Etched on Me Read online

  “Yeah,” I choked out. “Mum knows.”

  The three of them exchanged solemn glances.

  “Have you any friends or relatives you could stay with?” Francesca asked.

  I shook my head. My family was pretty much the thermonuclear sort (no siblings whose safety we needed to worry about, thank God), and my friends and I had grown apart once they heard I was headed off to a snobby school and leaving them behind.

  “Well, then, can you think of anything specific you might need?”

  Someone to stroke my hair, and tell me the worst was over, and bring me supper on a tray like I was a sick little girl.

  “Umm, let me think,” I said, my words edging perilously close to babble. “I have this library book I left back there called A Pictorial History of Women in Rock that needs to be returned. And I’ll need a new mobile number, and a September tube pass, and a school uniform.” I paused. “Assum-assuming I can still go?”

  “Absolutely, you can,” Francesca said. “I’ll have a chat with the headmistress and sort it all out.”

  “What about tonight?”

  Soon as I asked, Francesca went rambly-mumbly apologetic. “Well, you see, we’ve not got any available foster carers at the moment, so we’re going to have to put you up in a hostel.”

  I pictured cheery bunk beds and common areas with Internet kiosks. “You mean, like for foreign backpackers?”

  “Erm, not exactly. It’s a hostel for adults who are . . .” Long pause. “In transition.”

  • • •

  Middle-aged men lounged against corridor walls, their stained fingers clutching cigarettes, their eyes skimming the neckline of my sleeveless summer blouse. A few rooms down, a bleached-blond woman in a miniskirt kicked at a closed door, screeching “Let me in, you wanker!”

  Francesca linked her arm through mine in sisterly rally, all Come, let’s march bravely through hell, but when one of the lechers opened his gap-toothed mouth to blow a hard puff of nicotine and leer “Hey, pretty,” I burrowed into her in terror.

  “Your room’s right here,” Francesca said lightly, pulling away from me to retrieve the key from her trouser pocket.

  “It has a lock.” My words were a huffed gasp.

  Francesca glanced at me with a bemused look. “Of course it does.”

  When she handed me the key, it was all I could do not to kiss the damn thing, to run my tongue along its serrated, rusty edges in worshipful relief before turning it. My room, my room, with a lock, and a—

  Dingy linoleum floor, and threadbare blanket, and peeling wallpaper, and exposed bulb.

  “Oh, dear.” Francesca surveyed the room and sucked her lips between her teeth. “We’ll have to speak with the maintenance staff.”

  My shoulders slumped a little. I ran my hand over the nearby desk-slash-dresser. Yanked my fingers away to find them covered in dust.

  At the gritty feel of it, I immediately pictured my old room, with its fluffy turquoise duvet and Bjőrk posters and stacks of plump pillows and strands of twinkly lights trailing round the windows. For a moment, I wanted to sneak back and burrow into all that soft goodness, but then I remembered there was nothing good or soft about a lockless sanctuary.

  You have no right to be a diva, I told myself. Francesca pulled this together for you last minute, when she could have been out saving little kids. Show some flipping gratitude.

  “It’s totally fine,” I said. “I’ll manage.”

  • • •

  Francesca promised to return the next day and left me with instructions—kitchen and laundry facilities on the ground floor, spare towels in a cupboard by the bathroom—and some cash for food in an envelope. After she’d gone, I sat on the creaky single bed, my knees drawn up to my chin, my forehead on my knees. In the next room, I could hear the muffled groans and wails of a couple either fighting or having sex, I couldn’t quite tell which.

  Frantic for a way to block the noise, I reached down into my rucksack for my beat-up portable CD player. He’d offered to buy me an iPod for my “sweet” (ha) sixteen the previous April, but I’d told him the only thing I wanted was for him to keep his fucking hands off me. That earned me both his palms around my neck the next time we were in the hall closet, but it was worth the choke hold just to spit those words like bitter seeds.

  I put in my cheap earbuds now and pressed play. The CD I had going was a mix I’d made called “Best of the Screaming Women,” mainly to annoy the shit out of my mum, but also because I reckoned that if I couldn’t scream, the next best thing was to let some other woman with a strong voice do it on my behalf.

  First up was some stuff from that ancient Kate Bush album with her about to kiss Houdini on the cover. The song about letting the weirdness in I could deal with—not like I couldn’t relate to that idea, right?—but when the track came on where she howls and stutters about locking all the doors in her house to keep an evil spirit out, I felt like I was going to vomit all over again, so I punched the forward arrow quick till I got to some Portishead.

  There we were. Dark but chillaxed old-school trip-hop, like what I imagined I might hear once I’d moved out the hostel and was finally dining at a hip bistro with candles in wine bottles, waiting for my salad and balsamic-glazed salmon to materialize on a plate delivered by a tattooed waitress. (Nobody loves meeeee, it’s true, not like youuuuu do.) I drew my knees back up to my chin, and rested my forehead back on my knees, and rocked to and fro until I felt nothing except the soothing sway of the motion.

  By the time I came down from the ceiling again, my earbuds were as silent as the hall outside. I got up and opened the door to check. Empty. Finally safe enough for a sneak towards the shower.

  As I pulled my pajamas and toothbrush from my rucksack, my mobile skittered out across the floor. When I powered it on, I found fifteen voicemails, each one from him. I didn’t even listen. Just turned the phone off again, draped my fresh T-shirt over one arm, slipped my sandals back on, and sprinted for the linen cupboard.

  Its towels were scratchy and thin as my new blanket, but thankfully clean—unlike the bathroom’s sinks and toilets, in which cigarette ashes floated. You’re just getting a head start on university, I told myself, fighting to convince myself both that I would eventually go and that every coed residence hall of course stank of burnt curry and urine. On my way to the shower, I chucked my now-permanently-silenced mobile into a bin.

  Behind the stall’s scummy vinyl curtain, the water ran blissfully, blessedly hot. I stepped under the surprisingly vigorous spray and warily eyed the plastic soap dispenser (exact same model as in the psych wards I’d stay on later). When I pressed a button, the machine spurted a multipurpose pink goo that smelled of flowers soaked in antiseptic.

  I tipped my head back, luxuriating in the steam and the sting. I knew I risked complaints from my fellow hostel-mates, but I didn’t care; I was going to run that hot water all the way down even if it caused a riot.

  When I reached for another gel pump with which to tackle the grimy soles of my feet, I felt a sudden twinge in my belly, far too low to be a harbinger of more nausea. I glanced down, glimpsed a smudge of blood on the bruised inside of my thigh. My shoulders dropped—not sinking at the feel of dust, this time, but sloping in relief. As a clot hit the rusted drain with a smeary dissolve, I pressed one slick hand to the wall to steady myself. Shook my head like a dog under the droplets, all curved-back grin and hysterical laughter, my whole body quaking with prayers to every off-kilter deity I could name: Thank God, thank the Screaming Women, thank the bare lightbulb above my new bed, thank the bistro candles flickering in their ersatz vases, I wasn’t, thank them all, wasn’t pregnant.

  3

  True to her word, Francesca came back the next morning. I was ridiculously glad to see her—at least until she told me about the doctor’s appointment the police wanted to schedule in order to “gather physical evidence.”

  Even that mannered phrase made my guts churn.

  “Will they make me g
o?” I whispered.

  Francesca shook her head. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Lesley. Not anymore.”

  My mouth almost fell open in amazement. I curled onto my side on the bed, pressing my cheek to its pitiful, lumpy excuse for a pillow, hugging myself. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “But it would help my case if I went.”

  She nodded. “I’ll make certain you’ve a female doctor. And stay with you. If you’d like.”

  Yes, yes, yes, please.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Pelvic exams aren’t fun even on a good day, but having my very first one under such crappy circumstances meant I was already shaking and blinking back tears before the gyno even got her gloves on.

  “You can tell her to stop at any time,” Francesca said softly into my ear, from where she sat perched on a stool next to me.

  I felt the doctor grasp the inside of my knee, gently but firmly.

  “Go slowly,” Francesca said to her. “Please.”

  I looked over at Francesca. “Can—can I hold your hand?”

  It seemed like a weird thing to ask, seeing as how we barely knew each other, but I’d seen enough of her to know that her soft fingers wrapped round mine would help.

  “Of course you can.” She leaned against the padded table. Clasped my hand in that same rallying fashion in which she’d taken my arm the night before. Her grip delicate yet solid.

  When the metal slid into me, my shoulders tensed and my neck clenched and my head lifted off the crackly exam-room paper. Strangled whimpers leaked from my lips no matter how hard I tried to bite them closed.

  “Take a deep breath,” the doctor said.

  “Or take a break,” Francesca said, glancing at her.

  “No,” I gasped, sinking back down onto the pillow. “Let’s get it over with. I’m good.”

  For the rest of the exam, I longed to ditch that clinic in favor of the ceiling, but I also wanted to stay with Francesca, who was being so sweet, cheerleading about how well I was coping, reminding me over and over that I was the one in control.

  “Do you have any idea how brave you are?” she murmured, as a particularly bad poke made my womb cramp. “I’d have called it quits back in the reception area.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah?”

  “Mmm-hmm. But you, you’re a tough one.”

  Rockstar. Don’t fucking cry.

  She saw the moistness in my eyes, I knew, because she gave my hand a good long squeeze. And then I did retreat up to the ceiling for a while, ’cause it was just too hard to let her see me like that. But when it was over, as I was slowly sitting back up to the feel of all that cold jelly-glop between my thighs and the light, steady guidance of her hand on my back, I glanced over at her and said hoarsely, “Thank you.”

  Her face went pink with pleasure, as if she weren’t used to hearing those words from a client. “You’re so very welcome,” she said.

  • • •

  Even harder than that exam, though, was the reunion with my mum. We’d got a court order saying that my dad couldn’t have contact with me at all, but she wanted to see me, and part of me wanted to see her. I say “part of me” because, honestly, given the way it’d all gone down so far, I knew my chances of having a real hugs-and-happiness reunion were zero. Hell, even a simple heartfelt “Oh, Lesley, I’m sorry I didn’t take this seriously before” was in the realm of minor miracle. So I had to be realistic, and not let my strength get sapped by sick-little-girl-supper-tray hopes. But the hopeful little girls inside you die hard, and so Francesca arranged a meeting in the same conference room where I’d given the police interview.

  We made an awkward triangle, me and Francesca on one side of the table, Mum on the opposite. All we could do was cagily eye each other.

  Mum looked so pretty. Wan, but put-together. Wearing a little flower pin I’d made for her in art class ages ago, and a cardigan with pearly buttons. The room was so cold—that business-office air-conditioning, always cranked too high—and I could see her hands quivering from nerves and chill. I wanted to hold them so badly. I wanted to rest my cheek against the cardie’s wisteria-hued cotton and stroke the nostalgic chipped glaze of the pin, and close my eyes just in time to feel the precise plant of her kiss atop my head. Oh, Lesley-lovely, she would say, like I was three again. I was so daft not to believe you. And now look at you, my brave bold girl. You must be knackered. Rest now, the car’s running, we’ll go back to Margate on holiday, just us. Leave him with nothing but divorce papers. Run along the seaside with the gulls, till we’re strong and tan! Sleep in till noon and have ice cream for lunch. How’s that sound, sweetness?

  Like the best plan ever. I leaned towards her, all my hope-caveats evaporating.

  Soon as I did that, she began to cry. Ugly, sloppy tears, her face twisted with pain whose source I couldn’t place. Her gaze on me both liquid and hard.

  “Mummy?” I said softly.

  Snuffly gasps. “You know, I can understand why . . .”

  She understands! I smiled at her, gently, as if to say, I understand, too. I know it’s been hard.

  “Why . . .” More sucked-in sniffles.

  Francesca slid a box of tissues across to her. “Here, Aurelia. Take your time.”

  Mum straightened up. Slid her chair back, away from me. When she spoke now, her voice was crisp.

  “I can understand why you mightn’t want to live at home, but leaving like that, without even a note, on our anniversary?”

  There’d been eighteen roses, one for each year. Mum had buried her nose in them, giddy. “You’ve outdone yourself, Liam!”

  When she said that, he made a big shameless show. Full-on kissed her in front of me, just minutes after he’d coiled his tongue around mine. And I stood there, regulation celebratory card in hand, knowing we all knew, knowing beyond a doubt that, bad timing or not, it was time.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I said now.

  “Then why are you pressing charges?” Furious eye-dab. “Please, Lesley. Don’t do this to us.”

  To us? I wanted to lunge across the table and spit in her face. I could feel the saliva writhing in my mouth, all indignant slosh.

  I looked over at poor Francesca, who was stuck playing neutral. She gave me a soft bon courage glance back.

  I could tell Mum noticed, because she sighed and crossed her arms. “We work ourselves to death, your dad and I. Do you have any idea what this will do to us if—”

  “What? He gets held responsible for what he did?”

  Mum turned her head away, towards a poster that read You CAN Break the Cycle of Violence.

  Did I? I wondered. Can I?

  “Mum,” I said, “I’m still going to that school. I’ll make you proud.”

  Her head whipped back. “After all this shame?”

  “Mrs. Holloway,” Francesca said delicately, “many, many women struggle to come to grips with incest in the family. And I don’t mean to make light of your difficulties. But right now, your daughter is in great need of—” She glanced over at me again. “Well, why don’t you tell us just what it is you need, Lesley?”

  My Bjőrk posters and my fluffy duvet and supper on a tray and Mummy and Me storytime.

  Mum stared down into her lap. Picked at her lavender nail polish, as if it were a scab to be flaked off.

  Two could play that game. I sat up. Crossed my arms. Looked away towards the Cycle of Violence. Blink-blink-blinked, so barely I knew only Francesca would see.

  “I need for this to be over,” I said.

  • • •

  Back in Francesca’s car, I wanted nothing more than to cry while she held me, but instead I ranted and raged, imitating Mum. “ ‘How could you do this to us? Why must we bear this shaaame?’ ” And then, pounding my fist on the passenger-side door frame: “Fuck that fuck that fucking fuck that.”

  Once the adrenaline wore off, I brought my hand down and glanced sheepishly at Francesc
a. “Sorry,” I said.

  “It’s all right,” Francesca said.

  No, it isn’t.

  “You think she’ll ever come around?” I asked.

  Long pause. “I don’t know.”

  “She can’t even be proud of me,” I whispered.

  Francesca reached across the gearshift and put her hand over mine.

  “Maybe not,” she said, “but I certainly can.”

  I swallowed. “Thanks.”

  She gave my hand a little pat. “What do you say to some post-debrief ice cream?”

  Yes, yes, yes, please.

  We sat and ate it on “my” bench on Islington Green. She slid her tiny manicured feet out of her adorable ballet flats. Rolled up the sleeves of her fitted blouse whose silvery-gray print looked like tears turned to blossoms. “Bit better, at least?” she asked.

  I nodded. Licked the cone so hard my teeth hurt. Willed myself not to lean my head on her shoulder.

  • • •

  The rest of that summer was a seedy, anxious blur. I took a job at a fish-and-chips shop, evenings and weekends, to supplement my meager allowance from social services. At night, I’d trudge greasily home, not to the foster family Francesca had hoped to procure for me but back to my shabby now-permanent hostel room, where I’d devour my employee ration of newsprint-wrapped cod while longing for one of Mum’s sit-down Sunday dinners.

  My time at Hawthorn Hill, the posh school, was a blur at first, too. Mainly because I was so bloody tired from all that work: proving I’d deserved my scholarship, frying fish, avoiding middle-aged men in the hostel corridor, taking a middle-aged man to court. So much for jauntily gliding down steps (I took them two at a time to catch the bus to the tube to the hostel) or making new friends (I could barely stay awake, much less endear myself to girls whose biggest problem was deciding whether to go to Mallorca or Ibiza for winter holiday). But I kept soldiering on, all sleepwalky day long, because come the afternoon, best saved for last, there it was, the hour that made it all worthwhile: literature class with Mrs. Kremsky.

  A lot of the other girls didn’t care for Miss, but I thought she was brilliant. For one thing, she looked like a slightly more schoolteachery version of PJ Harvey, her dark hair rustling round her shoulders, her pale, starkly striking face framed by silvery earrings whose angular shapes made them look like mini-sculptures.