Her Sister’s Secret. E.V. Seymour
not be happening. Like a virus attacking my nervous central system, all I could think about was my sister, the crash, the fallout, the blame.
I put the kettle on and took the jolly cups and saucers – my mum’s favourite – from the cupboard and went through the motions. Spoonful of sugar for me. Light dash of milk for her. While it brewed, I tried my dad on his mobile. My call went straight to his messaging service, his voice sombre in a way I’d never noticed before. An omen? A scoot around local Gloucestershire news online revealed absolutely nothing. Before I got drawn into what was trending on Twitter, the kettle boiled.
Arranging everything on a tray, the way my mum liked, I took it upstairs.
“I’ve tried your father. No reply,” she said, brittle with frustration.
“Maybe he can’t respond. Could be driving, or at the hospital.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced.
We drank in silence. Her hands trembled. God knew what was travelling through her mind although none of it could be good. Eventually she eased back down the bed. Hid beneath the sheets.
I sat and stared off into the distance. For a second time I considered calling Zach. He and Scarlet had never been close, and it was always me who tried to maintain family ties.
“Can I get you anything else?”
She shook her head minutely. “The dog probably needs to go out.”
Only if I scooped him up and forced him, which was precisely what I did. Picking up on the bad news vibe, Mr Lee’s tongue darted out and licked my ear in a sort of ‘sorry you’re feeling sad’ gesture. I gave him a squeeze and carted him downstairs, through the kitchen and conservatory and into heat resembling a fan assisted oven at 220 degrees centigrade. Too long outside and I’d be done to a turn.
I held back in the shade, watched as Mr Lee mooched across the lawn, skirted the vegetable patch and cocked his leg against one of the fruit trees. To the right, a teal-painted wooden bench where Scarlet and I once sat weeks before and prior to the row, the two of us gazing across the rooftops to the Severn valley, cold drinks in our hands after a blistering day at work. Peace between us. She’d seemed distant, I remembered now, not her usual smiley self. When I’d enquired if she was okay, she’d told me she was knackered. To be honest, I hadn’t really bought her answer and wondered if there was something up between her and Nate. Looking back, I wished I’d pressed her because then I’d be able to make better sense of everything. But maybe exhaustion had led to the accident. Maybe it was nothing to do with me. Maybe.
The dog ambled back, cocked his leg again, this time against a flowering shrub on a patio bleached white with heat. I jagged in irritation because the weather felt all wrong. The sun wore a stupid happy-clappy grin on its face. It was way too lovely a day for unfolding events that I couldn’t call, couldn’t predict.
Retreating inside, I ran water into a bowl for Mr Lee.
The house seemed unsettled and empty, like a home in which a warring couple declare they are going their separate ways. Was it possible that we were all over-reacting? Might someone have got mixed up, identified the wrong driver? Was my sister really at home, sunning her rear and snoozing in the sun, while some other poor woman lay trapped in wreckage? Buoyed, I took out my mobile, punched in Scarlet’s number. Nothing. Switched off. Dead.
Steeling myself, I went back upstairs.
“All right?” Mum asked in the way people do when they don’t require a truthful answer.
“Yes.”
“Dog had a drink?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sorry, you had to leave work.”
“Doesn’t matter. Lenny is managing fine without me.”
“Even so—” She broke off, stirred, eyes flickering toward the doorway, to where Dad stood. Tall and solidly built, there suddenly seemed less of him in that moment. Purple shadows etched upon his face and underneath his eyes gave him the appearance of the gravely ill. As he walked silently towards us, I read all kinds of emotions in his brown eyes. That’s when I knew. Indubitably. And so did my mother. Her hand gripping mine told me so.
My throat cramped. “Dad?”
In a voice stained with pain, he said, “Scarlet died this morning.”
Silence, like the split-second before an ancient tree, cut down, hits the earth.
Dad started forward, every step an exercise in agony. Mum, slack-jawed, let go of my hand, gripped and twisted the cotton top sheet through her fingers, a metaphor for a life irrevocably screwed. When Dad reached out and put his arms around her, she let out a deep-throated howl. I slipped off the bed, made way, excluded. Numbed, I couldn’t really take it in.
There were tears. I’d never seen my big tough dad cry. Not when Zach got expelled from school – again – not when he’d OD’d, not when my brother went to rehab that would make most prisons look like recreational facilities, not when Dad walked my sister down the aisle. Not ever. But he cried now.
“There must be some mistake.” Mum’s sobs were dry. Excruciating.
“No, my darling.”
“But—”
“I identified her.”
Mum pulled away. “You did?” She spoke in a small, wondering, vulnerable voice. “Surely, Nate—”
“Too much for the boy. I offered.”
“And you’re sure? You’re certain?”
“She’s gone,” he confirmed tearfully.
Mum wrenched back the sheet. “Then I must I go to her.”
“No, Amanda.”
“I have to see her, Rod.”
Stricken, I held my breath, watched as Dad put his solid hands on Mum’s shoulders, looked into her eyes. Firm. Back in control. All his ex-copper credentials showing through. “We can take flowers once the scene’s secured and preserved.”
Her mouth tightened, ugliness in her expression. “I don’t want to take fucking flowers. I want to see my baby.”
Dad glanced anxiously over his shoulder at me. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking. Maybe he was embarrassed because my mum never swore, and he wasn’t great with the drama. Maybe he feared the miasma of emotions about to break loose. Or maybe he was trying to protect me from what I already knew. My mother could live without any one of us, but not Scarlet.
“Amanda, listen to me. You have to be very brave.”
“I can’t,” she gulped. “I just—”
“You can. You must. For Scarlet.”
“Oh my Christ,” she burst out. “She always said she wanted to donate her organs. We can’t let that happen, Rod.”
“That’s not an issue at the moment.”
I frowned. What did Dad mean?
“But there will be a post-mortem,” he continued.
“No,” she snapped. “You tell him, Molly. Tell him it can’t happen.”
I stared from one to the other, my breath staccato and shallow. “Mum, I wish I could but—”
“Oh, what’s the use?” Ripping herself from dad, she tore out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Naked and unsteady feet crashed against polished wooden floorboards.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, but the accusing light in her eyes said it all. When she’d needed me most, I’d failed