Chapter 2
If you’ve opened this letter, I guess it means you’re interested in what I have to say. That’s nice but I’m not taking it as too much of a compliment, because let’s be honest, you must be bored in that cell with nothing to do except write your poems, which by the way are really good, especially the sonnet about lethal injections. I read them on your profile and the one about the theater made me sad. I bet you had no idea when Dorothy followed the yellow-brick road that in forty-eight hours you were going to commit murder.
Funny I can write that almost without blinking. It would be different if I hadn’t done it, too. Before, I might not have touched you with a barge pole, but now we’re in the same boat. Exactly the same boat. You killed someone you were supposed to love and I killed someone I was supposed to love, and we both understand the pain and the fear and the sadness and the guilt and the hundred other feelings that don’t even have a name in all of the English language.
Everyone thinks I’m grieving so they don’t ask too many questions when I turn up looking pale and thin, with bags under my eyes, my hair hanging in greasy clumps. The other day, Mum forced me to get it cut. In the salon I stared at the customers, wondering how many of them had skeletons in the closet, because the nun said no one’s perfect and everyone’s got good and bad inside them. Everyone. Even people you don’t expect to have a dark side, e.g., Barack Obama or Lisa from The Simpsons. I try to remember that when the guilt gets bad enough to stop me from sleeping. It didn’t work tonight so here I am again, and it’s just as cold but this time I’ve used Dad’s old jacket to cover the gap underneath the shed door.
I can’t remember the nun’s name, but she had one of those raisin faces you could still imagine as a grape because somewhere underneath the wrinkles there was something beautiful. She came into my school a week before the summer holiday to tell us about capital punishment. When she spoke, it was in this quiet voice that wobbled around the edges, but everyone paid absolute attention. Even Adam. Normally he pushes back his chair and throws pen lids at girls’ heads, but on that day we could take down our hoods because no one was doing anything they shouldn’t, and we all gawped at this old lady as she told us about her work to abolish the death penalty.
She’d done a lot. Petitions and protests and articles in newspapers and letters to criminals, who’d written back and confided all sorts. “Like their crimes and stuff?” someone asked. The nun nodded. “Sometimes. Everyone needs to be heard.”
That’s when I had the idea, right there in the middle of the Religious Education classroom as the nun said a load more things I can’t even remember. When I got home, I ran upstairs to the study without taking off my shoes even though Mum had just bought beige carpets. I turned on the computer and found a Death Row website, ticking the box that said Yes, I am eighteen. My lie didn’t shut down the computer or set off an alarm. It took me straight to the database of criminals who want pen pals and there you were Mr. Harris, second man from the left on the third row of the fourth page, as if you were waiting to hear my story.
It all started a year ago with an unexpected phone call. For a whole week last August, I’d been plucking up the courage to ask Mum if I could go to a house party on a Saturday night. This house party wasn’t just any house party, but Max Morgan’s house party, and everyone was invited to mark the end of the summer because we were due back in school a couple of days later. Unfortunately the chances of Mum agreeing to let me go were less than 1 percent because back then she never let me do anything, not even shopping in town with Lauren, because she was worried about me being abducted and also about my homework.
There was no slacking off in our house because Mum quit her job as a lawyer when Dot was little. She was a sickly baby, always in and out of the hospital, so I guess it was a full-time job to look after her. Mum was there when I woke up to ask what lessons I had that day, and she was there when I got home to supervise the work I had to do that night. The rest of the time she did chores. Because of the house’s size, it was hard to keep it spick, never mind span, but Mum managed by sticking to a strict timetable. Even when she watched the news, she folded the laundry and paired the socks, and when she was supposed to be relaxing in the bath, she wiped the taps with a flannel to make them shine. She cooked a lot as well, always with the best ingredients. The eggs had to be free-range and the vegetables had to be organic and the cow had to have lived in the Garden of Eden or somewhere with no pollution and no chemicals so the meat wasn’t contaminated with anything that could make us ill.
Mr. Harris I tried to Google your mum to find out if she was strict, making you try hard at school and be polite to your elders and stay out of trouble and eat all your greens. I hope not. It would be a shame to think you spent your teenage years munching broccoli now that you’re locked up in a cell with no freedom to speak of. I hope you had some crazy times like sprinting naked through a neighbor’s garden for a dare, which is what happened last year at Lauren’s party after I’d gone home early. When Lauren told me about it at school, as per usual I put on my unimpressed face to show I was too mature for such things. But when my History teacher asked us to stop whispering and look at the worksheet, I didn’t see the Nazis, just all these boobs boinging in the moonlight.
I was sick of missing out. Sick of listening to Lauren’s stories. And jealous, really jealous, that I didn’t have a few of my own. So when I was invited to Max’s party a couple of months later, I made up my mind to ask Mum in a way that would make it impossible for her to refuse.
On Saturday morning I lay in bed trying to work out how to word the question before my shift at the library, where I stack shelves for three fifty an hour. That’s when the phone started ringing. I could tell from Dad’s voice it was serious so I climbed out of bed and went downstairs in my bathrobe, the exact same one I’m wearing right now, which FYI has red and black flowers and lace around the cuffs. A moment later, Dad was jumping into the BMW without even having breakfast and Mum was chasing after him onto the drive in an apron and yellow washing-up gloves.
“There’s no need to rush off,” she said, and Mr. Harris now we’re getting into the proper conversations, I think I’ll set them out properly to make them easier for you to read. Of course, I don’t remember every single thing that everyone said so I’ll paraphrase a bit and also miss out any of the boring stuff, i.e. anything at all about the weather.
“What’s going on?” I asked, standing on the porch, probably with my face looking worried.
“At least have a slice of toast, Simon.”
Dad shook his head. “We’ve got to go now. We don’t know how long he’s got.”
“We?” Mum asked.
“You’re coming, too, aren’t you?”
“Let’s think about this a minute.”
“He might not have a minute! We need to get going.”
“If you feel you have to go, I’m not going to stop you, but I’m staying here. You know how I feel about—”
“What’s going on?” I said again. Louder this time. My face probably more worried. Not that my parents noticed.
Dad rubbed his temples, his fingers making circles in the patches of gray hair. “What do I say to him after all this time?”
Mum grimaced. “I’ve no idea.”
“Who’re you talking about?” I asked.
“Do you think he’ll even let me in his room?” Dad went on.
“By the sound of it, he’ll be in no fit state to know if you’re there or not,” Mum said.
“Who won’t?” I asked, stepping onto the drive.
“Slippers!” Mum called.
I stepped back onto the porch and wiped my feet on the mat. “Will someone tell me what’s going on?”
There was a pause. A long one.
“It’s Grandpa,” Dad said.
“He’s had a stroke,” Mum said.
“Oh,” I said.
It wasn’t the most sympathetic reaction, but in my defense I hadn’t seen Grandpa for years. I remember being jealous of the wafer Dad received during Communion when Mum stopped us going up to the altar at Grandpa’s church. And I remember playing with the hymn book, trying to snap it shut on Soph’s fingers, humming the Jaws theme tune as Grandpa frowned. He had this big garden with huge sunflowers, and once I built a den in his garage and he gave me a bottle of flat lemonade to serve to my dolls. But then one day there was an argument and we never visited him again. I’m not sure what happened, but I do know we left Grandpa’s without even having lunch. My stomach was rumbling, so for once we were allowed to eat at McDonald’s and Mum was too distracted to stop me from ordering a Big Mac and extra-large fries.
“You’re really going to stay here?” Dad said.
Mum adjusted the washing-up gloves on her hands. “Who else is going to look after the girls?”
“Me!” I said suddenly, because a plan had popped into my mind. “I can do it.”
Mum frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“She’s old enough,” Dad said.
“But what if something goes wrong?”
Dad held up his phone. “I’ve got this.”
“I don’t know.” Mum bit the inside of her cheek and stared at me. “What about your shift at the library?”
I shrugged. “I’ll just ring and explain there’s a family emergency.”
“There you go,” Dad said. “Sorted.”
A bird flew onto the car hood. A song thrush. We watched it for a moment because it had a worm dangling from its beak, and then Dad looked at Mum and Mum looked at Dad and the bird fluttered off as I crossed my fingers behind my back.
“Listen, I really think I’m better off staying with the girls,” Mum muttered without much conviction. “Soph’s got to practice her piano scales and I wouldn’t mind helping Dot with her—”
“Don’t use them as an excuse, Jane!” Dad said. “It’s obvious you don’t want to come. At least have the guts to admit it.”
“Fine! But it goes both ways, Simon. We both know your dad won’t want me there.”
“He’ll be in no fit state to know if you’re there or not,” Dad replied, looking Mum straight in the eye. It was a clever tactic to repeat her words, and she knew it. With a defeated sigh, she turned toward the house, taking off the gloves.
“Have it your way, but I tell you now, I’m not going anywhere near his room,” she said before disappearing through the front door.
Dad gritted his teeth, checking his watch. I walked over to the car, my fingers still crossed behind my back.
“So, do you think you’ll be at the hospital for a while, then?”
Dad scratched the back of his neck and sighed. “Probably.”
I smiled my most helpful smile. “Well, don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, pet.”
“And I just won’t go to the party if you’re not back in time. It doesn’t matter. I mean, Lauren will be disappointed, but she’ll get over it.”
I said it just like that—so off-the-cuff, Dad might think Mum had already agreed. He beeped the horn to tell her to hurry up.
“When does this party start?”
“Eight,” I replied, my voice a little higher than normal.
“We should be home by then.… Hope so, anyway. I’ll give you a lift if you want.”
“Brilliant,” I said, trying not to grin as I ran back inside the house.
In the afternoon Mum rang to let us know that Grandpa was stable and Dad was coping and they’d be back in time for dinner. Everything was turning out perfectly so I made myself an orange and lemonade with ice cubes that clinked against the glass. I spent the rest of the day in the garden, writing this kids’ story called Bizzle the Bazzlebog because it’s my ambition to be a children’s author. In case you’re wondering, Bizzle is a blue furry creature who lives in a tin of baked beans at the back of a family’s food cupboard.
The story’s supposed to be a fantasy for ten-year-olds and it probably sounds lame, but I enjoy doing it, pretending I’m still small and believe in magic or whatever. Anyway, I wrote for ages, then filled up the bird feeder that hung from the branch of a tree near the back door. Birds zoomed toward it—a magpie that I saluted, a chaffinch landing on the ground, and a swallow swooping over the flower bed—and I watched them for ages, ridiculously happy, because birds are my thing and not to boast but I know pretty much every type in England.
I plucked a fat dandelion and twirled it between my fingers as I flopped onto the grass and put my feet on a plant pot. The sun in the sky was the exact same color as the flower in my hand and the two were linked by a hot beam of yellow. A bond blazed between them, and so yeah, it was probably just the start of sunburn on my knuckles, but for a moment it felt like me and the universe were connected in a giant join-the-dots puzzle. Everything had meaning and everything made sense, as if someone really was drawing my life by numbers.
Someone other than my little sister.
“Do you like it?”
Dot was standing over me in a pink dress, with a puzzle book tucked underneath her elbow, signing because she’s deaf. I squinted at the picture. She’d joined the dots in the wrong order so the butterfly that was supposed to be soaring into the sky looked more like it was about to crash-land in the trees. I put the dandelion behind my ear.
“I love it.”
“More than you love chocolate?”
“More than that,” I signed.
“More than you love… ice cream?”
I pretended to think. “Well, it depends what flavor.”
Dot dropped to her chubby knees. “Strawberry?”
“Definitely more than that.”
I shook my head. “Definitely not.”
Dot started to giggle and leaned in close. “But really more than banana?”
I kissed her nose. “More than any flavor in the whole world.”
Dot threw the puzzle book onto the grass and sprawled next to me, her long hair blowing in the breeze.
“You’ve got a dandelion behind your ear.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“They’re my favorite flowers,” I lied.
“More than daffodils?”
“More than any flower in the entire universe,” I signed, shortcutting the questions as the front door opened and footsteps sounded in the hall. I sat up, listening. Dot looked confused. “Mum and Dad,” I explained.
Dot jumped to her feet, but something about my parents’ voices made me grab her hand to stop her from running into the kitchen. They were arguing, the sound drifting through the open window. Before they had the chance to realize I was there, I ducked behind a bush, pulling Dot after me. She laughed, thinking it was some sort of game, as I parted the leaves.
Mum banged a cup on the kitchen counter. “I can’t believe you agreed to it!”
“What was I supposed to do?”
She jabbed the switch on the kettle. “Talk about it with me! Discuss it!”
“How could I when you weren’t even in the room?”
“He’s their grandfather, Jane. He has a right to see them.”
“Don’t give me that! They’ve had nothing to do with him for years.”
“All the more reason for them to spend time with him now, before it’s too late.”
I watched Mum roll her eyes as I tried to keep hold of Dot, who was twisting and turning, trying to get free. Putting my hand over her mouth, I did a shush face with very stern eyebrows. In the kitchen, Mum grabbed a teaspoon out of the drawer, banging it shut with her hip.
“We made a decision about this years ago. Years. I’m not going back on it now just because your father’s a little bit—”
“He’s had a stroke!”
Mum flung the teaspoon into the cup. “That doesn’t change a thing! Not one thing! Whose side are you on?”
“I don’t want there to be any sides, Jane. Not anymore. We’re a family.”
“Try telling that to your—” Mum started, but just at that moment, Dot bit my finger and broke free and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. She ran off as fast as she could and did two cartwheels on the lawn. Her dress fell around her shoulders, showing off her knickers, and she ended up in a big heap on the grass. As Mum and Dad stared out the window, Dot picked a dandelion. Only this one was white. Fluffy. Full of those wispy things that look like dead fairies. The sun disappeared behind a cloud as Dot blew hard and the dandelion vanished, and Mr. Harris I’m going to stop writing now because I’m tired, plus I’ve got pins and needles in my left leg.
From,
Zoe
1 Fiction Road
Bath, UK