20
Elise
“Next time you talk to the police about Dylan, perhaps you could let me know.” Acid words trip off my tongue as Andrew walks into the kitchen.
“Why?” he demands, standing there. “Are you worried, Elise? Frightened you’ll say the wrong thing?”
“He was our son, Andrew.” My eyes fill with tears. “How dare you use his death to manipulate me.”
His eyes narrow. “There’s no manipulation going on. The trouble with the truth, Elise, is that sadly, for you, it hurts.”
I can’t remember the last time we had a conversation that didn’t degenerate into a fight. He’s goading me again, but I stand my ground. “It’s your version of the truth against mine.” I throw my hands up. “I don’t know. Maybe we should talk to the police about what happened that day. Give them the facts. Let them decide.” I stare at him. I’ve no idea why I haven’t thought of this before, but it’s the obvious solution to lay our cards on the table and let someone else form a judgment.
“You’re mad. You do know that, don’t you?” His voice is scornful. “Any psychiatrist worth his salt would have a field day with you.” But again I don’t respond. It’s what he always says when he senses he’s losing ground.
“We both know I’m not.” As our eyes meet, something shifts between us. No longer can he cow me into acquiescence, just as he no longer has the moral high ground. I can tell from his hesitation, Andrew’s not as sure as he usually is. “If you pull that one, I’ll get an independent assessment from someone out of the area. Don’t fuck with me, Andrew. I’ve had enough.”
Without bothering to look at him to see the impact my words have had, I fetch my jacket and go outside, needing to remove myself from his toxic presence, to stand in fresh air and cleanse my lungs. Walking across the grass to a more hidden corner of the garden, I realize how desperate I am for a sense of calm in my world. A white clematis, just coming into flower, catches my eye. Its delicate stems trail over the wall, its daisylike flowers softening the stone. Farther on, I see the first of the pale roses are blooming. For a transient moment, their fragrance reaches me, bringing with it a nostalgic desire for the past and a time when life was simple. It’s a scent that takes me back to my own childhood, one that was surrounded by family.
Suddenly, I miss my sister desperately. I’d been close to her until Andrew destroyed our relationship, just as one by one, he’s destroyed all my friendships in his escalating need for control. Without any allies to turn to, there’s nowhere else for me to go, and he can behave exactly as he likes toward me.
It’s the sad truth of what my life has become, but it’s taken until now for me to see it. Instead, I’ve hidden from everyone, cutting myself off because it’s easier than justifying his behavior, explaining why I stay with him. But I can’t go on like this. Nostalgia hits me again. If only there was someone I could talk to, who’d understand what’s going on. But Andrew holds the trump card. Because of him, I have no one.
* * *
That evening, I cook a bowl of pasta, serving up a plate each for myself and Niamh, which we eat together at the kitchen table. Andrew has half a bottle of Scotch inside him when he comes into the kitchen.
“Fucking pathetic, Elise,” he snarls, with no thought for the fact that Niamh is sitting there, listening to his every word. “Thinking you can exclude me.”
I glance at her, shaking my head slightly. “I didn’t want to interrupt you, Andrew. There’s plenty in the pan.” In my head I’m thinking that very soon he’ll be cooking his own dinner.
Instead of going back to the sitting room, he comes and joins us at the table, even though Niamh and I have finished eating. Niamh’s eyes scan mine, her face anxious. “Would you like more?” I ask her, but she shakes her head.
As we sit in silence for a few minutes, Andrew’s foul mood is like a stench pervading the room. In the end, it’s too much for Niamh. Getting up, she rushes out. Then I hear her feet on the stairs. Glaring at Andrew, I get up to follow her.
“Stay here, Elise,” he growls. “I want to talk to you.”
“There is nothing you can say that I want to listen to,” I say, then go upstairs, knocking gently on Niamh’s door.
She’s distraught. “Why is he like this?” she sobs. “He’s so horrible to us. He’s horrible to you. Why can’t he be nice?”
Putting my arms around her, I hold her tightly. “Listen,” I whisper fiercely. “Your father can’t go on doing this—to either of us. I won’t let him. Hold on, just a little bit longer. But it isn’t going to be forever, Niamh. I’m going to do something.”
* * *
I sleep fitfully that night, preoccupied by the reality of what’s ahead. The next morning, I get dressed in my uniform and leave the house early, knowing exactly what I have to do. If the day goes the way I’m hoping it will, by the time Andrew gets home tonight, a very different future will have been set in motion. One over which he has absolutely no control.