Page 17 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
‘Come down here,’ he says.
And I do. As I walk reluctantly down the twelve stairs, I think of Mum, already at the pub because they open in the day now, and serve food. And I think of Granny Rose, who meets her friend Elizabeth on Friday afternoons. They drink tea and eat scones, or they go to the cinema, and she always comes back full of laughter and joy and says she feels like she’s been recharged. I am used to having the house to myself after school on Fridays. Why is he home?
‘I wanted toast,’ he says. ‘And what did I find?’
I have no idea. Are we out of bread? If we are, it isn’t down to me. I eat porridge every morning, snack on apples and biscuits and sometimes crisps after school, but never a sandwich. Never toast.
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
‘You do know, because when I had toast this morning for breakfast, there was plenty of peanut butter left, and now…’
Ah, thisisdown to me. I sometimes spread peanut butter along the inside of sticks of celery. I remember doing just this when I first got home, throwing the empty jar in the bin without a thought.
‘Oh, I finished it. I didn’t know…’
He hits me, then. A fast, sharp slap across the face, and the sting of it lingers like a shock. But I am not shocked. Because I know this man; I know who he is. He has always been this way, and it’s only been a matter of time, and there’s almost a sense of relief now that it’s finally done, because the anticipation of it, stretched over months and years, has been terrible.
And I hate him. Truly hate him, with everything I have. Because he’s not my dad, not even my stepdad. And this is not his house. And yet, here he is, in this space that worked so well when it was filled with three generations of women and no men. Too big and too angry and too fucking awful. We stare at each other, and I am thinking about what my mum will say if I tell her. And I think maybe he is thinking the same. Because he takes a step backwards, looks at his hand as if he has no idea what happened, as if he has no control, and then he turns and leaves the room. I hear him pulling his shoes on, his coat, and then he’s gone. This is what he does. He hurts people, and then he leaves.
I cry in the kitchen. It is a quiet kind of crying. I make cups of tea for me and Annabelle, giving myself time to try to pull myself together. I practise what I’ll say when I go upstairs. ‘Fucking Mick, always moaning about something.’ I will say it without my voice cracking. I must. In the downstairs toilet, I examine my face. Brush away the tears. There is a red mark where his hand made contact with my skin, but if I can avoid Annabelle noticing, I will be able to cover it with makeup. Many times, I havewatched my mother cover bruises and marks with makeup, and I always thought I would never let it happen to me. And here I am.
When I go back to my room with the tea, Annabelle looks at me, eyebrows raised. I have unravelled the remaining braids and am using my hair like a curtain to cover my face.
‘He just wanted to know where something was,’ I say.
I hate myself for covering for him. Why am I doing it? I’ve always wished Mum wouldn’t. But I can’t face the way Annabelle would look at me. This is not who I want to be. How unfair, that I have no control over what I may or may not become, in this way. Annabelle seems to sense that I want her to go. She drinks her tea quickly, so quickly I think it must have burned her mouth, and then she says she has to go, that she’s seeing Tom in a bit.
‘Let me know if it happens, with Mark,’ Annabelle says over her shoulder as she goes out of the door.
‘You’ll be the first to know,’ I say.
And Annabelle goes, sees herself out like she always does. I turn off the Beyoncé CD. It hasn’t quite finished and it strikes me as strange that I was one person when this CD started playing and now I am quite another. I sit at my desk and stare at myself in the mirror where I do my hair and makeup. The mark is fading already; it will be easy enough to disguise. But am I crazy for thinking that there’s something in my eyes that will give me away? It’s impossible to say, and there’s no one I can ask.
Later that evening, I do have sex for the first time. Before the slap, I’d decided I wouldn’t, but when I see Mark, I change my mind. What am I waiting for, really? Who am I saving myself for? Mark isn’t someone I can see myself with long term, but he is kind and he knows I’ve been nervous about this. Better that than with some stranger after drinking too much cider at a party. It’s just like Annabelle said. It’s a bit shit, but then it’s over with. Mark keeps smiling over at me, afterwards. Says that I lookbeautiful, and though I don’t believe it, it’s nice to hear all the same.
Something about the juxtaposition of the two events, the slap and the sex, makes me feel like I have lost sight of myself entirely. There’s a before and after. Before, my childhood. Not idyllic, certainly not that, but with a kind of innocence that is gone, after. And I think this is when I became an adult. It has nothing to do with laws or birthdays. It is when you cross over a line that you cannot cross back from. Or sometimes, two.
11
NOW
When the volunteer from yesterday puts his head around the door, I can’t bring his name to mind. I look at his hands to check whether he’s brought me another KitKat. Empty.
‘Shelley,’ he says. ‘Can I come in?’
I nod. I was rude to him yesterday, and I don’t know yet whether today will be any different. I’m so lost, stuck in hospital and with a husband who might or might not be my husband any more. I look at him as he ambles into the room. Matt, I think. His name is Matt. I’m not sure I would have come back, if I were him.
‘Do you have any news?’ I ask.
He looks surprised. ‘What sort of news?’
‘Anything. I’ve barely moved since you last saw me. What’s happening in the world?’
He smiles, looks a little unsure. ‘It’s just another day on the wards. I’ve been called a stupid twat and asked to take in someone’s dog if she doesn’t make it out of surgery.’
I don’t know whether or not he’s joking, but I smile anyway.
‘And now I’m here, hoping not to make you cry this time.’
