verity
Now
‘Come on, Vee, man, you don’t even live here and you’re hogging the bathroom,’ Conrad calls from outside the door.
‘I’ll be a minute,’ I reply, trying to control my breathing.
‘I don’t see why you’re not in your own yard,’ he calls.
‘And I don’t see why you speak as if you grew up in South London, but here we are,’ I retort.
That sounds normal, I hope. That sounds stinky enough to be as normal as the rows we usually have over the bathroom. I need to sound as though nothing remarkable has happened. As if everything is OK and I didn’t—
I feel like retching again. I’ve already been sick two times. I’ve already emptied the contents of my stomach because of what happened. I throw myself onto my knees and lift the toilet-seat lid. But nothing comes out. There’s nothing left.
‘Damn, Vee, can you just get a move on!’
‘Use the shower room downstairs!’ I call to him.
‘I don’t want to. I like this bathroom. And seeing as I LIVE HERE, I think I should be allowed to use it when I want.’
Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath.
‘I’ll be out in a minute!’ I reply to my brother.
Calm, calm, I need to be calm. My hands are shaking, trembling out my terror. I need to calm down. I need to not do this now. We’re going to the party soon. I need to keep calm. Act normal. Pretend none of this happened. My hands. They have scrapes along the knuckles, and my nails are chipped and split. I’ll have to paint them. Hide them. But that means . . . I run to the sink, snatch up the soap and run it over my fingers, my hands, my wrists. I need to clean my hands because they’ll have evidence on them.
Unexpectedly, bile hits the back of my throat again, and I have to abandon washing my hands to throw myself back in front of the toilet to empty my already empty stomach.
‘VEE!’ Conrad hammers on the door. ‘Come on! I gotta get ready. What’s wrong with you, man?’
I drop back to sit on my bottom, shaking and quivering. What am I going to do? What am I going to do?
‘VEE—’ My brother is cut short by my mother’s voice. I don’t hear what she says to him, but I do hear him tut, tut again and sigh, then stomp away.
‘Vee?’ Mum calls through the door. ‘Vee, can you open the door?’ Her voice is calm and measured. Exactly what I need right now. Exactly what I need to latch onto right now. I need to get myself there. To that place where I am calm. And behaving normally.
‘Verity?’ she asks again.
I push myself up until I’m on my feet. I reach for the flush and then push down, filling the room with the same sound that is whooshing through my brain.
‘Are you all right, Verity?’ Mum’s voice is the motivator I need. I wash my hands. Stare at my reflection for a moment, see my eyes are wide and bloodshot, my skin is clammy and dull.
‘I’m fine,’ I say to my mother as I try to wipe the fear from my face. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’ I breathe deeply through the O of my mouth, try to ease my racing mind, my burning, quaking body.
‘OK,’ she replies.
Breathe, calm, chill. Chill. Chill. Chill.
I wipe my eyes again, swallow and swallow to get rid of the lump of fear that sits like a mountain at the back of my throat. You can do this, I tell myself. You can do this.
When I unlock the bathroom door and leave, I find Mum leaning against the wall by the door. I jump and have to grab the doorframe to stop myself falling over in fright.
Mum stares at me from behind her half-made-up face. Her hair is a mass of long, spiral-shaped, pink-and-yellow rollers. She has a pale-brown concealer pressed into the skin under her eyes and her eyebrows have been filled in and shaped to perfection. She was right in the middle of getting herself ready for the big party when she had to stop to come and sort out the commotion caused by her two children. She probably thought all that shit was over when we grew, but no such luck for Mum. I bet she didn’t even hesitate, I bet Dad would have pretended he couldn’t hear it – like he used to all the time.
I’m desperate to throw my arms around her and tell her everything. Everything. Because I know she’d help me. She’d know what to do right now. It was probably like that for her that night. She was probably scared and desperate to tell someone so they could help her. I should throw my arms around her and let her be the mother I know she is. I know I’ve been angry with her this little while because of all her lies, but that doesn’t matter. Not right now. Right now, all that matters is—
‘What’s happened?’ she asks.
I shake my head. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t look very well. What’s happened?’
I shake my head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ Mum asks, clearly not believing me. Obviously not understanding the truth in what I was saying. Nothing has happened because everything has happened. Everything possibly bad that could happen has happened, so it’s cancelled itself out and become nothing.
‘Just tired, Mum. I thought going out for a walk would help but it’s done the exact opposite of helping.’ How easy it is to lie. How plain it is that my mother doesn’t believe me.
‘Verity,’ Mum says with a finality that suggests she’s about to tell me off. ‘If you are in some sort of trouble, tell me. I will help you. I will do everything I can to help you.’
I manage to twist my face into something like the shock and horror and disgust I would normally feel at being asked that question. No one can help me now. No one. ‘What trouble would I be in?’
My mother sighs and lowers her head while she composes herself. I know she wants to force me to tell her what’s going on and I know she won’t. Not when she’s organised this party and it’s for Dad. She’d do almost anything for Dad.
‘Look, Mum, there really is nothing to worry about,’ I state. Again, not a lie. There is nothing to worry about because there is everything in the world to worry about. ‘And I had better get on or I won’t be ready in time. Looking good doesn’t happen all by itself.’ I’m curling my fingers into the palm of my hand to hide my scuffed knuckles and chipped, battered nails.
‘It certainly doesn’t,’ she agrees. ‘The taxi’s booked for five thirty. You know Dad will leave whether any of us are ready or not.’
I nod eagerly. ‘Better get on with it, hadn’t I?’
‘Yes, you probably should.’
I hide my slight limp as I walk down the corridor to my room, aware that Mum is watching me. Mum stays where she is until I have opened the door, stepped inside and shut it behind me.
Maybe it’s the pretending, the trying to inhabit the calmness in her voice, but I don’t collapse when I seal myself into my bedroom. I stand behind the door, listening, waiting for Mum to walk away. By the time she does, by the time she has returned to applying her make-up and fixing her hair, I know what I have to do.
I take out my mobile, call up the number of the person I know will help me and type:.
S.O.S
I press send.
Everything is normal in my room, everything is ready for tonight. My dress is laid out on the bed in front of me. My make-up is laid out on my desk, my hair scarf is hanging on the silver ball of the bed end, waiting for me to put it on so I can start the getting-ready process for real. I need to get going, get moving, act as though everything is normal. Mum wasn’t kidding about Dad leaving people behind if they weren’t ready on time. That’s what he does. I need to get going.