I unscrunch the paper in my hand and skim the address again. Huntley Road. This is it. It looks different to what I thought it would look like. It looks…normal. Homey. Like a proper family home. I don’t know what I was expecting but this certainly isn’t it. Maybe a council flat in a large ugly building where the stairwell is open to the outside, and groups of kids hang out, eyeing up all those who don’t belong. Maybe I wasn’t expecting a house at all, maybe just a room in a relative’s house where a family of five are bundled into one room, each stepping over one another as they argue over who left the wet towel on the floor again.
But this isn’t it. It’s a real house, with a real garden, and a real person living inside.
It’s not big. And the paint around the windows is chipping, exposing a rusty hue of tangerine on the surface. The garden is overgrown and a turned over wheelbarrow sits in the corner, likely now used as a pew for Trina as she lights up another cigarette. But soft amber fills the windows, beyond the lace curtains. And smoke billows out the chimney, the dense cloud getting quickly swallowed up by the cold outdoor air. The TV flickers against the glass panel on the door, and soft sounds spill out from the house. The house is much smaller than mine, and tiny compared to my dad’s new house. But it looks comfortable. Not completely different to mine in many ways.
My feet ascend the four stone steps up to the panelled door, but my hands stick by my side. It’s taken me a little longer to come here than it should have, after what she did. My mum said she saved my life. That I could have bled out or suffered long-term damage if she’d left me. But even when she’d stood over me – as I lay there in the rain, screaming in agony – I’d never once considered that she’d leave me there, like that. Not even when she hurled insults at me, not even when she posted that photo of me at the Family Planning Clinic on Facebook. I never thought she’d leave me out there. Perhaps because deep down I know she’s a better person than I am. A better person than I will ever be.
My fist meets the door before I can rethink being there. No answer. I knock again. Still no answer. I can hear the TV on so I know someone is in there. Maybe she knows it’s me and doesn’t want to answer. I don’t blame her. I probably wouldn’t answer the door either. I’d probably leave me standing here on the doorstep in the cold.
As I turn to leave, a click from behind turns me. Trina stands in the doorway, in an oversized grey jumper and pink leggings. Her hair is tied back, scraped back off her face, and she wears no make-up. Her usually black-rimmed eyes are fresh and wide, and her unmarked lips are naturally rosy and matte. She looks…pretty. For once.
A half smile fills her youthful face and she moves away from the door. I think she’s inviting me in, so I shift forward and wait for her to correct me, to shut the door in my face. But she doesn’t. She moves further inside and opens the door wider for me.
Inside, her house smells of cinnamon and apples. Candles line the bookshelves, which are surprisingly filled with actual books. I couldn’t picture Trina huddled up on the sofa with a book in her hands, but unless these are her parents’, she must enjoy reading. There are far too many on the shelves to be the result of an accidental collection.
‘Are your mum and dad home?’
She shakes her head, and glances towards the living room. ‘Do you want to sit down?’
I don’t want to get too comfortable here, in her house, with her. But my body still aches from the last week, and I’m still so exhausted that I worry if I stand any longer, I might fall backwards. My fingers fumble to unfasten the toggles on my beige peacoat, struggling with the last button. When I eventually get loose, and slip my arms out, I don’t know what to do with the coat. Trina doesn’t move to take it from me; she probably doesn’t have a coat rack like we do. So I fold it over my arm and follow her into the living room.
School photos and family memories sit upright in thin silver frames on the mantel that surrounds a small fireplace. A large worn-through recliner is positioned in the back corner, slightly too left to be symmetrical with the wall. Trina collapses down onto the shaggy blue rug in the centre of the room and crosses her legs. She leans back onto her hands and stares up at me, waiting. I drop my coat onto the armchair, and fold down into the same position on the floor, mirroring her.
She loops a strand of her hair around her index finger and twirls it. I realise I know nothing about her, and suddenly have no idea what to say. Outside, cars pass beside the house, their engines a welcome distraction. Birds chirp on the trees then fade out, probably getting ready to fly south with the cold weather beginning to set in. A group of kids laugh and scream as they drift past the windows. I wonder if she knows any of them.
‘Do you have any siblings or anything?’ I eventually ask, finally breaking the silence in the air.
‘Nope,’ is all she says. This is going to be harder than I thought. Like the house, I don’t know what I was expecting. Did I really think she’d open the door and scoop me up into a big embrace? Did I think it would be like the last few months didn’t happen and that we could just start fresh and be friends? The damage here was beyond repair, the cracks in this ‘relationship’, or whatever this is so deep down to the core, where not a piece can be salvaged or conserved for a later time.
‘So…it’s just you?’
She shrugs. ‘It’s just Mum and me now.’
‘Oh…no Dad?’
She shakes her head.
‘So, your dad left you too?’
She nods. ‘I don’t know where he is.’
‘I know where my dad is. But I don’t see him as much now. He has a new family now.’
‘Oh. That sucks.’
‘Yeah.’
She fiddles with a loose thread on her socks. ‘I guess we don’t really know anything about each other.’ She clears her throat, then sets her gaze down on the floor by her feet. ‘Listen, um, what I said in the woods and then again at the hospital…please don’t—’
‘I won’t say anything to anyone, I promise.’ And I mean it this time.
She nods slowly as if she’s trying to decide whether to trust me or not. I don’t blame her. Sometimes I don’t even trust myself.
‘I’m sorry about posting that photo of you outside the clinic. That was a horrible thing to do.’
Heat builds inside my belly as I remember how I felt seeing that photo, seeing the reaction of my friends, of those around me who didn’t know me. A familiar sensation of anger trickles its way back into my blood. ‘Yeah, that was really nasty—’
‘OK, but what you said about me from the party was pretty nasty too. Especially when you didn’t know the whole truth.’
‘I was going off your reputation—’
‘What reputation?’
‘Seriously? “What reputation?” Are you joking? You’re not exactly known for your prudish behaviour at school.’
‘You’re calling me a slut?’
‘No…but you have dated quite a few boys at school.’
‘Unbelievable! If you’re going to come here to insult me, you can leave!’
‘Gladly!’ I stand up and yank my coat off her bed.
‘I should have known you weren’t here to apologise! You’re so self-absorbed!’
‘Why should I apologise? You’re just as guilty as I am!’
‘I am nothing like you,’ she says, standing up to face me. ‘You’re a bully, Lucy McNeil. And now you’ve tasted what it’s like to be on the other end, you don’t like it! People like you are just cowards deep down.’
‘I’m a coward?’ I laugh, heading down the hallway towards the front door. The smell of apples and cinnamon choke me. ‘You’re the one who’s too scared to tell anyone about what happened at the party.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’ I spin round. ‘Rather than moping about it, do something. If you’re claiming that it wasn’t consensual, that you said no, then go to the police.’
‘I can’t go to the police,’ she mutters, her voice suddenly nothing but a whisper.
‘Why not? Scared?’
Her face hardens, and the soft youthful expression fades quickly from her face. Her jawline tenses. ‘Get out.’ She leans in, and opens the door from behind me, the door handle hitting me in the back. A cold breeze rushes in and strikes the back of my coat.
When I step outside, night fighting with the last light of the day, she slams the door behind me. I resist looking back until I get to the front gate. She stands at the window, her frame illuminated from the TV glow. I wait for a moment too long, staring back at her. Then I button up my coat to my chin to battle the cold, and march down her street to the bus stop. As I get closer to the shelter, one glass panel smashed, the shards sitting on the pavement, I suddenly realise that I didn’t say any of the things I had intended to say to Trina. None of the words I wanted to say were spoken. Not once did I say, ‘Thank you’ or ‘I’m sorry.’
I didn’t even try.