Alone

The whole house is dark.

The back door is locked.

I collect the spare key from

beneath the stone leprechaun

on the patio

and let myself in,

stare at my murky reflection

in the kitchen clock face.

Hello?

Nothing answers.

I am unsure what to do,

wondering where Marla could be,

if she’s with anybody,

whether there’s been an emergency.

I take the stairs two at a time,

march into Marla’s bedroom.

Her dressing table is littered with

little perfume bottles –

brands I don’t know,

the liquid inside piss-yellow

and smelling of Dettol.

And she has talc too,

like flour,

with a pink puff on top.

I sniff and realise this is Marla’s smell –

powdery petals.

In her black-lacquered jewellery box

are cheap chains and bracelets

clenched together in forever tangles.

I run my fingers along a row of rings,

pausing at a ruby,

then clutch the pendant

pressed against my own chest,

a silver chalice Mum was given

for her First Holy Communion –

the only token Dad was prepared to share.

I’m home! Marla calls out.

I step on to the landing, ready to reply,

ready to be annoyed with her for disappearing,

when I see Peggy pulling Marla out of a coat.

They murmur flatly.

Toffee? Marla calls again. I’m home.

I press my back against the woodchip wallpaper.

And you won twenty pounds,

Peggy says.

Maybe tell Toffee about it tomorrow.

She doesn’t seem to be here.

I’d love to meet her actually.

She’s here now, Marla says.

The carpet beneath my feet seems to murmur

and the air around me is heavy.

I hold my breath,

pray that Peggy doesn’t notice my stupid parka

that can have nothing to do with an old woman.

Maybe she’s asleep, Marla suggests.

Lazy scut.

Peggy calls out herself: Toffee!

But again,

this is pantomime, placation,

and I want to step forward,

stand at the top of the stairs and say,

She isn’t mad, I’m real.

Look at me. I am standing right here

and I am alive.

And then the thought strikes me that

perhaps

I’m not.

Perhaps

I am a figment

of Marla’s imagination

after all.

I touch the chalice against my skin.

Maybe I’m just like my mother –

mostly dead

and only barely

clinging on

in other people’s

memories.