A crow lands on the palace at my eye level. It struts back and forth with a long, confident stride as it inspects me. Its back is all the colors of the night. It raises its head and opens its beak wide.
Caw caw caw.
It’s only then that the patio doors open and Elsa runs out, arms outstretched.
Job done, the crow takes flight.
Elsa fusses and clucks over me, fetching sweet tea, “For shock.”
“What happened to him?”
“They think it was a heart attack. The coroner’s officer wants to speak to you. I’ve left the number by the phone.”
“How can they be sure? Don’t they need to do a post-mortem?”
“They think it’s likely. He’s had two in the last three years.”
“I didn’t know.”
“He wouldn’t let me phone you.” I don’t know if I’m annoyed that she didn’t call or relieved that she doesn’t say Perhaps, if you’d bothered to call him he might have told you himself. “Your dad was a terrible patient. They told him he should have an operation to clear his arteries but he refused.”
Elsa opens one of the kitchen cupboards. “Look.”
I take out some of the boxes, shake them, read the leaflets. There’s twelve months of medication here. Dad never took any of it. Aspirin, statins, nitrates, ACE-inhibitors. Wonder drugs to unblock his stodgy arteries and keep his blood flowing through them.
I slam the door shut, making Elsa jump. It’s the gesture of a petulant teenager. I can’t help it. Dad’s self-neglect is a good excuse to be angry at him for dying.
“We used to have terrible rows over it. I think it was his way of punishing himself.” Elsa doesn’t need to say guilt over your mother. She looks washed out. Her pale eyes, once arresting, look aged. “I don’t think Pippa understands. Don’t be hurt. She’ll come out when she’s ready.”
Pippa had looked at me as I put my bag down in the hall and said, “Julieee,” prolonging the last syllable as she always did when she was excited. Then she slid from the room, leaving me alone with Elsa.
Elsa’s the one who doesn’t understand, despite how long she’s known Pippa.
Pip’s cerebral palsy has damaged the parts of her brain that control her speech. It’s impaired her balance and muscle tone. It’s robbed her of parts of her intellect but she’s attuned to the world in other ways.
She understands what I feel. She’s waiting for me to be ready, not the other way around.
Perhaps it’s a twin thing.
Pippa stopped speaking for several years when she was a child. It was when she realized that she didn’t sound like other children. That she couldn’t find and shape the words as I did. Her development wasn’t as arrested as everyone supposed. Dad, Elsa, and her teachers all underestimated her.
I could’ve tried to help her. I could have acted as an interpreter as I’ve always understood her, but I didn’t. Instead, I watched her struggle.
And here she is, as if I’ve called out to her.
Pippa’s small and twisted, muscle spasticity contorting her left side. That she’s gray at the temples shocks me, despite the fact mine’s the same but covered with dye. She’s wearing leggings and a colorful sweatshirt; the sort of clothes Dad always bought for her. That she’s unchanged yet older causes a pang in my chest, which I resent.
Pip looks at the world obliquely, as if scared to face it straight on. She stands in the doorway, weighing me up and then smiles, her pleasure at seeing me plain on her narrow face.
That’s what makes me cry. For her. For myself. I’ve abandoned her again and again. As soon as I could walk, I walked away from her. As we grew older, my greatest unkindness towards her was my coldness. As a teenager, I never wanted to be seen with her. After our twenty-third birthday, I never came back.
“Julieee.”
I put my arms around her. I’ve not asked Elsa if Pip was with Dad when he collapsed, if she sat beside him, if she saw the paramedics at work.
The onslaught of my tears and sudden embrace frighten her, and I’m the one who feels abandoned when Pip pulls away.
Ten years since my last visit to The Beeches. Ten years since Dad and I argued. I drove home after spending the weekend here for our birthday. Elsa had made a cake, a sugary creation piled up with candles that was more suitable for children.
Dad rang me when I got back to my flat in London.
“I’m disappointed, Julie.”
“What?” I wasn’t used to him speaking to me like that.
“You come down once in a blue moon and spend the whole time on the phone.”
“I have to work.” I was setting up my own recruitment agency. I was angry at Dad for not understanding that. I was angry that he thought I owed him an explanation. “I’m still getting thing off the ground.”
“Yes, I know your work’s more important than we are.”
“It’s how I make a living. You sound like you want me to fail.”
“Don’t be preposterous. All I’m saying is that it would be nice for you to be here when you’re actually here.”
“I drove all the way to be there. It’s my birthday too.”
“You act like coming home is a chore. Pippa’s your sister. You have a responsibility towards her.”
“Yes, I’m her sister, not her mother. Aren’t I allowed a life of my own? I thought you’d be happier that you’ve only got one dependent now.”
“Don’t talk about Pip like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re angry at her. It’s not her fault that your mother killed herself.”
“No? Whose was it then? Yours?”
Those were my final words to him. I don’t know why I said them now.
The following morning’s a quiet relief. I wake long before Pippa. The house is familiar. The cups are where they’ve always lived. The spoons in the same drawer, the coffee kept in a red enamel canister as it always had been when I lived here. It’s like returning to another country after years away. Even though I recognize its geography, customs, and language, I’ll never again be intrinsic to its rhythms.
My mobile rings.
“Ju, it’s me.” Christopher.
“Hi.”
I’m never sure what to call him. Boyfriend sounds childish, partner business-like, and lover illicit.
“The new Moroccan place has opened. I wondered if you fancied coming with me tonight.”
Not: Shall we go? There’s him and me with all the freedom between us that I need.
“I can’t. Take Cassie.” There’s no jealousy in that remark. Over the two years I’ve been seeing Chris, seeing other people too has worked well for us. It’s precisely why I picked a man with form. A player won’t want to cage me but Chris keeps coming back to me, just when I expect him to drift off with someone new.
“I stopped seeing her months ago. I told you.”
I don’t care. It makes no difference to me.
“My dad’s dead,” I say, just to try and change the subject.
“Oh God, Julie I’m so sorry. I’d just presumed he was already dead from the way you talked about him. What happened?”
“Heart attack.”
“Where are you? I’ll come and help.”
“No need.”
“I want to.”
“And I don’t want you to,”
“I’m not trying to crowd you, but may I call you? Just to see if you’re okay.”
“Sure. Of course.” He can call. I may not answer.
I hang up.
“Julie.”
Pippa sidles up to me. We’re both still in our pajamas. It’s an effort but I manage a smile for her.