My Second Life by Faye Bird

much.”
    â€œBut you came back to me, Ana. Not to them. You came to me!” said Frances.
    â€œIt’s just — I mean … Do you know where they are?” I tried to wipe the tears from my face, to stop them coming. “Do you know where they live?”
    I saw Frances’s lips tighten. Her whole mouth had tightened around the jaw. “I have an address,” she said. “When they moved from here they moved out of London. To Berkshire. I have no idea whether they are still there.”
    â€œCan I have the address?” I asked, and as I did I could hear myself. I sounded like a spoiled, ungrateful child, angling for all the sweets in the jar. But I didn’t care, not if it meant I might get to see them both again, my mum and my dad. But especially my mum. In that moment I would have done anything anyone asked of me if it meant I could see Mum again. If I could see Mum and she could make it all better. “Or if you don’t want to give it to me,” I said, and I grabbed a pen and an old receipt from my bag and started scribbling, “this is my mobile number and my address. You could give it to them?”
    â€œYou can have their address, Ana. If I can find it. It’s in an old address book somewhere,” she said. “I’ll look for it. Another day.” And she stood up awkwardly to take the receipt from me as I leaned forward to pass it over and then we were silent for a moment as she struggled to sit back down.
    â€œIt’s not so easy,” she said. “Looking back. Is it?”
    â€œNo,” I said, wiping my eyes again.
    â€œI look back every day,” she said. “For Catherine, for the answers as to why this happened.”
    She looked at me. Her stare was hard. I could feel the weight of her anger and sorrow pressing down on me. It was like a train moving slowly, steadily, heavily over my chest. Her pain felt like it was crushing me.
    â€œI want to know why you did what you did. I want to know why you killed my daughter,” she said.
    â€œI — ”
    â€œYou must realize that is the only reason I have let you into my home. So I can ask you and hear your answer — the answer I’ve been waiting for all this time.”
    â€œI’m so sorry,” I said, and I started sobbing. “I’m so sorry.” And I kept saying it because I didn’t know what else to say.
    â€œHearing you say that,” Frances said, “it means nothing to me. I thought it might be worth something — to hear it, an apology — but it’s not. And you know why, Ana? Because it changes nothing.”
    I looked up through my tears. Frances’s face was hard, worn. There was nothing I could say to her. Nothing I could say to make any of it better.
    â€œDoes your mother know you are here, Ana?” she said.
    â€œRachel? No,” I said.
    â€œWhat does she know — about you?” Frances asked.
    â€œNothing,” I said, shaking my head.
    â€œAnd you don’t want her to know?”
    â€œShe mustn’t ever know,” I said. “It would break her heart.”
    Frances nodded and took a sip of tea from the cup that was sitting in front of her on the table. Her fingers curled around the cup like the warped branches of a dead tree, and I could see that it hurt for her to move, to lift it to her mouth.
    I watched her for a moment. “Are you okay?” I asked.
    She swallowed and put the cup back down on the table slowly.
    I waited.
    â€œOsteoarthritis, osteoporosis, and now gallstones,” she said. “Bones are crumbling. Body’s packing up. Not much I can do.”
    â€œAre you in pain?”
    â€œMost of the time,” she said.
    â€œAnd today?”
    â€œToday isn’t such a good day. In fact, you could pass me my pills. They are in the sideboard,” she said, pointing across the room.
    I stood up and walked over toward the sideboard.
    â€œSecond drawer