What Alice Forgot - Liane Moriarty [36]
Sure, he’d been drinking a lot of beer, but he said that in a pub, when he was trying to be blokey. He loved her more than oxygen.
So, what—the boy didn’t need oxygen anymore?
Elisabeth put the back of her hand to Alice’s forehead and stroked her hair. “He didn’t meet anyone else as far as I know, and you’re right, you were happy together and you did have a wonderful, special relationship. I remember it. But things change. People change. It just happens. It’s just life. The fact that you’re getting a divorce doesn’t change the fact that you had all those wonderful times. And I swear to you that once you get your memory back, you’ll be fine with this.”
“No.” Alice shut her eyes. “No, I won’t. I don’t want to be fine with it.”
As Elisabeth continued to stroke her forehead, Alice remembered the day from her childhood when she’d been dropped home after a birthday party still fizzing from winning the Simon Says competition. She was carrying a balloon and a basket made of shiny cardboard and filled with lollies. Elisabeth had met her at the front door and ordered, “Come with me.”
Alice trotted along behind her, ready for whatever new game Elisabeth must have organized, and ready to share the lollies, but not the Freddo Frogs—she loved Freddo Frogs—and as they walked past the living room, her balloon bobbing along behind her, she noticed that it seemed to be full of strange grown-ups surrounding her mum, who was sitting on the couch with her head resting back on the couch at a strange angle (odd, but maybe she had a headache). Alice didn’t call out to her because she didn’t want to have to talk to all the strange grown-ups, and she followed Elisabeth down the hallway to her bedroom, where Elisabeth said, “I have to tell you something that is going to make you feel very bad, so I think you should get in your pajamas and get into bed and be ready for it so it won’t hurt so much.”
Alice didn’t say, “What? What is it? Tell me now!” because she was six and nothing bad had ever happened to her, and besides which she always did what Elisabeth said. So she was perfectly happy to put on her pajamas while Elisabeth went to fill up a hot water bottle and put it in a pillowslip so it wouldn’t burn. She also brought along a spoonful of honey, the Vicks VapoRub, and half an aspirin and a glass of water. These were all things their mother did when they were sick, and Alice loved being sick. Once Elisabeth had her tucked in bed and had rubbed the Vicks on her chest, she started stroking back the hair off Alice’s forehead, just like their mum did when either of them had an especially bad stomachache, and Alice had closed her eyes and enjoyed all the good parts of being sick, without the actual sick feeling. Then Elisabeth said, “Now I have to tell you the bad thing. It’s going to give you a bad, surprised feeling, so be ready for it, okay? You can suck your thumb if you want.” Alice had opened her eyes and frowned, because she did not suck her thumb anymore, except for when she’d had an extremely bad day, and even then it was just the very tip, hardly the whole thumb. Then Elisabeth said, “Daddy has died.”
Alice could never remember what happened next, or even how she felt on hearing the words. All she remembered was how Elisabeth had tried so hard to protect her from the “bad, surprised feeling.” She was twenty-four before it occurred to her with a jolt of surprise that Elisabeth had been only a little girl herself that day. She’d phoned her to talk about it, to thank her, and the funny thing was that Elisabeth had an entirely different set of memories about when their dad died and didn’t even remember putting Alice to bed.
Of course, there was also the time Elisabeth had thrown a pair of nail scissors at her, which got impaled in the back of her neck. But still . . .
Now Alice opened her eyes and said to Elisabeth, “You’re such a good big sister.”
Elisabeth took her