Things I Want My Daughters to Know_ A Novel - Elizabeth Noble [13]
I love you, baby girl.
Mum
When she’d finished reading, Hannah put the letter under her pillow. Something was making her feel panic—she suddenly couldn’t take a really deep breath, and her lungs felt tight. Tears ran down her face, dripping onto her arms, crossed firmly across her chest.
Amanda
Amanda awoke to the sound of her sister’s crying. She felt empty. Last night, she’d lain in bed and cried until her head throbbed. The red numbers on the alarm clock projected the time onto the ceiling. 2:30 A.M. 2:45 A.M. 3:00 A.M. She’d staggered to the bathroom, found Tylenol, and swallowed a couple with water from the tap. She’d sat on the stairs, her sore head against the wall, until her nose unblocked, and her breathing had steadied. She didn’t want to be by herself. Which was strange and new and a bit scary. She was very good at being by herself. She hesitated outside Hannah’s door and then opened it, very quietly. When Hannah didn’t stir, she’d found herself climbing into bed beside her, holding herself tense and rigid under the duvet for a minute or two, until she was sure she hadn’t woken her. There were no numbers on the ceiling in here, and after a while—she wasn’t sure how long—the pills took hold, and Hannah’s steady, gentle breathing calmed her, and she fell asleep.
Now Hannah was crying. There was no need to ask her why, and there was nothing that she could say that would help. She pulled her sister down into her arms and stroked her hair, feeling her vest get wet with tears and snot, and just held her.
All this pain. All this crying. It wasn’t that she hadn’t expected it. She had just underestimated it. It felt like a heavy, dark blanket that had been pulled across all of them. She hadn’t known that it would make it difficult to breathe. She hadn’t guessed that it would seem so enveloping, and so total, and so permanent.
Jennifer
Which was how Jennifer felt, sitting on the train a few hours later. She felt like she’d escaped. They’d all had breakfast together. Andy had been there, suddenly. No one really had the energy to ask why or how. He’d been sitting on the sofa when she came down, with Lisa’s head on his lap. Someone had left muffins and croissants yesterday, and Mark had made cafetieres of coffee. All week they’d had the funeral to talk about. Now there was nothing left to say. Last night she had wanted to stay. This morning she just wanted to go. There’d been a bit of a scene—Lisa wanted to drive her. Andy had come in his own car, so they had two—she could use the company, she’d said. Jennifer had wanted anything but. Everyone else seemed to think that sharing helped. She didn’t.
It was probably a weird place to read a letter like this, but Jennifer felt safer in this environment. More in control. She couldn’t exactly burst into tears on a crowded train, could she? You just didn’t do that sort of thing. Anyone in the carriage watching her might have imagined her to be reading a business letter, or a chatty note from an old friend. She arranged her features into a pleasant innocuous expression and read.
Darling Jennifer,
You girls only knew me for a part of my life. Children don’t ever seem to realize that. I had a life before you, you know. Hell—you never even met me before I had a stretch mark. The big problem with motherhood of girls, it seems to me, is that we’re both women. And I know stuff—I’ve learned things—been through some of the same things that I watch my girls go through. The trick is helping without interfering. Guiding without pushing. I don’t know if I’ve always been very good at that. Sometimes I’ve pushed too much, and sometimes stood back too far. And lately I think I’ve gotten it wrong with you. I’ve watched you, these last couple of years, get more and more unhappy, sweetheart. You’re brittle and fragile and hard to reach. And we haven’t been as close as I would have liked because of it. And I’m sorry for that. And if you’re reading this, it’s too late. But know, please, my lovely, complicated little girl, that I loved you, and I always will. You might be interested