J.S. Lark - After You Fell

Louise tells me that they do, without words; it is just a knowledge that I seem to have always had. I look along the path as if I’ll see them. She wants me to see them.

The path wraps around one edge of the lake.

They’re not here.

On the other side of the park there’s a grass area where they might be. I can’t leave the park without looking.

I get up and walk around to look.

They’re not there.

On the way to the railway station, thoughts spin in my head. They distort and jump like a vintage LP. Louise could not have fallen accidentally. But why would she have chosen to die when she had children who love her?

Was it murder?

Are the police investigating her death?

I stand on the station platform, looking along the track for the train to appear, with one question in my mind, which escapes my lips. ‘Do I have your heart for a reason?’ I want her to answer. ‘Tell me.’

I won’t know unless she answers.

Was I chosen or found?

Pump-pump.

Pump-pump.

The same banging but no answers.

Why won’t she put the answer in my mind?

‘Did you leave a space for me to take?’ Is that it?

She has nothing to say about her death, so is she looking for me to step in and fill the gap she’s left in the children’s and her parents’ lives?

‘Are you decent?’ Simon’s call resonates through the bedroom door.

‘Yes.’

The door opens in a hesitant way that says he has come to be a father, not a brother.

I smile as I say, ‘Yes,’ again, in a tone that adds, go on, then, speak up. I move my leg so he can sit on the edge of the bed.

He holds out the stack of medicine packets. I left them on the kitchen work surface. I should’ve put them in the cupboard away from the boys.

‘Thanks.’ I take them and put them on the short chest of drawers beside the bed.

‘You okay?’ There’s an undercurrent in the enquiry.

‘Yes.’ Why?

‘You’ve been disappearing a lot lately.’

‘I went to Swindon to find out about another job. I told you.’

‘I know what you told me, after agreeing you weren’t ready to go back to work. But it’s not just that you are disappearing physically, you’re disappearing into yourself a lot. Even when you’re with the boys, you go silent at times when they’re talking to you. And why are you so determined to look for jobs in Swindon?’

‘Because I’m well enough to live alone and I can afford somewhere in Swindon if I find a job. I’ve had a heart transplant, Simon. I have a lot to think about. I can do things I haven’t been able to do for years. I’m thinking about what I want to do with my life.’

A smile touches the corners of his lips before a sigh leaves his throat, then he breathes in. ‘Let me know if I can help.’

‘I am the only one who can decide.’

His lips purse and he leans to one side to reach into his trouser pocket then pulls out a brown plastic bottle. ‘The tablets for your bipolar.’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve been counting the pills to see if I’m taking them? You weren’t there to count my tablets when I lived with Dan.’

‘I know.’

I snatch the bottle, rattling the pills. ‘I am taking them.’

‘Good.’

‘And I’m not taking one in front of you because I’ve already taken one.’

‘All right. I believe you. I care about you, that’s the only reason I interfere. The last thing you need is to be sectioned now.’

‘Thank you for reminding me about one of the worst times in my life. That’s the last thing I want to think about now.’

‘I know. But you are so physically healthy I want to make sure you are thinking about your mental health, too.’

‘I am. You don’t need to lecture me. I don’t want to be unwell.’ I think this lecture was spurred on by Mim. She’s been watching me with increased intensity.

My bipolar frightens Mim. She’s scared of it – of what the illness might do if it takes control of me. The obsessions, envy and anger.

A deep-pitched laugh ripples from his throat. ‘I know. Sorry. Sometimes I can’t help myself.’

There’s only one thing to do: stick out my tongue, in the childish gesture that was a favourite of mine when I was small and he was overbearing.

He mimics the gesture: a grown man sticking his tongue out in answer.

This is why we are special, because we still connect with one another as a brother and sister as though the years of pain growing up have not occurred. Perhaps because we had already grown up when we were still so young. Perhaps because he shares the same parents-shaped hole. The same journey of pain and isolation.

The moment takes me back through the years to the hours we spent in foster homes when we retired to the shared bedroom he insisted on, to the place where it was just us. The place where I was wholly understood and we clung to each other because there was never anyone else to rely on.

The bipolar medicine bottle is left on the bed as he stands.

I grasp his hand, holding it tight and saying nothing because we do not need to speak to say things.

His fingers squeeze mine, telling me the things I know about what he feels for me.

When his hand slips out of mine it is always a conscious decision on my part to let him go to Mim and the boys. I learned to let go of him a long time ago. But when I want him back, he always comes.

‘Goodnight.’ His baritone rings around the room.

‘Goodnight. I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

Chiming bells ring close to my ear. My hand reaches out on autopilot to find my phone on the chest of drawers. My brain is heavy and clogged with the dulling interference of prescription drugs. The sound rings out again. I look at the clock on the bedside chest by my phone. The vivid green numbers tick over to 9:14. Simon and Mim will have left with the children. It will be a message from Chloe.

I pick up the phone, squinting through tired eyes. It’s not a message. It’s a Facebook notification telling me that Robert Dowling has accepted my friend request.

Life rushes into my brain, as though a switch has turned my body on.

I want to post a thank you on his wall, for making friends.

But if I do that I’ll stand out and perhaps he hasn’t realised he doesn’t know me.

I am a similar age to Louise – he might have assumed I was a friend of hers.

It makes more sense to be cautious, stay quiet and remain an observer of his life – of Louise’s old life.

My legs bend under the duvet. My arm embraces my knees as his Facebook page opens on the small screen of my phone. Picture after picture slides past under my thumb. Most of them are of the children, lots more than those on his public posts. The other pictures are dated before Louise’s death, and posted privately by her.

I scroll back through time, just over a year, then stop on something unusual. The children are with a blond man. The girl’s bottom is balancing on his forearm, her fingers clinging to the back of his neck in a way that says she is used to the position. The man’s other hand is on the boy’s head and that too looks like a frequent gesture that is well known by the boy.

I can’t see the man’s face. He’s looking away from the camera at a door that must lead out of the room. Only the girl is looking at the camera, waving with her free hand.

The text above the image says, ‘ Louise Lovett, Alex has picked up the children and is on his way.’ The post is marked as just for friends, but it reads as a message that is just for Robert’s daughter .