We both look down to where my phone has begun to ring: the words ‘Kids’ School’ are flashing.
‘Mrs Jones? Hello, it’s Highbrook School here. I’m afraid Oscar has had a bit of a tricky afternoon and one of the other children has bitten him. Would you be able to pop in?’
Chapter Thirteen
Jennifer
I slam the door to my car, our vehicles inches apart. Mine is filled with family detritus: Hailey’s sun hat discarded on the floor; Oscar’s car seat; Ed’s sunglasses; a crumpled-up parking ticket from a daytrip out. As Nessa steps out of her own, I consider this. Is the interior of her car filled with parts of her life with Kerry? A thirst creeps through me, an urgent need to yank open the door, to run my fingers over the passenger seat where Kerry sat, to open the glove compartment and find a lipstick, a dog-eared novel, a sweet wrapper. I try to quench the thirst with a well-meaning smile in Nessa’s direction; I pull my eyes away from where, just inches away from me, is new evidence of my sister, new discoveries to explore, treasures to uncover.
As I walk by Nessa’s side, the wind winds its way around her; it grabs hold of her scent and slides it towards me: soap, fabric softener, and Nessa. The smell caresses me, strokes my skin with memories of lazy summer nights in the garden, the four of us playing cards, drinking wine. I’ve never noticed Nessa’s smell before; Kerry always wore the same perfume that she’d had since she was fourteen. For weeks she had saved her pocket money, frequented perfume shops, spraying them on her wrists, testing them out. Did they fit? Were they her? It lasted months, Kerry’s quest for the perfect scent, and when she found it, she was never unfaithful, never cheated on it or flirted with another brand. It was a heavy scent, she only needed a small spray, but it followed her everywhere she went. When she started seeing Nessa, I thought that the perfume had changed a little, become fresher, less intense, but as I walk beside my sister’s fiancée, I understand . . . Kerry’s smell had changed, because part of it was Nessa.
I hover behind her, breathing her in, as she pushes the buzzer. I keep my distance; I try to concentrate on the creases on her white blouse, each line veering off: a map of her movements for the day.
‘What are you doing?’ Nessa’s voice startles me and I realise that my nose is pressed towards her armpit.
Kerry bursts out laughing. ‘Are you smelling my girlfriend?’
‘Sorry, there was a bee . . .’ I begin flapping my hand about, clashing against the fabric of her shirt, chasing away the imaginary bumbler. Nessa frowns at me and side-steps away, firing a glance over her shoulder at me as the buzzer sounds and the click of the doors allows us access. Our feet tread along the corridor towards the reception office. The glass pane slides open.
Nessa clears her throat. ‘Hi, I’m Erica Noble’s mum. Vanessa Hill.’
It’s strange to think that Nessa was once married to a man, once part of a couple other than ‘Kerry and Nessa’.
‘Ah yes . . . Mrs Hill?’
‘Miss,’ Nessa corrects.
‘If you can sign in. Mrs Park will be with you shortly.’ The receptionist indicates the waiting chairs with a sharp nod of her head.
I step forward. ‘Hello, I’m Mrs Jones? I had a phone call about my son, Oscar?’
‘Ah yes . . . poor little mite.’ She glances towards Nessa with a look of disapproval. ‘He was very upset. I’ll take you through. We thought it best to call as the skin has been broken.’ She lavishes me with small talk, casting another cold stare at Nessa as we walk past.
I’m led into a small room decorated with stick-on stencils of inspiring words meant to encourage and enlighten young minds: Dr Seuss is the philosopher to whom they seem to subscribe. In the corner, sat on a school chair disguised with a soft blue throw, is my boy. Beneath his eyes and along the tops of his cheekbones are tinged red; it’s almost as though he has been punched. I have seen my son cry, I’ve often been the cause of such tears when I’ve had to have a stern word about his bedtime when all he wants to do is play on his tablet, but I have never seen these angry crescents before and that stirs something in me. A rage that begins at my toes, making them curl: spreading like fire. I rush to his side, gathering him in my arms; he begins to cry again.
‘I didn’t do anything wrong, Mummy, I didn’t do anything wrong,’ he repeats, his voice hiccupping. I look to the teaching assistant sitting beside him as she begins to explain.
‘Oscar tried to give Erica some of his chocolate bar.’
‘Her tummy was rumbling, Mummy, I heard it. I thought my chocolate bar would help stop her tummy from rumbling.’
I look into his eyes, red and sore. I think about the new little red veins that will scar the surface of the whites of his eyes.
‘It’s OK, Oscar,’ I soothe, kissing his head. ‘It’s OK.’
‘She said she didn’t want my stinking chocolate. And then she bit me, Mummy, bit me hard, look!’ He stretches out his arm and pulls off the wet blue paper towel.
Beneath, is a purple bruise and a track of small incisions where her teeth have penetrated my gorgeous boy’s skin. Anger and compassion fight amongst themselves as the emotions flood through me.
When I found out I was going to be a parent, I thought about all of the wonderful things that were going to happen: I thought about the little booties, the soft blankets, the strange sterilisers and the tiny hand prints captured in plaster to be framed and put in pride of place on the mantelpiece.
What I never expected was this kind of pain. This overwhelming feeling of disapproval that can pounce on me unchecked. That feeling that bites before my brain has had time to justify my reactions, before I can rationalise that the child who has hurt mine, might not have meant to hurt them, that maybe my child did something first, that maybe, just maybe, it’s not worth making a ‘fuss’ over.
Oscar’s warm, sticky arms circle my neck and pull me in. ‘I was trying to be kind, Mummy.’ He leans closer to my ear, his warm breath making the hairs on my arms rise. ‘And now my heart hurts.’
I swallow down the lump in my throat. ‘It’s OK. Mummy will fix that heart right away.’
Oscar is crying as I try to put on his coat the next morning.
‘I don’t want to go to school, Mummy.’ He pulls his arm free and wipes his snot on the sleeve of his jumper.
Ed interjects.
‘If that little bugger—’ Ed corrects himself: ‘If Erica gives you any more trouble, you punch her right in the nose, OK?’
‘Ed! I’m not sure that is the best advice,’ I murmur as I manipulate Oscar’s arms into his coat.
‘She’s always been spoilt, Jen, she needs bringing down a peg or two. Nessa always gave in too easily, even when Kerry tried to tell her—’
‘Yeah, well Kerry’s not here, is she?’ I snap. ‘Cut Nessa some slack, we need to support her, not make things worse.’
‘I have a tummy egg.’ Oscar pleads, his lip wobbling and his eyes filling.
Hailey appears, coat on, the blue bows at the bottom of her plaits swinging. ‘Can we go now?’
The walk to school goes better than I expected: Oscar is easily distracted by Hailey playing the Guess Which Disney Character I Am game.