Thea

Chapter 2

2

It’s finally over.

After almost five years of hell, that prick has broken Ivy’s heart. The last thing I want is to see my little girl in so much pain, but I can’t help but feel relieved. Callum was a worthless parasite; she’s better off without him. What the hell did he ever do for her? Apart from get a fifteen-year-old pregnant. And get her hooked on every substance under the sun. He was never there for her. I was the one who took her to rehab. I was the one who was by her side when she had the abortion. Me. And where was Callum? Getting f****d up in some grotty flat, not even knowing what day it was.

Good riddance!

Ivy’s hurting now. Of course she is—she’s eighteen. But she’ll get over him. It may take some time, but Thea and I will help her through it. That’s what families are for.

She’s been in her bedroom for three days now, and she’s barely had a thing to eat. She says she’s been clean for six months. I want to trust her, I really do, but it’s hard. I’ve been let down so many times in the past. All I can do is keep an eye on her. And now that my baby’s home, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

I leave the bathroom and see Thea standing outside her sister’s bedroom.

“Ivy,” she calls out, gently tapping on the door, “can I come in?”

“Go away!” I hear Ivy shout from inside.

“Do you want to watch Ghostbusters with me?” Thea asks. “It’s your favourite.” She’s persistent; I’ll give her that. But she’s only ten years old. She’s too young to understand what it’s like to have your heart broken.

She will though.

“Leave me alone!” Ivy screams as something thuds against the door. Thea moves away in fright—I can’t tell if it was a fist or a shoe—but either way, that girl is not ready to come out.

I walk over to Thea, her eyes filling up with tears, and then take her by the hand. “Come on, sweetheart,” I say to her gently, “just give her a few more days. She’s still hurting.”

“She’s been in there for so long though,” Thea says, wiping her eyes. “Can’t you talk to her?”

I steer her away from the door and down the stairs. “I’ve tried talking,” I reply. “She just needs a little space.”

“But I really miss her. It’s not fair.”

“I know,” I say as we walk into the living room, “but we have to be patient. I’ll watch Ghostbusters with you instead. How does that sound?”

Thea sniffs, wiping her eyes again. “Okay, Mum.”

“And how about I make us a nice hot chocolate?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.

Smiling, she sits on the couch. “With marshmallows?”

“Okay, honey. I’ll see if there’s any left in the cupboard.”

“Thanks, Mum.”

Thea is beside me on the couch, curled up like a sleeping kitten. She only lasted about a half hour into the film before dozing off. Once she devoured her hot chocolate that was it. I love it when she falls asleep on the couch, or in the car. I can’t exactly carry her to bed anymore, but the sight of it still warms my heart.

I could murder a glass of wine. Or a bottle. Hot chocolate is nice, but it’s Saturday night. And it’s been a tough few days with Ivy, so a glass of red would have gone down a treat. But I could never risk drinking in front of her. I couldn’t bear to see another relapse. My angel’s fought so hard for so long; it’s the last thing she needs to see.

I turn to Thea and give her shoulder a gentle tap. “Wake up, sweetheart,” I whisper. “Time for bed.”

She starts to stir, her eyes half-opening. “What time is it?” she asks, drowsily.

I get up off the couch. “It’s late. Way past your bedtime.”

Rubbing her eyes, she yawns and then holds out both her hands. I grab them and pull her up.

Like a sleepwalker, she follows me out of the living room and up the stairs.

“Are we still going swimming tomorrow?” Thea asks as we pass Ivy’s bedroom.

“Yes.”

“Do you think Ivy will come with us?”

I glance at Ivy’s closed door. “I doubt it. Maybe next week—when she’s feeling better.”

Thea tuts as we walk into her bedroom. Climbing under her pink quilt, Thea smiles at me and closes her eyes the moment her head hits the pillow. “Goodnight, Mum,” she slurs. “See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” I kiss her on the forehead and then softly stroke her soft blonde hair. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

No matter how many times I hear those words, they still have the same wonderful effect on me. Nothing like the meaningless ‘I love yous’ that Mark used to mumble whenever he came home drunk—and guilty.

I blow her a kiss and then switch off the light. Leaving the door slightly ajar, I make my way towards the stairs. I stop outside Ivy’s door. Should I see if she’s ready to talk yet? Or maybe eat something?

Best not. She’ll only accuse me of being smug and loving every moment of this. I’ll leave it until tomorrow.

No—I’m her mother. I shouldn’t have to wait. My little girl’s in pain, and she needs a shoulder to cry on. Even if she hates me right now, even if she calls me all the names under the sun, I’ll still be there for her. It’s my job.

“Ivy?” I whisper, tapping on the door. “Can I come in?”

There’s no answer.

I check my watch: 10:07 P.M.

Shit, what if she’s sleeping? The last thing I want to do is wake her. The poor girl probably hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in days.

Putting my ear to the door, I listen out for movement. All I can hear is the faint sound of the TV.

She’s awake. I’ll check on her. I slowly start to push the door open, bracing myself for a huge shriek, telling me to piss off.

But it doesn’t come.

Only the glow of the TV screen lights the room. Ivy is lying on top of the quilt on her side, facing the window. I can’t see her face; I can’t tell if she’s sleeping or crying. Let her be sleeping. She needs it.

“Ivy,” I whisper. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” She doesn’t answer. She’s sleeping, thank God.

The TV remote is on the bed next to her. Just as I lean over to scoop it up, I see something on the bed. A dark patch; it surrounds her entire body. What the hell is that? Did she spill something? Wine? Don’t tell me she’s back off the wagon. She promised me.

I move closer, kneeling on the bed, and see that it’s not red wine.

It’s blood.

I frantically switch the light on and race over to her bedside. Heart pounding, unable to catch my breath, I shake her by the shoulders. This isn’t real. I see the razor blade fall onto the carpet from her dangling arm.

“Ivy!” I sob, staring in dismay at her beautiful face now drained of colour. “Wake up!”

She doesn’t respond.

I pick up a shirt from the radiator and quickly wrap it around her sliced wrist.

Thumb to her neck, I feel for a pulse.

There isn’t one.

“Wake up, Ivy!” I scream as I part her eyelids. “It’s Mummy. Please!”

Still nothing.

This isn’t happening. Please God, let it be a dream.

Let me wake up.

Climbing onto the bed, I start using CPR on her, the technique somehow coming back to me after all these years.

Open your eyes, sweetheart. Open your eyes.

Breathe!

I start to lose count of how many breaths and chest compressions I’ve given her.

But nothing has changed. No sound, no movement.

Just stillness.

My throat is closing. My lungs, chest—they’re tightening.

I need to get her to the hospital. She needs a doctor.

I race out of the room, my shoulder thudding against the doorframe, and dash into my bedroom. I grab the house phone and call for an ambulance.

But I know my little girl has gone, even before I give the woman my details.

I float across the landing back into Ivy’s room, my stomach and heart twisted and torn beyond recognition. None of this feels real.

Because it’s not real! It can’t be!

I stare down at her for a moment as she sleeps soundly. Her body starts to shrink to Thea’s age. No, younger. Much younger. She’s five years old and she’s passed out on the bed, up late again watching a movie with me in bed. A bowl of popcorn resting on the quilt, a cup of hot chocolate on the bedside cabinet. Why can’t these moments last a lifetime? Why does everything have to end? As Ivy’s body returns to the present, I pray for time to roll back just a few hours. No—further back. Much further. But time has stopped. The space around me is fading fast. An empty void of nothingness.

I climb onto the bed next to her. The quilt is soaked through, but the dampness barely registers. It is wine. It’s not my baby’s blood. It’s not possible. Draping my arm over her still body, I close my eyes and wait for this nightmare to cease.

I love you, Ivy.

I’m sorry…