A shiver ran down Shelley’s spine as she sat on the grey settee between her mother and Aunt Elsie. On 17th May – her birthday – for the third year, she had a feeling the day was incomplete. The family was incomplete without her brother. In a way, it was as if her birthdays didn’t pass at all and she stayed at nineteen, the age she’d only just turned before William had died.
“Can I get you some more cake, dear?”
“I’m not hungry, Mum.” Shelley walked through to her mother’s kitchen and put on the kettle. She’d felt tears coming and wanted to cry on her own. When she couldn’t control her sobs, she went into the bathroom.
She looked in the mirror and thought what a broken mess she’d become. Her judgement of Tara may have been correct, but it applied equally to her. From the bowl on the white vanity unit, she took a piece of cotton wool and tipped the jar of moisturiser onto it. Then she wiped her face while she breathed slowly, trying to calm herself.
This year had been hard to live. She had survived past the twenty-one years her brother had not. Now she was in an age unknown at twenty-two. In some ways, she still felt like a child, but in others, she felt far too old.
With her face clean of wandering mascara, she wandered through to the lounge and took her seat between the two sisters. On lifting her cup of tea and seeing it empty, she remembered the kettle boiling in the kitchen. She picked up the brown teapot and stood up.
“Stay where you are. I’ll do it.” Aunt Elsie took the teapot and went into the kitchen.
Shelley sat down again and looked at her mother. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know, dear, all these changes. You know Elsie’s got me going to this counselling person?”
“How’s it going?”
“They just want your money, those quacks, but she’s making me do it.”
“She’s trying to help you, Mum, we both are.” Shelley took her mother’s hand.
“We’ll see. I don’t feel any different yet.”
“She’s only been once,” Elsie said as she came back through, carrying the teapot. She filled Shelley’s cup and then Rita’s before sitting down. “There’s not a quick fix, Rita, you know that. You can’t expect to feel better in a week, or even a month. It’s taken years to get where you are, so it’ll take some time to get you better.”
“She’s got me in a bleeding self-help group as well. Did she tell you that?”
“That sounds lovely, Mum.” Shelley picked up her teacup.
“It’s a bereavement support group. I’m going too. You could come with us,” Elsie said.
“I don’t know... I’ve got a lot on.” Shelley looked at her aunt’s encouraging stare. “I’ll think about it,” she said, considering the power grief had to age. Her mother, at fifty-one years, was nearly four years younger than Elsie, but her withered skin and grey hair belied her as the older sister – over the past seven years, she’d aged a couple of decades.
“Have some cake, dear.” Rita put a slice of the Victoria sponge birthday cake on Shelley’s plate and handed it to her.
“I don’t—”
“You should. You’re looking too skinny nowadays,” Elsie said.
Reluctantly, Shelley ate her cake. She didn’t even like Victoria sponge but she’d never told her mother or Aunt Elsie, one of whom always made that cake on her birthday. Rita had been the one to bake it until Shelley’s fifteenth, after which time Aunt Elsie took over – not only the cake making, but all the things her mother used to do. So what if she didn’t like the bloody cake? What the fuck did it matter?
“How’s work?” Elsie asked.
“Same old, same old.”
“You still look tired. I can tell they’re working you too hard.” Elsie pushed her long, red fringe away from her eyes.
“Not really. I’ve got a bit more responsibility now I’ve been there so long.”
“I think they’re taking advantage of you. I’d like to give your boss a piece of my mind,” Elsie said.
“What are you talking about, Elsie? It’s my fault she’s so tired, running around after me. Isn’t it, dear?”
“No. It’s no one’s fault. I’m just not good managing my time. I’m not even here that often now, am I?” Shelley felt warm tears on her face. She hadn’t realised she was crying again.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Elsie said.
“What do you mean, what I’ve done? You started it.” Rita put her arms around her daughter and rocked her as they sat on the settee. Shelley couldn’t recall her mother comforting her in a long time. Their roles had been reversed and she’d been the one providing comfort to her mother.
Being held like that, Shelley felt like a little girl – but a safe little girl in the arms of her mummy, and that wasn’t a feeling she was used to. She remained in her mother’s embrace until Rita released her, and when she did, Shelley felt the heroin-shaped hole inside her expand.
“I better get going.” Shelley picked up her small, cream handbag.
“You’ve not been here that long,” Elsie said.
“She’ll need an early night. She’s got work tomorrow. Haven’t you, dear?”
“No, she hasn’t,” Elsie said. “It’s Sunday tomorrow.”
“I’m going in for a few hours to catch up... I’ll be back in the week, Mum.” Shelley kissed her mother goodbye.
Aunt Elsie walked with Shelley down the stairs to the front door. As they stood together in the hall, she said, “Tell me you’ve been for your allergy test.”
“I don’t think I need one.” Shelley knew what she was allergic to. She injected it daily to make living bearable. And it would probably show in her blood if she went for an allergy test.
“Well, maybe next time you’re at the doctors, you could ask about it.” Aunt Elsie patted Shelley’s arm. “Make sure she doesn’t give up on this counselling. Keep encouraging her, won’t you?”
“Of course I will. I can’t believe you got her to do it.”
Elsie put her hands on Shelley’s shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. “I told her if she wants you to make something of your life, she needs to get herself together. There’s no way you can get the grades you need at UCL if you’re still being her carer.”
“Thank you, Auntie.”
Although Elsie’s hands were no longer on Shelley’s shoulders, they’d been replaced with the heavier weight of guilt. She kissed her aunt on the cheek, and called out, “I love you,” as she dashed to her car.
***
Wrapped in the safety of her duvet and the warm blanket of heroin, Shelley’s guilt eased. Although she was delighted her mother was at last in therapy, Aunt Elsie’s explanation of how she’d coaxed her caused Shelley to question herself. Initially, she’d felt remorseful as the thing most likely to ruin her grades at university was drugs, that’s if they didn’t stop her going in the first place. But then she decided the reason didn’t matter; the fact that her mother was in therapy at all was all that mattered.
Knowing the awkwardness of birthdays, Shelley had ensured a decent supply of heroin and crack. She stretched over from the sofa and prepared her next fix. The pain she felt was mainly due to Will’s absence but there were also other factors. Even when Will was alive, for both of them, their birthdays had been difficult. She wondered if it wasn’t just her but that perhaps her mother, and Will too, felt guilty about celebrating anything after what they’d lived through.
Maybe next year Shelley would do something different, a holiday possibly. Without fail, every birthday she’d spent with her mother and Aunt Elsie, and of course William when he was alive. Now that she was older, surely it was time for a change.
Though the day had been hard, it wasn’t the worst. Her sixteenth had been. That birthday she’d spent in the psychiatric ward of Barnet General Hospital. Her mother had been held on a twenty-eight day section following a suicide attempt. She knew her mother still felt regret over Shelley’s absence from school during that period, and blamed herself that her daughter hadn’t achieved the GCSE grades she’d been predicted.
With her speedball prepared, Shelley found a spot untouched on the one vein she was using. She tied a chiffon scarf around her arm and carefully inserted the needle. She drew back the plunger, watching her blood dance with her medicine in the barrel. She pushed it in gradually. The commixture of comfort and chaos engulfed her. This was the way to utopia.