My Second Life by Faye Bird Page B

the way things were. Never! You could never just leave things alone! And still — now — ”
    â€œBut you said you had things you needed to talk about with Dad. That’s what you just said. You must remember what those things were.”
    â€œI told you. I don’t remember,” Frances said.
    I looked at Frances. She was lying. I knew she was. She was pretending she didn’t know, because she didn’t want to say.
    Neither of us spoke for a moment.
    â€œWhat have you got there?” she said, suddenly pointing her crooked finger at my pocket. I looked down. The card I’d taken was sticking out so it could be seen.
    â€œNothing,” I said, tucking it back in.
    â€œIt’s something of mine, isn’t it?” Frances said. “From the sideboard. Show it to me!”
    I didn’t move.
    â€œNow!” she said.
    I pulled the card out of my pocket and held it in my hand. I didn’t want to give it back to her, but Frances was shouting at me. She was shouting.
    â€œThat was Catherine’s. Give it back to me!”
    I stood up and put the card down on the table in front of her, just out of reach. It was cruel, I knew it was, but I didn’t want to lose it.
    â€œI can’t reach it from here!” she said. “Put it here, in my hand.” And as she held out her hand toward me I could see it was so weak. The only strength was in her voice, her words.
    I didn’t move.
    â€œYou stupid, stupid girl! Give it to me. Now!” she screamed.
    â€œDon’t shout at me!” I screamed back. “Don’t shout at me like that!” And I heard in my voice a fury like I had never heard before.
    â€œYou don’t understand anything!” Frances said. “You are just like Emma! Just like her! Now give me the card!”
    â€œNo!” I said, snatching it back off the table, taunting her with it. I knew it was childish, but I couldn’t bear being shouted at like this — like I’d been shouted at before.
    â€œShe’s dead! She’s dead! She’s gone! Because of you! How could you? We trusted you, and she’s gone.”
    Frances’s voice was in my head now — from before — shouting, screaming … she was crying —
    â€œGet out! Get out of my house! Get her out! Now!”
    She was raging — at me.
    And there was nowhere I could hide. I had nowhere to hide.
    â€œWhy have you still got these cards?” I said.
    â€œThey are my daughter’s birthday cards, Ana!”
    â€œBut they’re from us — from Mum and Dad and me.” And I walked over to the sideboard, opened it again and began to pull out the cards. “There are only cards here from us — no one else! Catherine must have had cards from other people. Not just us!”
    I walked back toward Frances. She didn’t speak.
    â€œI want to know why you’ve kept those cards — only those. Our family’s cards to Catherine. She must have had others!” I said. “Why would you keep cards from me after I did what I did to her?” And I saw her arm rise up from the chair in front of me, and the next thing I felt was a hot and scorching pain across my left cheek where Frances’s pale and bony hand had struck me hard.
    The card fell to the table, fluttering in the air as it went. I raised both my arms to defend myself against a second blow. I was sure another was coming. I closed my eyes and waited.
    Nothing.
    I opened my eyes.
    Frances was sitting back down in front of me. The card was now between the palms of her hands, her twisted fingers clasped around it so tightly all the blood had drained from under her nails. They were almost blue.
    I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
    That’s what I said to myself as I stood there, trying to take in what had just happened, my cheek burning with the rising bruise.
    And then I picked up my bag and I walked out. And as I went I glanced