The steaming spray hammered at my arm, taunting the cut as it washed it clean. I bit down on my lip and rested my forehead against the shower screen, waiting for the pain to pass.
I squeezed Hobson’s hankie in my hand, watching as my fist turned red. I’d stared at the hankie the previous night for what seemed like hours. The house had been empty when I’d got home and I’d been unsure how to feel. The relief of not having to explain to Dad why I looked like I did sat alongside the terror of having to be on my own, waiting for the fear to descend.
Because of course it did descend and there seemed no point in putting off the inevitable. What other option did I have?
There was a fury to it all last night, an intensity that forced me to press harder, thinking the blades would have to go deeper to pull me back from the depths of the panic I was lost in.
And, as always, it worked.
But at a cost, since the blood refused to clot in the same way, escaping instead through the lint that I’d pressed against it. I had no idea how long it had continued, long enough for me to have no choice but to use Mr Hobson’s hankie as my last line of defence.
The room fell silent once the pounding in my chest ceased, leaving my mind free to cast new self-doubts and accusations. How everything that had gone on by the river was my fault; how I’d managed to expose Dad through my truancy, putting his future and mine together at risk. I fought for answers, solutions, but got only the same repeating loop of thought.
That everything was screwed, out of control and my fault.
It was late by the time I dropped off, and it was one of those still nights that makes sleep fitful. The fact that I kept rolling on to my arm didn’t help either, the sharp stabs of pain knifing me awake more times than I could bear.
Dad failed to wake me in the morning, though: further evidence that he was still rightly livid with me.
I’d just stepped out of the shower when I heard the front door slam and his car drive away, and felt a twinge of disappointment as another chance to put things right slipped by, right when I needed him most.
By the time I reached my wardrobe to find all of my long-sleeved shirts in the wash, I was ready to pull the duvet back over my head and write the day off before it began. In fact, if my phone hadn’t buzzed impatiently at me, I would’ve done just that.
It was Dad, which was a surprise. He’d never been big on texting, and when he did send them, they were more like letters. In fact his message was so long it got split in two.
Sorry to miss you today of all days. Thought we could spend the afternoon together. Don’t worry about school. I’ve told them you won’t be in. Meet me on Grafton Street at 11.30. Really looking forward to having some time with you. Hoping we can talk a bit. Love you Dais, Dad x
It took me a sec to work out what he meant about today of all days, and it was another kick in the teeth when I clocked the date on my calendar: 3 July.
Mum’s birthday.
I swear the realization started my arm bleeding again, and I felt my head spin at the prospect of restaunching it.
How had I managed to forget Mum’s birthday?
I never had before. It was etched into my brain as firmly as my own.
Dad and me had a routine, a tradition I suppose, of buying each other a present, to cheer us up as well as thinking of her.
I prayed that he’d forgotten, like I had. Either that, or he’d decided not to bother as a way of punishing me.
I jammed a piece of toilet roll on to the weeping cut, gingerly eased my arm inside my dressing gown and made my way to the kitchen.
And there it was, on the table, a small gift-wrapped box with my name on the tag.
My instinct was to pick it up and hurl it at the wall, to prove to Dad that I was worthy of nothing, but the fear of upsetting him further stopped me.
Instead I read the inscription on the tag (I thought you could use a replacement, follow your dreams, x) before tearing the paper off.
It was a digital camera, one I’d mentioned to him months ago, with the ability to take film footage as well as photos.
He knew I wanted it, knew I wanted to start playing around properly, to mimic the films we’d watched for so many years.
My camcorder was old. Dad had picked it up on eBay in case it had just been a teenage whim. But him buying this? Well, it meant he believed in me, and wanted me to succeed.
And how had I repaid his faith?
I’d shouted, lied and hid everything that was important from him.
Wiping the tears off my cheeks, I put the camera back on the table and climbed the stairs to my room.
I had to find a way of putting this mess straight. And I had to make a start today. The only problem was, where on earth should I begin?
His shirt fitted me really badly, but I didn’t care. If I wanted to try and grab him a present before meeting up, there was no time to buy any new clothes.
I’d looked for the oldest, softest one in his wardrobe, something that wouldn’t rub against the plasters on my arm, and had settled on this old blue gingham thing.
It buried me.
I could have put a belt around my waist and worn it as a dress, but at least the sleeves hid everything, my hands included. I’d turned up the cuffs and gripped them inside my fists, and strangely I felt comforted by the whole thing.
Although Dad hadn’t worn the shirt for months it still smelt of him, and as I waited for the bus I couldn’t resist lifting the sleeve to my nose and breathing deeply.
By the time I got to town I was low on time and it quickly became clear that I wasn’t going to find his gift. I’d headed straight to HMV and the DVD racks, but the usual ease I had in choosing him a film was replaced by acute panic. Despite knowing his collection off by heart, I couldn’t settle on anything, started doubting my own memory, which in turn caused my forehead to sweat and my heart to palpitate. In the end, in fear of losing it right there in the middle of the world cinema section, I turned my back and headed speedily for the door.
Grafton Street was on the far side of the town centre, as far from the shopping centre as it was possible to be, and as I half-marched, half-stumbled towards it, my mind had time to fire a new round of accusations at me.
How on earth had I managed to forget Mum’s birthday?
What sort of person was I to let such a thing happen?
Dad would be gutted when I turned up empty-handed, and what on earth was he going to say about me wearing his clothes?
The paranoia bubbled and spewed to every corner of my brain, forcing sweat to pour from my forehead and my limbs to ache.
I felt drained, empty of everything but the need to get to Grafton Street. If I was late for him as well as everything else, then it really would hammer home what a terrible daughter I was.
Turning on to Grafton Street, I held my breath, head flitting up and down the road until I was sure his car was nowhere to be seen. Once I knew the coast was clear, I exhaled quickly, bending double to my knees to force the tension out. But just as my hands came to rest, a horn sounded behind me, startling me upright and tense.
It was Dad, a smile glinting off the windscreen, more in hope than anything else.
Unfortunately the shock of the horn made me edgy, and instead of swallowing it down and launching into an apology, I marched straight up to his window and laid into him.
‘What did you do that for? You scared me to bloody death, Dad. Have a word with yourself, will you?’
His smile dropped to the floor, replaced by a lined brow. I could see his best intentions evaporate, as my anger did the same thing, leaving behind a new depth of shame.
But instead of apologizing and throwing myself at him through the window for a hug, I marched round the car and climbed into the back seat. It was the most childish thing I could have done. What would it have taken to get in the passenger seat like a normal person?
But, as with everything at the moment, doing the right thing was beyond me. And the deeper I waded, the less able I was to turn anything around.
As we drove through the streets, the only sound was the weather forecaster on the radio warning of storms within the hour. I sat and hoped that somehow the rain might help clear the air.