. I’ve already had one verbal warning; this time it’s going to be a written one, a permanent warning on my record. I’m tempted to call in sick, pretend I was too ill to phone earlier, but I’ve already done that twice this term. Two missed days, three late days in less than half a term. I can’t lose this job. I can’t.
The bus comes and, despite my anxiety, I’m tempted to let it drive by. Same route to work, same walk at the other end. Every day, the same. I get this urge every so often to get on a different bus, ride it to the end of the route and see where I end up. Walk away from the school and the sick feeling I get in my gut when I sit in front of my first class, feeling like a fraud. What am I doing? That’s what I think on those days.
On the bus, I close my eyes and feel myself drifting, jerking awake with a start as my phone starts ringing at the bottom of my bag, a harsh interruption that has my fellow passengers staring at me. I fumble for it, hunched over, pausing before answering when I see it’s my dad.
“Tess?” His voice is faint, muffled.
“What’s wrong, Dad?” I know he’s not ringing for a casual chat. That’s our Sunday-night routine, ten minutes of talking where we fill the silence but say nothing at all.
“It’s…Julia. She’s home.”
There’s too long a silence as my brain scrabbles to make sense of his words. “Home? She’s better?”
His turn for silence. “No…there’s nothing more they can do. She wants to die at home.”
Breath gone, I lean back in the seat. It shouldn’t be a shock. Julia has been slowly dying for the past year. I’ve seen it on my too-infrequent visits to see her in the hospital. Less Julia, more shadow each time. But still…had I thought she would go on fighting forever? Maybe I had—she’s always been so bright and alive. All my most vivid memories of her from the beginning are of her bringing our house back to life—against our will at first. Well, mine and Bella’s at least. The three of us, after my mother died, were drifting along living a half-life, then along came Julia, so vibrant, a whirl of glaring color impossible to ignore or freeze out and, God, Bella and I resented that. We were so horribly hostile toward her at the beginning, but she never gave up trying, our so very not-wicked stepmother.
“Will you come home?”
Home? My throat closes at the thought. Go back to the house, to the village, to that fishbowl where everyone knows me and everyone knows what happened to Bella? I can’t be anonymous there, can’t be safe and invisible like I am here. If I go back home, will they all be there—Sean and Jack and Max and Lena? I can’t. Christ, what a reunion that would be. I can’t do it—can’t gather round Dad and Julia to watch Julia die when the last time we were all together was to watch them get married. The gap where Bella should be would be too huge and glaring. I just can’t.
“I…I can’t. I have work. It’s midway through the term and…”
“Please, Tess, she has no one else. Come for a weekend, at least. You haven’t been back here in so long. Jack and Sean…they won’t return my calls. I even tried tracking Greg down but no one seems to have any idea where he is. I’ve left messages for Max and Lena—their parents can’t get back from Spain until next month and that might be…I don’t want her to die alone.”
Jack and Sean—no, of course they wouldn’t bother, not even with their mother dying.
“Dad, I…” My voice trails off. What excuse can I possibly give?
“The doctor says she has weeks at the most.”
He doesn’t need to say anything else. Last chance, last chance for all of us to say goodbye, to say anything. What would I give for a last chance with Bella? With my mother? A last chance to say all the things I never got to say because I thought I had forever to say them.
I glance up. We’re approaching my stop. “Dad, I have to go. I’m already late.”
“But Tess…”
“I’ll call you later, okay?”
I end the call and drop the phone into my bag, getting up as the bus stops. God, I want to run back to my flat, climb into bed, still dressed, and pull the covers over my head. I force myself to take deep, slow breaths, pushing away the panic Dad’s call has elicited. Stupid to be scared of a place. My fear is irrational, but it invades my dreams at night. Not the house, but the woods, that’s where my dreams relentlessly take me. Back to West Dean, back to the woods, back to Bella’s body.
I have a tenth-grade class first. By the time I get to school, the class is almost over. I rush in, apologizing to Sophie, who’s struggling to make herself heard over the noise. Half the class are on their phones, the other half talking among themselves. Not a single one of them has their textbook open. Sorry, I mouth to Sophie, who raises her eyebrows and leans in toward me.
“You’re lucky. I had twelfth graders first thing—I’ve left them with revision.”
Lucky. Yes, that’s me. I think of Dad’s call and shake my head. I might have gotten away with it this time, but I can’t ask for time off now, not when I’m sailing so close to the wind. Julia would understand.
Sophie comes over as I’m pouring a coffee in the staffroom at break time.
“What’s going on, Tess? You look…”
A mess. I know I look a mess. Curls wild, eyes dark-circled, my shirt as creased as the ones those guys from last night were wearing. I stayed up way too late, putting off this morning and avoiding sleep.
“My stepmother’s home. There’s nothing more they can do.”
“Oh God, I’m sorry.”
I told Sophie about Julia’s cancer on another melancholy gin night.
“Dad wants me to go home.”
“Of course. Of course you should go home.”
“How can I? I was late again this morning. Karen will be gunning for me if I ask for more time off.”
“But it’s Friday the day after tomorrow. You could go home for the weekend, couldn’t you? It’s not that far.”
It is, though. Way too far. Not in physical distance. That’s easy enough to travel.
Sophie doesn’t understand. Because I haven’t told her enough about Bella—how it happened, what happened. Or the wedding. Or Julia’s family.
“I can’t go back,” I say, draining my coffee. “I have a mountain of marking to catch up on over the weekend. Lesson plans as well.”
“But…”
The buzzer goes off, signaling the end of break. “Back to class,” I say, walking away from Sophie.
She doesn’t get it. I can’t go back.
Chapter 3
wake up
That night I wake with a gasp, a shout echoing in my head. What was it? Was it the dream again—the abandoned house, Bella, the night before the wedding? I haven’t had that dream in a while. Lately my dreams have been filled with Julia and school and…the woods. All my nightmares seem to end up there.
I’ve always slept so well here, in the city. In the stifling confines of the flat I live in, I’ve felt safe, the bad dreams held at bay. Boxed in, I can sleep, knowing there is no expanse of trees and emptiness outside, just more flats and houses, light and people everywhere. But recently…What’s woken me again tonight? Is it worrying about work? About Julia?
It’s two a.m. I came to bed after midnight, so I’ve slept for an hour or so. I think I slipped into a dream. It was the night before Dad and Julia’s wedding again; Bella and I were in a garden…
I push the covers aside and get up. I have to distance myself from the dream before I can try to sleep again. The floorboards are cold. I curl my toes and grope under the bed for the slippers I kicked off only a couple of hours ago.
I make tea, taking comfort in the familiar steps: cup, milk, teabag. With my back to the window, sipping my tea, I can pretend it’s day. That everyone around me is awake and I’m not alone.
When I turn, though, I spill it, my hand slipping as I see I’m not alone at all. Bella is there, silent and smiling. My breathing was too loud; the kettle boiling was too loud. I didn’t hear her come in. Not awake then. This is still a dream. I look down at my wrist, stinging and red from the tea spill. A very vivid dream.
“Bella?” I whisper it, but in the dead of night it sounds as if I’m shouting.
She glances behind her at the dark window and then looks back at me. Her smile fades and I wonder if she sees it, the changes the years have wrought. When we were kids, Bella used to pinch my cheeks, laughing at how red they’d glow and stay glowing. Apple cheeks, wild curls, and freckles. That was me. She was the pale one, the skinny one, the one they always said should be a model with her blond hair and killer cheekbones. Now, ten years later, I know I look like a wild-haired imitation, a hollow, dried-up copy.
“God, I’ve missed you,” I say, and my eyes burn.
“You’re the one who left,” Bella says, lifting a cigarette I didn’t see her holding. She inhales, blows out a smoke ring. She’s leaning against the windowsill, looking the same as she always did back then, skinny jeans and a tank top, bare feet, even though it’s February and below zero. She grins and holds up the cigarette packet.
“Want one?”
I haven’t smoked since I was sixteen but I can taste it. I want to. I want to stand in the kitchen of my flat at two in the morning smoking with my sister, pretend it was something we did together even though I never used to because I was the good girl.
“Couldn’t you sleep?” she asks, and I shake my head, frowning.
This dream is too real. Are you awake or asleep? my mind whispers. Of course I’m asleep. How could Bella be here otherwise? All my dreams of Bella since the accident…they’ve always been about after, nightmares: I’ve never dreamed her alive, never talked to her. The longing to hold her again, not let her go, is fierce, a physical pang.
“Remember when we were kids?” she says, stubbing her cigarette out in a plant pot. I don’t say anything—the plant’s fake anyway. I don’t like fake plants, don’t see the point, but I inherited it with the flat. Here are your keys and a fake plant to welcome you. Like half of my day-to-day life, it’s just there, existing unseen in the corner of my eye until now.
“Remember how you could never sleep until I came home?”
“I used to worry,” I say. “I liked to stay awake until I heard you come in. Until I knew you were safe.” I wipe a tear off my cheek as she sighs.
“Dad would go off to bed, trusting everything would be fine, but I’d stay awake and watch the minutes ticking away and wait. I’d imagine so many awful things happening as every minute past midnight ticked away.”
“You always were an old woman for worrying,” she says.
“I was right to worry, though, wasn’t I?” I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. Funny, all these years I’d never realized how angry I am. I’m angry at how irresponsible she was.
“Are you still waiting?” she asks, and I frown.
“What do you mean?”
She leans in. I can smell cigarette smoke in her hair. I can hear her breathing, her breath overlapping mine. “Is that why you can’t sleep now?”
I exhale, release it and reach out a hand, wishing I could touch her. It’s Dad’s phone call doing this. Calling me home. Making me remember.
I don’t want to remember.
“You never came home,” I say. “I waited and waited but you never came home. You know I can’t sleep until you come home.” Stupid tears won’t stop now; they’re filling my eyes so I can’t see her properly. There are smudges on her tank top, dark mud on the knees of her torn jeans. They weren’t there a minute ago. Her hair looks less smooth, it’s tangled, leaves caught in it. A drop of blood trickles down her cheek. Wrong. I close my eyes and shake my head. I don’t want to see her like this—I’ve spent years trying to erase that image. This is the way I last saw her, but I don’t want to remember her like this. I open my eyes and she’s bright, shining Bella again; beautiful, eighteen-year-old Bella.
“I’m sorry I died,” she says. “I’m sorry I never came home.”
I rub my eyes and press my hands to my aching head, touching the old scar on my forehead. She’ll disappear again in a minute, fade away like she always does in dreams. “You never came home. How am I supposed to ever get to sleep again?”
“You can’t,” she says. “Not yet. Promises to keep, miles to go—like that poem, remember?” She steps closer and whispers her next words. “And Tess? Remember this as well. It wasn’t an accident.”
I wake with a gasp and sit bolt upright. My hand flies to my wrist, expecting the sting of a burn. I sniff the air and, for a second, swear I can smell cigarette smoke. I lurch out of bed, looking at the clock. It’s two—same time as in the dream. There’s no Bella in my flat, not even a sense of her. I shake myself. Of course there isn’t.
I falter, though, when I go through to the kitchen to get a glass of water. There’s a mug on the side, half-full of tea. When I touch it, it’s warm and my wrist throbs with a remembered sting.
Not real, of course it wasn’t real. But…it was so vivid. Was I sleepwalking? Talking out loud to a dream of my sister’s ghost? I must have been.
I shiver, remembering her words. It wasn’t an accident.
Why am I doing this to myself? Talking to Dad, thinking about the others, it’s made me remember the aftermath of Bella’s death, how I insisted something sinister must have happened, that it would take more than a stupid accident to kill my sister. Months of denial right up until the inquest findings. I’ve projected my own long-buried fears onto a figment of my imagination. Of course it was an accident. Of course it was.
