From my cold dead hands, p.3
From My Cold Dead Hands, page 3
I’m in the back seat of a silver limo. I’m not sure, but I think we own it. My dad is lounging on the plush leather seat opposite me. I glance through the dividing window over his shoulder, see the driver’s eyes staring at me, reflected in the mirror. He’s wearing a smart dark-grey uniform with a peaked cap. He’s black, with a dash of a young Denzel Washington about him.
‘Would you like the air-con on, ma’am?’
‘Yeah, great.’ I thought air-con meant you wound the bloody window down, not pressed a button and smooth, cool air whooshed over you. It’s early August and the height of the summer. It is so hot outside; I swear you could barbecue a few shrimps on the car’s bonnet. ‘I’m sorry to ask, but what’s your name?’
‘Tyreese, ma’am.’
‘Right. I’ll try not to forget again.’
He does an imperceptible nod, except his eyes crinkle as if he’s perplexed.
Out of the city, we’re passing rolling hills studded with trees. It reminds me of a beautiful patchwork quilt, lovingly sewn from squares of rich green and yellow silk. The trees look as if they have all been knitted from wool. I want to reach out and touch them.
Tyreese now seems to be looking more at me than the road. There’s something in his eyes like he’s searching? Is he also trying to find “the old me”? Do I usually joke around with him, ask after his grandparents’ health, and know the names of every member of his family? I smile tentatively at him, and his eyes snap forward. Oh God, he didn’t think I was trying to flirt with him, did he? I’m old enough to be his mother, and what a truly ghastly thought that is. I still can’t believe I’m old enough to be anyone’s mother. Or maybe I’ve never met him before this?
‘This is Madison.’ Dad points out the window as we slide through a small town. ‘It was once cited as the most cultured and aristocratic town on the stagecoach route from Charlestown to New Orleans.’
It certainly is pretty. There are restaurants and an ice cream shop and conservative-looking stores with conservative-looking people looking purposefully through their glinting windows. There must be a roaring trade in window cleaners here. I spot a candy store, and I have a craving for something peppermint. Can I ask if we can stop? But no, that’d mean I’d have to get out, be seen by the populace in general, some of whom might know me, and I’m not prepared for that yet.
‘We were lucky.’ Dad sighs loudly. ‘The South believed that twisted idealist Sherman would burn his way through us like he did with nearby states. He was persuaded to pass us by, thanks be to God, or all these mighty fine buildings would have been destroyed. He’d have devastated our heritage, and we would have had nothing to pass onto our children.’
‘You sound like you were there.’ I wonder if he’s noticed that I’m putting on the accent. Or hopefully, he’s noticing that I haven’t got one anymore. It comes quite easily to me. Like a mynah bird.
‘We still are, baby-girl. We still are.’
Has he understood what I’ve just said? Because if he does, what does he mean? In the mirror, I see Tyreese’s face; watch a muscle twitch under his eye. He keeps on driving, staring at the road, but his jaw clenches tightly.
Dad smiles at me, and it’s like a movie spotlight has been switched on. I practically burn from the intensity of his gaze.
‘We’ll have you back to your old self in no time, Cassie. Hey, I reckon the moment you see the house, it’ll all come rushing back.’
‘Here’s hoping,’ I say.
I turn to peer out of the window. It feels like we are stationary, on a film set, the passing scenery merely projected on a screen. If I open the door now, could I step out? My hand creeps toward the door handle.
‘You okay?’ Dad has his own hand held out. ‘Not going to do anything... silly, are you?’ There’s something in his eyes. Is it a warning that I might hurt myself or that he might hurt me? I pull back sharply.
‘The doc said–’ He keeps his hand outstretched to block the door. ‘–that you might be disorientated.’ His eyes seem to have changed colour. Anger darkens them to wine-bottle green. And after that comes the violence. I know that. Cringing back in my seat, I wait, ready to protect what’s left of my head with my arms, raise my legs to ward off blows to my stomach, but he absently scratches his chin and stares out of the window, leaning back into his seat slowly, as if he’s deflating like a punctured balloon.
There is silence for a long time. I wonder where these feelings are coming from as I surreptitiously peer at my dad from under my lashes. How can the quiet, contained man in front of me be the crazed creature in my head? Has my mind been damaged beyond repair by my accident?
The car starts to slow down, and the indicator light is on.
‘Home.’ Dad laughs and pats my knee. I flinch.
‘Oh, I’m sorry if I hurt you.’
‘No, that’s fine.’ But it’s not, is it. If I keep repeating the word “dad”, I seem to be okay, as if that word is different from “father” somehow. Dad is not scary, but “father” has connotations that make me shiver deep inside as if I’ve caught a chill.
I watch out of the tinted window as we drive lazily up a gravelled driveway between sculptured gardens. The grassy areas look as if a manicurist has been down on her knees with a little set of nail clippers to ensure the lawns are all perfect. Bugger me! How could I ever forget this?
As we curl around the final bend, I see the house. My parents’ house. My house. This is where I used to live as a kid, and this is where I now still live. It seems when I met Nick and succumbed to the bonds of matrimony, I simply persuaded him to move in with us. We glide to a stop, and I stare up at the place.
‘Wowee!’
Dad is facing me, smiling widely as we park under some roofed whatsit he calls a porte-cochère. How wonderfully pretentious is that! There are two other cars already parked. One is a four-wheel-drive Land Rover, splattered with mud, and the other looks remarkably like the sort of car James Bond would drive. Can I drive? I must be able to, mustn’t I? Could one of these be mine? Oh, I can feel greed like a randy little dog locked up in a kennel full of bitches in heat. I want one!
‘Don’t tell me you still can’t remember this?’ Dad opens the door before Tyreese can untangle himself from the seatbelt, and I nearly fall out.
I’m dressed in a gaudy pink and purple tunic which Dad brought from home. A make-up artist and a hairdresser came to my bedside at the hospital to make me look like my usual self. Or so they tell me. When I looked in the mirror, I must admit I felt more shocked than when I’d seen myself that first day. The bandages and bolts have been removed, and the bruises and the swelling have gone down. But they seemed to have replaced them with a ton of foundation, light blue eyeshadow, eyeliner, blusher and thick, sticky lipstick. Did I really put this much make-up on? And I don’t even want to think about what they’ve done with my hair. I know they’re trying to cover up the nasty looking stitches and stubble across my skull, though I think they might have got a little carried away. Bouffant is possibly the word I’m looking for. Enough hair spray that I feel I could probably kill someone with my back-combed lacquered fringe alone. Death by lethal hair-do. Is this really me?
‘Welcome home, baby-girl.’
‘You are kidding me, aren’t you?’
It has an air of faded elegance about it. A large flag hangs limply from its pole, stationed right outside in a circular lawn. I can see it is coloured red, white and blue, yet it seems to be different from the typical American flag. The front of the building has shrubs hiding a broad set of stairs leading to the double front door and so many columns that it’s like looking at some ancient Greek amphitheatre. It’s got a hint of soft green in the white paint. Darker green accents the window frames and their tall thin shutters, of which I can count at least twenty. The upper floor has a walk-around balcony, so every room can access it. How many rooms has this place got?
I have a memory, a flash of black walls, some sort of damp that had a life of its own. A running joke that it is an alien lifeform living in our house. We were frightened we’d catch something nasty from it. Is that here? It’s certainly humid enough. I feel sweat start to trickle down my ribs, and I worry that I have great sweaty patches under my arms. How attractive.
‘Come on, baby-girl. Let me help you.’ Dad gives me his elbow, and I cling onto his forearm, feeling his wiry grey hair under my gripping fingers. There’s nothing physically wrong with me, although I’ve been told that it’ll take a few weeks to get my full strength back after so long lying down. The doctor says I might experience headaches and nausea, especially if I get stressed, although he thinks it’ll calm down as I start to recognise things. I’ve been doing my physio exercises religiously, but even this short walk has made my legs feel like they’re made from rubber. I’m frightened I’ll fall, but my dad is strong. He holds me up.
‘Nearly there, my precious.’
I limp through the door into dim coolness. As my eyes adjust, I realise that this magnificent room is only the bloody foyer. My heels click on the marble floor, and I worry that I might skid and humiliate myself by falling over and showing my red lacy thong that is currently riding up into places I didn’t know existed. If I usually wear thongs, you’d think I’d be used to them, yet I would prefer the “hold it all in” big knickers that became trendy after watching Bridget Jones. I’m unused to these high heels, too, and I go careering across the floor like it’s my first time ice skating. The shoes fit me like, well, shoes, I suppose, except I don’t know how to walk in them. Why isn’t this second nature to me, like riding a pushbike, something you never forget? Why do I feel like a fish out of water?
Light is gently diffused through two stories of windows. To the right of me, a door opens into a formal dining room with a crazy looking arched ceiling. It is the sort of space you expect political dignitaries and Hollywood A-listers to be in, nibbling at caviar on toast and gobbling gold-foiled chocolates, sloshing it all down with gallons of champagne. The walls are a soft, moss green colour. A massive, dark wood, spindly-legged table and matching chairs dominate the space. It’s been dressed beautifully. Light sparkles off the cut-glass wine glasses and glows on the highly polished cutlery. Offsetting the colour scheme nicely, fresh flowers of orange and yellow add a heavy note of pungency, but remind me too much of my recently vacated hospital bed. I back out quickly.
‘Are people coming for dinner?’ I feel a little queasy, not wanting to have to meet, greet, and, God forbid, talk to anyone.
‘It’s always like that. Your mom likes to be prepared, and she likes things to look good.’
I wouldn’t want to be the one who has to keep all this stuff dust free. Does my mum do that? In amongst all that campaigning? I pull my gaze away, and to my left is a library. I hobble over and stick my nose in. All the walls are covered in bookcases jammed to overflowing. I sniff. Now that’s more like it. I can smell age and wisdom, leather and old paper, maybe even the ink?
‘Oh! I can’t wait to get in here.’ I itch to touch these precious tomes, to lose myself in their worlds, but I’m startled when my dad tugs me away.
‘The library, Cassie? I’ve never seen you with a book in your hand. Why, I remember you saying you’d rather eat Caesar’s droppings than read a book.’
It’s like he’s just clobbered me over the head with a flat shovel. I don’t like reading? No way!
‘Who is Caesar?’
‘Caesar is your oldest and most loyal friend. Of all of us, I thought you’d remember him.’ His eyebrows scrunch together, and deep furrows crease his forehead. I tear through the fuzz in my head, uprooting and rifling about for anything to make him smile. I can’t bear it if he turns on me like a feral dog. Caesar? Caesar? Droppings?
‘He’s my rabbit?’
His eyebrows pop up. ‘I don’t think you won the Georgia Women’s Equestrian Hunter-Jumper event seven years running by riding on a rabbit.’
‘I’ve got a horse?’
I shudder involuntarily. They scare me. I know that. Too big, too lumbering with massive bodies and horrible, twitching flanks, far too many great big, chomping teeth and let’s not forget the bits forged and nailed and ready to kick.
‘A donkey ate my jumper!’ Where did that come from? I can’t seem to stop, ‘I ended up with my arm down its throat right up to my elbow.’
‘You did? I don’t remember that.’
‘Mum was there. She whacked the donkey on its nose until it let me go. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.’
‘Mom was there? She never told me.’
‘It was a long time ago. I was very little.’
‘That explains it then… But Cassie?’
I look up and see his eyes are crinkling at the edges. ‘You’re remembering stuff. That’s a great sign.’
I grin at him. It hurts as if I might have split some bit that’d only just managed to heal.
‘Come on,’ he holds out his hand, ‘we’re nearly at the family room.’
Straight ahead of us is a massive room by anyone’s standards. It has double banks of windows that fill the room with light. The walls are painted a sweet yellow that reflects the sunshine back at us. Two fat, squidgy, brown leather sofas face a simple but gorgeous white marble fireplace. The light shines off the dark, polished hardwood floorboards and a soft-green, woven rug fronts the fire. A simple white ceiling fan hangs over one of the sofas, suspended above in the incredibly high ceiling recesses. Dad flicks a switch, and I hear it start to whir. A wave of hot air passes over me like the lightest kiss from a lover.
‘I’ll fix us a drink. Champagne okay with you?’ He walks to a large, chestnut-coloured unit behind the sofa. ‘I have a bottle chilling. Or, I can call Dolores to fix you what you’d like, if you’d prefer?’ There are decanters and cut-glass tumblers and a bucket of ice. How there is still ice in there is beyond me.
‘Can I just have a tonic? Sorry, who is Dolores?’
‘Our maid.’ He frowns and I worry that I have offended him. ‘Come on, Cassie. You’re allowed a glass this time. Let me celebrate having you back from the dead?'
‘Champagne it is, then.’ It takes a moment to digest the fact that not only do we have a driver, but we now have a maid. Have we got a butler and a cook living downstairs somewhere too? What kind of world have I woken up in? But that probably accounts for the ice.
I think about the horse. ‘It’s weird, but I can’t believe I’ve got a horse. I’m ninety-nine per cent sure that I can’t ride.’
He snorts with laughter. ‘You’re one of the sharpest and most competitive riders in the state. I bet it’ll come back the moment you see Caesar.’
I lower myself into one of the sofas that quite frankly should be in a Hollywood film. It rises up to envelop me in comfort. Maybe that’s it. I’ve accidentally stumbled onto the set of Dallas, hence the eighties hairstyle and god-awful clothes. I believe I should have more taste than this, and I hope that Dad merely grabbed the first thing that came to hand. My outfit doesn’t seem to fit with the casual splendour and elegance of my surroundings.
I push into the soft array of cushions, lean back, and look around for the cat. I think about what Dad said to me at the hospital.
‘I think it’s best for all of you if you come back home with me first until you get organised.’
‘Okay. If Nick and the, er, children are all right with that?’ I didn’t want him to see how relieved I was. How I didn’t want to have to face the scary daughter, the gay son and the psycho husband.
‘Nick says he’ll have the kids at the lodge by the lake for a few days while you get settled in here.’
‘That’s great.’ We have a lodge by a lake? I’m struggling to take it all in.
I pat the space on the sofa. ‘Dad? Where’s the cat?’
‘What’s that, sweetie?’ I can hear clinks and sloshing noises behind me.
I bob up and look about. ‘The cat? Where’s the cat?’
He comes over with two champagne flutes in his hand. He bends down and hands me one. ‘What’s that about a cat?’
‘Where is she?’
‘We don’t have a cat. You’re allergic, remember? Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.’ He lowers himself carefully into the seat next to me, as if his joints are aching. ‘Anyway, you loathe cats. You’re a dog person, through and through.’
I can remember the cat arching under my tousling fingers, scratching her under the chin, calmed by her rumbled purring from so deep inside of her. I know she doesn’t purr for everyone. There are some she’d dearly like to claw and hiss and snarl at… Now I have an image in my head, matted fur, blood around her muzzle, eyes glazed, no breath, no breath…
The glass slips and smashes into pieces on the floor, spilling golden liquid that dribbles through the cracks in the boards.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ I pull my arm over my head, defensive, waiting for the blows to fall on me, protecting my face.
‘Cassie!’ Dad pulls me into his arms. ‘Baby-girl, it’s okay. Daddy’s got you. Don’t flinch like that; it’s only me. Nothing is going to hurt you now you’re home. Tell me what’s going on.’
‘He killed the cat!’ I hear the fear and anger in my voice. ‘He strangled it.’
‘Who did?’ There’s horror in his voice.
‘Craig.’
‘Who is Craig?’
I can hear the words in my head. Craig is mum’s boyfriend. My stepfather. What the hell?
He asks again. ‘Who is Craig? I don’t like the idea of someone killing a cat.’ He pulls from me, and his eyes have a yellow sheen that must be a reflection from the walls, but it’s as if I’m looking into the eyes of a wolf.
I realise I can’t say what I’m thinking in case I’m mauled by him. I have to come up with something else, something believable.
‘No, no. I’m getting all muddled up. I think he was a kid at school, someone who was said to have killed a cat. I don’t know why, but it suddenly came into my head. You wouldn’t believe what I sometimes remember, and it makes no sense. I’m sorry if that shocked you. I didn’t mean to blurt that out.’
