Читать книгу Before You Were Mine: the breathtaking USA Today Bestseller - Em Muslin - Страница 14

CHAPTER 8

Why had she even said anything to Tommy? Now he’d be all wound up like a jumping bean. He was right; she didn’t know what she looked like and there she was claiming it was her. Eli hovered over the pan of frying onions. The grease splattered this way and that. She poked at them absent-mindedly and shook her head.

Of course she was being cuckoo. And why had she even thought the woman looked like her? It was just something. Something about her, something in her eyes maybe – no her mouth, the gap between her teeth, just like her own. Oh now she was just trying to find something. She really was a silly ol’ goat.

Soon enough she’d be getting a reputation like Joanie Cunningham whose husband had been caught one night across town foolin’ around with some young fella or something. Joanie had gone about town the very next day proclaiming this and the next day proclaiming that. None of it making sense. Ma Bell said she’d got it all wrong, because Stan was a good husband and had probably just helped the young man with directions or something, but Joanie wouldn’t let it go and when no one listened to her, she stripped right down to her underwear at church, pleading there and then for Jesus to take her.

Doctor Green, who had been sitting on one of the front pews, waited until she had just about undressed to her panties, before he finally intervened. Stan sent her across to some cousins or other in Birmingham – ‘for a rest’ he said. She returned months later, seemingly without a single memory of what had happened. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, she sat next to her husband at church, singing ‘Abide with Me’.

The woman had been, from what Eli recalled, dressed in a simple lemon dress, tailored to show off what seemed to be a very fine figure. Her blonde hair had the look of someone who – unlike Eli – most certainly didn’t trim the split ends herself. She had a crocodile-skin purse with her. Or was it snake? She couldn’t remember.

When the woman leaned forward to clean up her hand, Eli smelt a sweet perfume – despite being covered from head to toe in pickling vinegar. The woman’s hands were perfectly manicured. Her skin ivory white. Soft, delicate. Not like Eli’s, worn and chafed, aged by constantly doing laundry and cleaning. Oh she never stopped reminding Tommy of the year he insisted on her hand-washing the clothes, because he was sure he could fix the machine. But like everything else, he never quite got around to it, until Eli put her foot down and refused to hand-wash his underwear any longer. He either fixed the tub or got a new one.

Tommy had always been so careful with money. It was something she both loved and loathed in him. He knew exactly what came in and what went out. He’d give Eli her housekeeping budget and the rest went on bills and beer. There was little room to manoeuvre. His job at her father’s garage was secure all right, but it didn’t pay top dollar. It had its advantages, but a big part of Eli had always wished Tommy had more ambition. He could have worked for one of the bigger firms out of town, got better pay, perhaps even a promotion. ‘Head mechanic,’ she often told him. And he’d just laugh.

‘What – so you want me to trek all the way into where? Mallory? Jonestown? To do the same job as I do now?’ Tommy would look at her, incredulous, and shake his head.

‘No, Tommy, you could run a place. Somewhere a bit fancy, that pays well.’

‘I don’t want no fancy job. People coming in bellyaching at y’all day. Having to sort out everyone else’s problems.’ He’d shrug and storm upstairs. ‘I don’t know where you get these ideas.’

He’d leave his soiled overalls on the bedroom floor, pour himself another beer, and the discussion would be over.

She knew they were just fantasies. Tommy had gotten the job the day he left school and he didn’t even imagine working elsewhere. She would be forever tied to that garage. She had grown up with the smell of oil, the talk of carburettors, and her life had continued in the same way.

The more Eli thought about it, the more silly she felt even thinking the woman could have been her. But still, her tummy flipped over and she felt herself perspire a little more, every time her face flashed in front of Eli’s mind. The problem was, the more she tried to focus on what did happen, Eli’s memory became a blur.

‘Oh sweet Jesus.’

The onions had charred at the bottom of the pan. She could have just sliced up some more and fried them up, but she still had the potatoes to finish, and it wouldn’t be long before they all arrived. They’d have to do. She plucked out the blackened pieces and tipped the rest on a plate to mix with the potatoes later. They’d be just fine.

Eli laid the table with a cloth and set up the cutlery, a couple of candlesticks, and a small vase of lilac petunias she had picked from the yard. Eli glanced around her little home and sighed. She had managed to decorate it nice enough with the small amount they had. She’d bought the material for the curtains from some store just off the highway that was closing down and hemmed them herself.

She had found some nice pictures from the odd yard sales she had been to over in Mallory (she daren’t go to any in town, in case she was mocked for picking up someone’s thrown-out goods), and she had even covered the couch in a matching taupe fabric, giving it a couple more years’ wear. Admittedly, if you sat on the left-hand side, where Tommy perched himself most evenings, it kinda swallowed you up. The foam had become squashed over time, even after Eli had stuffed it up with newspaper.

But this was their home and she had been, until now, proud of it. Until now. Now Eli stood back, she noticed every crack in the ceiling, every thread on the sofa, the tired pictures faded from the light. Like her, it had aged without notice.

Mississippi, their old cat, wandered in through the back door. He pressed himself against her legs, peered up towards her, his tabby tail high in the air. He let out a small croak. Tommy had come home one day long after they’d stopped trying and hoping for a baby, with the tiniest kitten tucked down the top of his overalls. He said he’d found it down by the creek, mewling away, all on his own. He couldn’t have weighed more than three ounces. Scrawny little thing he was. Eyes all crusted over and what fur he had on him was all matted.

But Eli rushed to the kitchen at the very sight of him, opened up a can of evaporated milk, and spent the whole night trying to get him to suckle drops from her little finger. She didn’t sleep a wink ’til he’d supped up the whole can. Tommy had come down in the morning and found the pair of them, curled up, fast asleep on the sofa. From that day on, the cat followed her just about everywhere, not venturing further than the yard.

Distracted, Eli shook some kibble into his bowl and listened to Tommy shift around in the bath. He’d no doubt be thinking his wife was going crazy, coming home all bandaged up, making proclamations out of nowhere. She realized he was most likely chewing over the fact she’d driven all the way over to the store to buy some goddamn dill pickles for her Pa, wasting money on gas, like it was bathwater. She didn’t dare tell him, she hadn’t come home with them after all.

Eli lifted the cotton of her dress up to her nose and winced at the smell of vinegar. She glanced at the clock. There’d be no time for a wash now. She’d have to change and just hope no one noticed. She stepped up the stairs, got to the landing, and stopped for a moment. The smell of soap wafted out through the crack under the door.

‘Y’OK honey?’ Tommy yelled.

Eli paused. ‘Sure … jus’ gotta change outta this dress.’

But instead she opened the spare-room door, tiptoed across the room, and sat on the single bed. With one ear turned towards the bathroom, Eli leaned down and removed the tatty rug half covering the floor. She tugged at a wooden board with her good hand, until it finally gave way. She spied her pile of old journals, tucked into the crevices, and pulled at the adjoining floorboard, until it too came loose. She removed an old yellowing cigar box and placed it on her lap. The taped lid flopped to the side, opened and closed too many times to mention.

With her finger and thumb, Eli teased out a small blue plastic wristband, hardened over the years, and held it up to the light. You could still make out her surname. Bell. She peered back inside and lifted out a small cream envelope. She flipped back its cover and tipped a lock of golden hair into her palm: wisps so fine they were barely visible. She pressed the lock to her lips. How many times had she done this over the years?

She closed her eyes and felt the silky hair against her skin, relishing the memory of the honey scent of her baby girl. Even now she recalled her damp body curled against her own. The clutch of her tiny wrinkled fingers wrapped around hers. The sweet smell, oh the sweet smell, like no other, on the top of her head, resting against Eli’s breast. And just then, as the grip of her baby’s fingers tightened to hers, the flip flip flip of the nurse’s shoes on the linoleum floor, followed by the snip snip snip of the scissors, a cold empty space left between Eli’s arms. The nurse took Eli’s baby into her arms, and all Eli heard was flip flip flip and then she was gone.

When Daisy had finally fallen pregnant, Eli had sneaked a peek at her baby names book and read through each and every one, pronouncing each vowel and consonant with care.

Abbey, Abigail, Addison, Adeline, Adrianna, Aileen, Aisha, Alana, Alena, Alexandra, Alice, Alisha, Alivia, Allison, Amanda … She had only got to the Bs when Daisy had reappeared, but every time she visited, she’d thumb through the book and recite each and every one, until Daisy had actually chosen the name and abandoned the book.

Eli had smuggled it into her purse one day, brought it home, placed it next to the box under the floorboards and when Tommy had gone to work, she would recite them all again. Eli would one day show her daughter the book. How well-thumbed it was. How when she got an instinct, a kick in her stomach, she’d mark down the page and underline it with a pencil, believing it was her talking to her.

Eli pulled out her journal and pen. Listening for Tommy in the bathroom, she crouched over the pad and wrote as fast as she could. How many years had she written these now? When she felt full to burstin’ with rage and desperation against the world she battled with, the world she was unable to burn down in front of her, she would pour her heart onto the page, knowing, believing, hoping, that one day she’d find her.

Eli heard water drain and the squeak and squeal of Tommy’s body haul itself up out of the tub. She jumped up off the bed, tipped the lock of hair back into the envelope, kissed it, and lodged it into the box. Eli leaned down and pushed it under one floorboard and tucked her journal under another. She pulled off her cornflower dress, folded it neatly and laid it on top. Eli settled the floorboards into place, replaced the rug, left the spare room and threw on another dress.

She had got to the bottom of the stairs, when the unmistakable roar of her brothers’ voices approached the front door. Without so much as a knock, her family tumbled in.