Page 12 of These Tears

Scowling down at the note, I watch the tip of the pen hovering as if it could rearrange the words on its own into something safer and less blah.

I’m just about to crumple the paper when the front door creaks open, then shuts like a verdict.

My head snaps up. My sister, Anna, stands inside the door.

Breath leaves me too quickly.

One eye is bruised purple beneath her fringe.

My lungs collapse in on themselves. Then heat floods my ribs as my eyes flit all over her form in worry.

Outside, autumn rain needles the windows, blurring the coldness beyond the glass into streaks of grey.

Wordless, seething, I tuck the note into the envelope and abandon it on the table as I rise to my feet, ready to go into battle – until I recognise two suitcases wheeling behind her, leaving faint wet trails on the floor.

My fists open. The air trapped in my windpipe leaves in a broken rush, and my knees nearly follow it to the floor.

‘Oh, thank fuck!’ I blurt, stumbling forward and throwing my arms around her as if I could anchor her there with the sheer force of my embrace.

She had finally left the bastard.

Relief swallows the noise of the world. For a while, at least. There are bags to carry upstairs, tea to make, questions I know how to ask carefully. Because Anna and I have been here before, at square one, when I left Ron. We know the laborious mechanics of resetting a life.

Over the following days, I carry the thought of the letter around like contraband, turning it over in my head. Every possible answer feels wrong.

Too warm – and I sound desperate. Though I am.

Too clever – and I sound like I’m performing.

Too blunt – I risk making him recoil entirely.

I don’t want to disgust him, don’t want to invite him too close… I don’t want to compromise this fragile thread he has thrown my way.

So I go through the motions of life with his handwriting burning a hole in my brain, answering emails, packing and shipping my prints, answering emails, pretending I am not composing and destroying sentences in my head every waking minute.

Today I’ve had more orders coming through my online shop, and the work around them drives me downstairs into the darkroom. I check my photographs for flaws, trim and package those already cured, then peg the fresh prints along the drying line. There’s something liberating about the work that comes after I pull the art out of the camera. Seeing the glistening prints as they dry always drags a smile to my face.

It helps, having something to do with my hands. Something with steps and an ending.

Just as I hang the last photo on the string line to dry, Anna calls me from upstairs.

‘Coming!’

Yesterday, we drove out to Burrator so I could take more photographs, but my head had barely been in it. The drizzle misted the lens more than once, but I didn’t even curse. We took a few pictures that Anna labelled goofy and princess-pretty and called it a day. We’d both needed some time off from the world and the reality.

And as expected, she’d been thoroughly disappointed in the way our parents had reacted – the usual blame shifting.

If it hadn’t been for the shared physical features, I’d have given my right arm that they weren’t our biological parents.

Examining the first photo, I test the clip that holds it aloft, giving it a small tug until I’m certain it feels secure. When I’m satisfied, I step back, arms crossed, the image already losing its hold on me.

I’m not entirely pleased with the batch. The things that had caught my eye, the details that urged me to press the shutter… they somehow feel overshadowed by something else: it’s been two days.

Two days since Crane’s note arrived, and I still haven’t found the right words to answer him.

For all my talk about emotion and art and layered intent, I can’t string together one fucking sentence.

My mood has soured. Anna thinks it’s because I’m angry at her soon-to-be-ex, Howard, and sure – I am. But mostly I’ve been stuck inside my own head, chewing on possibilities.