After Dr. Varghese leaves me a nurse comes by with a sedative that sends me into a long, dreamless sleep. Hours later, when I wake, Aunt Irene is in the room with me, quietly reading a book.
“Sophie?” she says as I start to stir. She rushes forward and gathers me into an awkward hug, practically lifting me off the bed. I’m so glad to see her it makes me teary. All the frozen parts of me begin to thaw and I let myself take the comfort she’s offering. Soon I’m sobbing into her chest while she holds me. “Oh, my darling child,” she says in a voice I’ve never heard her use before. She gently rubs my back. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”
I try to respond but I’m still groggy and wrung out. She releases me and pulls away to look me over. “I’m not all right,” I tell her, holding up my wrist so she can see the medical ID tag. The fear and anxiety rush back.
“Charlotte told me,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. It’s not enough, I know it’s not enough—but I’ll do whatever I can to help you with this. Both of us will. It doesn’t have to be like—”
“Kira.”
“What happened was an accident. It was just an awful, stupid accident. You understand that, don’t you? And Dr. Varghese is very good. The research she’s doing could really help people like you. If you’re careful then there isn’t any reason you can’t go to Cherwell College and take your A-level exams like you were planning.”
For a moment I let myself believe what she’s saying. Maybe she’s right, maybe it doesn’t have to be so bad. I could get past this, I could be safe, or safe enough, if I just listen to her and Dr. Varghese and Mom.
“Where’s Mom?”
The smile disappears. “She had—there was…” A pause. “Someone from the Centre called about an hour ago. They’re going to release the body to the Barton crematorium later today. She has to go pick up the ashes.” I look at her in surprise but Aunt Irene goes on. “After what they told us I thought it could be weeks, months even, but it’s better like this.”
Panic squeezes my lungs but I force myself to relax. They haven’t discovered she’s missing yet. They’d have to tell us, wouldn’t they? Or maybe this is just their way of hiding the mistake.
“Will Mom—could I go too? Could I see Kira?”
“That’s not a good idea. They won’t let anyone see her body. There are protocols in place. It just isn’t—not while the condition is still active. Things are different now. They’re taking precautions.” A pause before she presses on. “We can scatter her ashes somewhere really beautiful, somewhere she would have loved. Port Meadow, maybe, or we could take a trip to the south coast—Bournemouth or Dorset.”
“But Dad wanted us to go home.”
“No one’s thinking about you going back to Toronto. Not while you’re sick.”
“Does he know?” I ask sharply.
Aunt Irene squeezes my hand. “He agrees. The best place for you is here. But listen—maybe this is too much, too fast. You don’t have to think about it right now. For now let’s just get you home.”
Outside, the sky is streaked gunmetal grey. Milky puddles line either side of the road, broken branches garnish the lawns. The rental car smells like pine-scented air fresheners. It reminds me that there are other things to talk about, practical consequences for what I did.
“I shouldn’t have taken your car last night. I’m really sorry. It was a stupid thing to do.”
“You’re okay, Sophie, that’s the most important thing. It could’ve been much worse. These country roads aren’t lit very well and most of them haven’t been properly maintained. You’re just lucky there was someone around to find you. You could’ve been stuck in the car for hours. You might’ve…”
Died, she doesn’t say but I can tell she’s thinking it, because I’m thinking it too.
“I know. My head wasn’t screwed on straight.” This has the ring of truth, at least.
“Believe it or not, I understand how you must’ve been feeling. Blindsided and angry and…well, however it was you were feeling. It was…our fault for not taking better care of you. So where you went, how you handled your grief, I understand. But you can’t take risks like that, not now.”
I manage a shrug.
“Better things will come. I promise. We’ll get you a bicycle so you can get around on your own.” The car lumbers awkwardly through a roundabout. “We should have done that earlier but there was just so much to get organized when you first arrived. But you’ll need one, particularly once you start school. Then you’ll be able to see your friends more easily.” She’s trying to distract me, I think, trying to make me feel better. “You had one at home, didn’t you? Or I suppose you just took transit—but everyone rides here. You’ll need a helmet, of course.”
When we pull up in front of the house, the sandbags are still there beside the Thames, but now the men in fluorescent vests are struggling with unwieldy sacks. No more Hulloo, me durrck! And then I realize they aren’t sandbags at all. As they lift, the damp canvas briefly reveals a human form: hips, knees, shoulders, the faint bulge of a head. They’re fishing bodies from the river.
There were others then, drawn to the flood like Kira was. Caught up in the locks and weirs or tangled in weeds.
“I can’t come in with you. It’s the start of term and they need me at the university,” Aunt Irene says. “Will you be okay for a little while? Your mom should be there.”
She isn’t saying anything about the bodies. The hiss of the Thames sounds monstrous in my ears—a terrible, blank static.
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know you will.” A pause. “One more thing. The nurse gave me this.” She hands me a HemaPen. “You know how to use it?”
“Yeah,” I tell her, hating it. The dull, dead weight in my hand.
The council’s notice beside the door to Aunt Irene’s house, already dog-eared and etched in dirt, lists the number of registered inhabitants in case of a flood evacuation. Now it’s in need of updating.
Inside, a grey smear of light falls across the entrance. The first thing I see is a sympathy bouquet from the Dean of New College—white roses, anthuria and orchids in a crystal vase next to the sink. And another made up of lilies and purple larkspur. The flowers are beautiful, but the sight of the cut stems annoys me. They’re already dead. This is just the pretense of life.
A noise from one of the bedrooms startles me and for a moment I have a mad thought that it’s Kira come home from the cement works. I close my eyes and the shuffling sound becomes footsteps, barely audible. Everyone has a unique set of sounds, I’ve discovered. When you live with someone, share a bedroom with them, you can identify their breath by rhythm, texture and pitch. Each exhalation is distinctive. I open my eyes, walk as silently as I can up the second flight. Upstairs, I press my ear to our bedroom door, but whatever I heard has vanished. No movement.
The noise sounds again from behind me and I cross the hallway. A thin slice of light bleeds out from beneath the entrance to Mom’s bedroom. I raise my hand to knock.
She must have heard me come in. She must know I’m out here.
I stare at the door, willing myself to move. A series of sharp gasps, ragged half-sobs come from inside. Then a shadow cuts the light beneath the door into uneven wedges and my skin prickles. The door wobbles briefly, but it’s an old house, it breathes with the wind. Sometimes the foundations creak and the bathroom door flies open when you think you’re alone. You’d think the house was haunted. If you were the kind of person who believed in ghosts. As I rest my forehead against the smooth grain of the mullion, the latch bolt catches the door from swinging open. I hear a faint snick. Inside, someone has turned the lock. A ward has been set against unwanted guests.
My exhaustion is too much. I know there are things to do, that Kira is out there. In the back of my mind is a faint whispering, go, go on…but every part of me aches. Go on yourself, I’m wrung out, I’m beaten.
In the bedroom, too tired to make it up the ladder, I collapse onto Kira’s bed. It still smells of her: sweet, milky and slightly stale. For a moment I let the familiarity of it surround me. This is the Kira I want, the way she was before it all went wrong. As I lie there breathing in and out, remembering her, sleep slips a dark sack over my head and ties it tight.