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‘I… It is a word,’ Mother says. She looks into her lap. ‘Anticlockwise. Anticlockwise.’ She fingers her beads. ‘Oh, dear. I must be getting muddled. Once you say it a few times it does start to sound a bit silly.’
The floor feels like it’s dropping away. My poor mother.
Father leans his head back and roars, showing his gold fillings. I’m suddenly aware of how big and broad he still is next to her.
I bite my lip as a revelation strikes me. Father isn’t being cheeky. He’s being cruel. It’s not teasing. It’s bullying.
I know what I’d normally think: He’s only joking. Why does she always fall for this? She acts like she’s stupid when she isn’t – it’s infuriating. But not now. Now, shame and revulsion fill me.
I want to rush over and shake him for his cruelty but it makes me feel sick, and instead I pinch the clipper cut on my thigh. It isn’t the right moment. I need to focus on Jenna. I need to find my baby. Today is not the day.
‘Mother, Father, have you heard from Jenna?’
Father rolls his eyes, annoyed at my change of subject, and Mother watches him, not answering.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you. She left school at lunch. No one has seen her since.’
Father sighs. ‘She’ll be out for dinner then, will she?’
This observation calms me slightly – that’s all: my daughter is out for dinner. Then I see Jenna throwing Rose’s bag at her and storming off and I want to shout, but no one shouts at Father.
I stare at him and he stares back and I clench my teeth and walk out. I pace the laundry. Was that an answer? Have they heard from her? Is it always like this between my mother and father?
I get that volcano feeling again and run through to the extension. In the office I share with Dan, I find my old pencil case and take it into our en suite and lock the door, ripping open the zip.
I haven’t made a stencil in years but the craft knives inside are new and sharp. There’s a little bottle of ethanol. I squirt some at the blade before I slide to the floor, pull up my dress and study the map of thin white scars on my inner thighs, admiring the tiny, arrow-shaped cut from the nail clippers, searching for the perfect place.
Dan will be so angry. I haven’t cut in months. But Dan isn’t here. So I choose a bare patch high on my right leg and I make three tiny, neat, comforting lines, one quickly after the other.
26
NOW
I watch my blood trickle to the tiles: three bright strings spooling on the white floor, my stuffing escaping. I allow the puddle to creep across two tiles, and then sop it up with my towel. It keeps flowing as I squirt on ethanol, savouring the fresh, burning sting.
Cutting helps me get back in the moment. It grounds me. When people talk about meditation and mindfulness, I know exactly what they mean. And looking at my scars reminds me that I have suffered, and I’ve never ever turned my pain outwards onto other people. Only in.
I hold my hand steady as I follow the cuts with superglue, enjoying the pain like a song. Glue stops the bleeding and reduces scarring. If only I’d learned about it earlier.
I stand slowly even though I haven’t bled enough for it to be an issue. All the same, I drink a glass of water before dabbing myself clean. I wipe the floor and rinse the towel. Only men think it’s hard to remove blood from fabric.
Once clean, I straighten my dress and walk out. The bedroom is stuffy.
The dinner bell rings. I have to talk to my family and get a straight answer about whether or not they’ve seen or heard from Jenna. I have to make sure I’ve ticked that box so I can call the police. But I feel sick at the prospect.
I try to tell myself I’m being ridiculous. That we’re such a close family. I know my father can be mean, but it’s not that bad, is it?
It is though. I know it is.
But mostly he’s generous, solid, strong. You wouldn’t choose to live in the same house as your parents well into adulthood if you didn’t like them, would you? And yet there are times when I wish I could escape.
This wouldn’t be happening if I’d moved away.
I know I should go down but I hurry up the narrow stairs to Jenna’s room, telling myself again that maybe she’s snuck up without anyone noticing, wanting to feel close to her. As I push through, my phone pings with a message from Mr Whitlow. He’s just asking if I’ve spoken to my parents. I tell him I’m just about to and that the twins say Rose has been bullying Jenna, and he says he’s sorry and will investigate.
I slide my phone away and look up and freeze, fear slicing through me, but it’s only the damned velvet spider again. I stare at its unseeing eyes then drag the chair from the desk and stand on it and take it down. I throw it in her wardrobe, and I’m about to shut the door when I see her costume stuffed on top of her shoes in a tangle, layers of black and purple chiffon.
Had she planned not to go to the rehearsal today?
