One scene of sexual assault and hard drug use, which I hope is handled with sensitivity and not gratuitous in any way.
There’s also use of a plot device which could be construed as an eating disorder, as well as consistent reference to drug use, self-harm, and psychosis, along with continual themes of death and dying…
And more scenes of gore.
Believe it or not, this is a love story!
Daughter of the Drowned by Kerry Williams | Copyright © Kerry WIlliams 2024
When I was seventeen, I died.
It didn’t last. Though sometimes I wonder if it was my greatest misfortune that I didn’t remain dead. It’s especially in moments such as these, when my mom clings with red shellac talons sunk deep into my elbow, that I consider if I were to return to the water, would I welcome its murderous embrace as if an old friend? Alas, these days I dare not take a bath, let alone swim, for fear of the water taking me again.
My mother marches me around the morbid social club like a zombie. It’s the kind of place where the walls remain tainted yellow by cigarette smoke, preserving it in time, its owners unbothered to paint over the past.
Mom breaks the silence between us, nestling us in a corner away from prying ears. ‘Sorry I missed your birthday, Lovely.’
My muscles ache with the stiffness of receiving empty sympathies from faceless strangers, then having to return my empty thanks.
‘My birthday was six months ago.’ The harsh edge of my tone is an unintended one, and when tears slide down her cheeks in silent, slow, sad drips, I’m compelled to soften my words, though the rigidity in my spine remains. ‘There was so much going on with Dad.’
She stares at the floor, sniffling. My words evaporate into thin air. Unable to comfort my mother in any physical aspect, I drive my thumbnail hard into the bed of its partner, the sharp squeeze of pain sailing me through the uncomfortable moment.
Her bottom lip trembles. ‘It was your twenty-first.’
‘Mom, it doesn’t matter. You were caring for your dying husband. I’ll have other birthdays.’
Giving me a shaky smile, she bows her head a little as if already afraid of the answer to the question she’s gearing herself up to ask, the cogs all but visible in the clench of her jaw. ‘Christmas is in a week. How about you come home and stay for a while?’
There it is.
My returning grin is more of a grimace. This is an emotion I’m more than familiar with—guilt. Because it took my dad dying for her to regret our unrepaired relationship. Funerals are saturated with the stuff, and it’s been a long time since my parents’ house felt like home.
‘I have to work, Mom,’ I tell her, picking at the frilled cuff of my long sleeve.
‘Of course,’ she says with a fake brightness.
A sharp pang of my own guilt spears my stomach.
‘Do you want a drink? A glass of red wine?’ She motions towards the mammoth queue at the bar.
‘No, thank you. I’m not drinking right now.’ I keep my eyes on my toes. ‘Completely sober.’
‘Oh.’ It’s a loaded oh. ‘Fantastic news, Lovely.’
We descend into another awkward silence. Relief sparkles in her expression when someone new walks into the room. ‘There’s your uncle. I’d better go talk to him. It must be hitting him so hard. Your dad was always there for him when your cousin passed.’
The tension melts from my mom’s body in infinitesimal increments as she moves away from me, her shoulders drooping, a relieved breath filling her lungs. Even in grief she’s an elegant creature, her slim frame wrapped in layers of black. She embraces my uncle, the gesture full and warm, not the stilted mockery of a hug we’d shared.
I sigh. My cousin’s funeral was the first I’d ever attended. The seven-car pileup had been within a year of my own not-so-tragic brush with death. His demise passed me by at the time as if it were a mirage. My grip on reality was already drifting, my relationships with my family quickly deteriorating as I became lost in a haze of psychiatric assessments and was beginning to dabble in what would become a three-year substance affair.
Rubbing my arms to warm myself against the constant chill that glitters in my bones, I observe my uncle. Our family traits are strong ones—bright sky-blue irises teamed with flaming red hair. The violent ginger of my mane was a curse to me as a teenager, though the time when I cared about my appearance has long perished. After my accident most things faded away into meaninglessness. Including my looks. I stopped caring that I’m too tall, my limbs so long that I border on imposing, my hair its own wilderness, though it’s now forever worn in a long braid trailing down my spine. Keen to mask all that’s noticeable about myself, I wish to fold inwards, be small. Even the blue of my eyes has dulled to grey over the last four years.
Inching my forefinger under the black fabric constricting my wrist, pushing it up the slightest amount, and thumbing the rough skin there, I wish—oh, how I wish—to be so very far from here. I allow the din of the room to wash over me, imagining it to be tribal tongues, fast and blurry as they slide around my edges. My lips part as an all-too-familiar chill settles on the back of my neck, causing every hair on my body to stand on end. The volume of the room drops as my heart tremors, its beat deregulating. Despite so desperately not wanting to see what horrors may lie behind me, the urge to turn my head rears. The false sensation of icy fingers slides over my skin.
Flee. I need to flee. Escape this crowded room and suffer my delusion in solitude.
‘You always did have a tendency for the dramatic,’ a voice croons into my ear.
I spin, almost losing balance, to discover its source, and I find myself caught in the amber-hazel gaze of Tino. His ochre-brown skin is as flawless as it always was, although he’s lost the boyish softness of his teenage years, his manicured stubble marking him as a man now.
‘Tee!’ I exclaim.
He wraps his arms around me, and though I want to flinch from the sudden embrace, I resist the urge to pull away. After all, his face is the first welcome one I’ve encountered on this horrid day, and I should be thankful to him for snapping me out of my trance.
‘Tee and Lee back together again.’ His tone is all sugared warmth spoken into my hair. He pulls away, holding me at a distance to better drink me in. While his gaze is nothing but friendly, it makes me squirm. ‘You lost my number? Would it have been so difficult to pick up a phone? It’s been years.’
The hurt in his voice makes my heart ache. I never expected him to miss me.
‘It’s been a year. A rough one. I needed to get myself straight, and that was something to be done alone.’ I shuffle about, glancing at my boots before facing his scrutiny, peering through my lashes. ‘And what do you mean? Why am I dramatic?’
As if sensing my awkwardness, he releases my elbows and falls in step beside me, leading the way to the buffet, his arm light around mine. ‘I saw you, back at the funeral. Standing in the rain like a Victorian widow in the cemetery. So stoic yet full of poise and grace. Everyone was staring at you.’ He chuckles. ‘Glad to see you’ve dried off.’
The dress I’m wearing could be argued to have a Victorian vibe, I suppose, with its high neck and full-length sleeves. I was drawn to the pretty display of elaborately arranged decorative buttons adorning the bodice. It’s one of the nicest things I own. I draw my thumb across one of the ruffled cuffs. ‘I like this dress.’
‘You look great,’ he assures me, beaming with a smidgen of irony shining through, followed by a wink.
My stupid pulse quickens at his easy gesture. I’m out of practice at being around people, even Tino. It’s ridiculous what a year of self-imposed isolation will do to a person.
Tino raids the buffet, towering mini sandwiches onto a paper plate while popping a sausage roll into his mouth.
My own mouth waters as I survey the spread, the delicious aroma of curry teasing my taste buds.
‘Are you…?’ His question trails off, his attention focused on his plate of food.
‘What?’ I say absentmindedly, distracted by the sight of so much food laid out, ripe for the picking.
What would be the harm in allowing myself a sandwich or two—or three? However, the risk is too great in front of all these people. I’m already caught firmly in the peripheries of all in attendance. What people are already gossiping about me takes little stretch of the imagination. The drug addict, tearaway, black sheep of the Timms family. Best not do anything to cause a scene by devouring the buffet. I step away from the food with purpose.
‘Straight? Are you all right?’ he clarifies, still not bringing his gaze to meet mine.
The words do their job of distracting from the food, though I’m sure an audible grumble from my stomach gives me away.
‘Oh.’ I pick at the edges of my nails, wincing a little as the first droplet of blood oozes out. ‘It’s been hard, but yes. I’ve been sober for about ten months now. I’m even working. I have a job, a nice little flat. It’s not much, but it’s mine. Taking things one day at a time is the name of the game.’
He sets his gaze on me. ‘That’s great. Maybe now would be a good time for me to visit? If you’re ready for a friend?’ He’s so full of goodness, it almost hurts to behold.
‘Do you really mean it?’ After everything I put you through is the part I don’t voice, recalling his fingers grasping mine at a party where he begged me not to leave with someone he knew I shouldn’t, the bloody knees he tended when he found me in an alleyway passed out, and countless other times he scraped me off the floor.
‘Of course. I miss you. I wish I’d known how to get hold of you. You shouldn’t have had to go through such a thing alone.’
Colour floods my face. Getting clean was even less pretty than the partying. It’s the last thing I would have wanted anyone to witness.
Tino’s fingers twitch. He’s clearly sensing my embarrassment.
‘Soooo,’ he says, ‘where are you working?’
‘On the other side of Birmingham,’ I tell him. I’m so glad to be talking about something neutral again that my hand gesticulation is a little too wild, and I almost knock his plate of food out of his hand.
He retreats a step back to miss my attack.
I force myself to muddle on, heat rising in my cheeks. ‘There’s a little care home there. I work the night shifts.’
Tino drops a sandwich, his eyes going wide. ‘A care home? I’m assuming you mean with elderly people?’
‘Yes,’ I confirm, pretending to give my attention to a nearby pot of dip, though I make no move to take any.
‘Jesus, Lee, you don’t make it easy on yourself. What’s so wrong with getting a job in a supermarket or something? You don’t always need to surround yourself with death and the dying.’
‘We’re all dying, Tee,’ I tease, trying to ease the mood. My attempt at humour is far from convincing.
‘Don’t pretend you misunderstand.’ His expression turns stern. ‘You have to break the cycle. You can’t keep doing this.’
‘I’m not doing anything,’ I tell him, the heat of embarrassment turning my face full red. ‘It’s easier there. It doesn’t matter to them if I’m different. The people are sweet, and I get to hold their hands. I bring them comfort, and that, in turn, brings me comfort.’ The tears pool, giving my vision a mirage-like quality.
‘Lee, I’m not saying it’s not a worthwhile thing to do. But you’re delicate.’ He’s all warmth again, squeezing his paper plate between the dishes on the buffet table before putting his hot palms on my shoulders. Burning the skin beneath the thin material of my dress. He waits a beat. ‘Do you still see them?’ he asks in a whisper.
My voice is stuck in my throat, and the stubborn tears won’t budge. I refuse to let them fall. Refuse to shrug off the searing heat of his touch. I refuse to be weak, breakable, addict Lovely. But Tino is waiting for an answer. His earnest expression urges me on as he waits with unending patience. Like old times. Denying the tears their spill, I give what I hope is a firm nod.
‘Lee.’ He coaxes my name forth before pulling me into a hug.
The sensation makes my skin itch. I half want to melt into him, allow myself the comfort, while my more rational side calls for me to run screaming. The irrational side wins. Closing my eyes, I steady myself, accepting the embrace, assuring myself that this is Tino. He’s different. Tino was the only one who never called me crazy. He didn’t let my brain damage change his friendship with me. He alone didn’t recoil from the change that left me a ghost of who I was. Putting a distance between us was never something he desired. I did. His kindness was like a burning brand, too much to bear. I pushed him away.
Because I was too scared to live.
Because I was too scared to die.
Too terrified of what the accident had done to me. My brain damage had led my own sight to betray me, paving my way into insanity.
With my fingers on his waist, heating a little at the firmness of his muscles, I put my friend at arm’s length once more and school my face into what I hope is a mask of indifference as goose bumps fire down the left side of my body. Creeping dread rises in my throat like bile, bitter, raking my gaze over puffy eyes, ill-fitting suits, and day-old stubble, searching for tell-tale signs of decay. An eyeball hanging from its socket or a cheek rotted through, the pooling of rancid water across the worn shagpile carpet. Anything.
‘Lee!’
My hand flies to my chest, and I jump a foot away from the life-filled face of Tino, his concerned expression searching my own.
‘I’m sorry, what?’
Recovering, I do a sweep of the room, smoothing the hairs on the back of my neck. False alarm.
‘Where’d you go?’ he chuckles, though his preoccupation with restacking his abandoned paper plate gives away his nerves. He peruses the selection of dips, waiting for me to compose myself.
For lack of anything better to do, I pull my phone from my handbag and give him my new number along with a promise that we’ll catch up soon. A real catch-up somewhere that isn’t my father’s funeral.
And then I chance a glance over my shoulder.
My back hits the flimsy wooden front door of my flat, my head dropping with the thud of exhaustion. An involuntary sigh leaves me. The heaviness of the day is like a lead weight around my neck, and I’m glad to be in the darkness of my own home. A tiny sanctuary. My place to hide from the world.
Not bothering to turn on the lights, I splay my fingers out in front of myself and allow my instinct to guide me across the room. Faint outlines of furniture blur to black as I navigate my way to the kitchen. I yank open the fridge door, the golden glow within illuminating the unseen corners of the flat. It could be sunlight basking on my face. These days I operate in near-exclusive darkness; truth be told, I find a neon sun suits me well.
On a regular evening, I’d be heading to work. Nights that are spent strolling abandoned hallways, checking in on residents who cry out, or making tea for those whose day has become confused with night. I love to talk to these people best of all. Already half out of this world, they speak of their mothers long passed as if they were with them yesterday. They call me sweet girl, and sometimes they cry because they are unable to remember. All they want is to remember. In return, I tell them I wish to forget, that remembering isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. They smile. Gap-toothed, wrinkled grins. I assure them that I will remember them. All of them. They’re always calmer after we speak. I calm what troubles their ailing mind. It seems I’ve found a use in this messed-up world.
Scanning the contents of my fridge, I gaze at the Tupperware that sits in size-ordered stacks, labelled with contents and dates. Structure has been important for my recovery. It’s been a weird day, burying my father. My head hurts from having to have conversations that are expected to make sense. I long to lose myself into another world of one of my residents, suspended in time and space. Exist there with them for a while. To not be Lovely for a moment.
The world is out of sync, I haven’t eaten all day. My mind wanders, which is a dangerous activity for a mind like mine. A grief I wasn’t expecting wraps around me, its hands hard on my heart. Melancholy seeps into my pores as I contemplate the world now existing without my dad in it. We hadn’t spoken in a year. I’d removed him from my life. Our relationship had deteriorated to one solely of pain.
And yet.
And yet.
His absence from this world is devastating. Grief tightens its grip.
The tears drip and roll, shining in the glow of my refrigerator, falling like muted raindrops to the floor. The carefully erected partitions in my brain which allow me to function slip, then slide out of place.
Depraved instinct takes over, and I raid the fridge. First, cooked chicken prepared for dinner. I devour it, letting the tears slide down my face as I methodically consume each delicious bite, sucking my fingers before moving on to my precooked rice. I shovel it into my mouth until it’s gone, pausing to take a long glug of milk before continuing with what’s next in the fridge. A block of cheese, followed by a jar of pickles. My sobs are the only noise permeating the crunching and swallowing. I scoop out the entire contents of the butter tub with my fingers, letting it slide down my throat.
After two hours of continuous gluttony, everything is gone from the fridge, every morsel of food, every condiment. My hunger isn’t even close to satiated.
When it’s all gone, I cease crying.
I peer at the mess that is my dress, at its sweet ornateness now smeared with milk and mustard and juice from strawberries. Shame—it was a nice dress.
Closing the fridge door, I’m plunged into darkness once more. My own languid fingers coast over the smooth surface of the counter, as if in a dance of seduction. When I turn the oven on, a new lesser glow is cast over the dark kitchen space as I meander to the freezer and stack boxes of frozen food one atop another. The fleeting thought occurs to me that in the morning, I’ll be irritated with myself. I’ll need to go shopping again, precook and plan an entire week’s worth of food. But I’m too far gone to stop. I empty an entire bag of oven chips onto a tray. Crunching through a few of them frozen, they shatter between my teeth, cooling my hot grief, before I throw them into the oven.
A psychologist once told me the compulsion to eat was to do with the trauma of my brain damage, although the extremity of the repercussions I experienced was something they hadn’t witnessed before. I can eat an entire kitchen’s worth of food in one sitting. My parents learned to not buy any more than a week’s worth of food at a time in case I had an episode and demolished everything in sight. When I was using, things got better, one compulsion replacing another. Strange how, as things got worse, my parents missed the days when eating all their food was my one vice. Life can only be appreciated in reverse, but you have to live it forward. Someone said that to me once.
The wailing of the oven alarm breaks me out of my musings. Even though the chips are too hot and burn my mouth and throat, I welcome the blistering heat, sores instantly peeling the fleshy skin away from the inside of my cheek. Something to fight off the chill in my bones. I shove more burning chips unceremoniously into my mouth as I fling the next thing into the oven, also without ceremony.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
My kitchen tap is dripping, the sound like an ice pick to my skull.
The potato I’m chewing congeals into a lump in my throat, refusing to be swallowed. Closing my eyes tight, I force the food down. No. I stomp over to the sink to tighten the tap until my palm turns pink with the effort. Just no, not today.
Why is the food taking so long?
I grab the tray of what I believe is fish fingers out of the oven without pausing, the tips of my fingers searing in agony. With a mixture of a gasp and a cry, I throw the tray, along with all the hot food, to the floor. The tears rise again, and I crumple to my knees, my bones crunching on the hard linoleum. My burned fingers search for the food on the floor, then hastily shove it into my mouth when they find it, causing hot tears that have nothing to do with grief to cascade over my cheeks. My mouth blisters and fills with blood and scorching pain.
And the kitchen tap is still going drip, drip, drip.
Jamming myself against the cabinets, I cry out against the food stuffed in my mouth. I push the heels of my palms into my eye sockets until my vision is littered with stars. My chest heaves as I struggle to swallow all the food half masticated in my mouth. Sensation filled with dread rattles my every cell, the dreaded dripping sound slows, and my vision blurs in a hazy terror.
I’m having an episode, I tell myself, trying, against hope, to bring it under control. Triggered by the emotion of the funeral. My fingers slip into my hair, pulling it free of its braid as my world shivers, then shakes, all while I utter useless breathing exercises to myself.
It’s not real.
It’s not real.
It’s not real.
I shouldn’t look, but I always do. The invisible shuddering is colossal, like the belly of the earth is opening, ready to swallow me whole. But as I peek through my fingers, the world appears normal, and my kitchen remains intact.
The tremors are not real, I tell myself, forcing myself to acknowledge the figure looming into view in my home. Get it over with, Lee. Though I’m not prepared for the impossibility of what my eyes are telling me.
Bloodcurdling screams rip through every corner of my flat. It takes a moment to recognise them as my own.
* * *
The street is deserted at this time of foxes and thieves. I pound my palm on the familiar red front door, glancing furtively around the abandoned city’s edge. I hope Tino still lives with his mom. Rain bounces off my face, the water catching the orange glow of the streetlights in an unnatural way. Alone here, there’s nothing anchoring me in this wet amber world. I might be here bashing my fist against the door of a friend, or I might already be dead, lost to this world. Shuddering, I pound some more, chest flat against the wood, as if melting my way through it were possible if I wished hard enough.
The rain.
I wish it would stop raining.
I wish I could escape water.
Please be here, Tino.
Desperation floods my body. I’m glad the rain masks my frantic tears as I slump against the door, clutching my chest, my chattering teeth reverberating in the silence of the early hours. The weakest of desires to find comfort in a friend spools through me, undoes me. Someone. Anyone.
Save me.
How is it possible to drown on my feet?
The front door of the slim terrace house swings open, and Tino’s mother stands in the doorway, her expression frozen as if I’m a mad person, which is a fair assessment. Keeping my hand clutched to my chest, all I’m capable of is blinking at her in the rain, with my wild hair tamed by the downpour and plastered to my face. No words come. I grimace through my tears, my teeth now clenched.
‘Oh, bella.’ Her voice is soft—as soft as a duvet I long to throw over myself, resurfacing in a few hundred years. She doesn’t hesitate to step out into the hammering wetness and take me in her arms.
What it is to be held. And to be held so tenderly. I thaw, crying into her hair, letting myself melt into her embrace for a moment before I pull away. If I stay there, I might dissolve entirely.
The concern doesn’t leave her face as she pulls me into the hallway. Her eyes rake over my soaked dress clinging to my frail frame, her expression turning a fraction darker, but she doesn’t give voice to any of her tumultuous assumptions. Instead, she bellows Tino’s name so loudly, I almost cover my ears.
In the shelter of Tino’s mother’s house, the world settles around me. I embrace the calm it brings. Pushing my drenched hair from my face, I’ve made it a few steps towards the front room when Tino’s heavy tread falls frantically on the stairs.
‘Ma! Ma! What is it? What’s wrong?’ He stops dead at the sight of me, his face changing from concern to absolute bewilderment.
I peer at him in my washed-away Victorian dress, still clutching my chest as if I may split in half otherwise. Boy, I really nailed the drama he implied earlier. Tino stands statue still, wearing only his boxers while regarding this strange scene. Despite all my panic, colour heats my cheeks. I haven’t seen Tino in a state of undress since we were kids. His legs are so long now, balanced by broad shoulders, faint traces of a six-pack rippling within his abdomen. As we stare at each other, I sense rather than witness the embarrassment against his dark skin. He’s the perfect mix of both of his parents: the same thick Italian hair of his mom that he wears a little long and brushed to one side in perfect complement to the dark skin of his Congolese dad. His amber-hazel irises are his own. Tino’s beauty hits me with a sudden shock, as if I’m seeing him for the first time now that I’m no longer tangled in the trappings of adolescence or a drug-fuelled haze.
He crosses the hall in two quick strides and takes me by the shoulders, staring deep into my eyes as if their depths will reveal my secrets. ‘Lee, what’s wrong? What’s happened?’
The weight of his stare and the concern in his visage is almost too much, almost crushing in itself. A wave of unfamiliar emotion crashes around in my stomach as the heat of his palms sears through the sodden material of my dress. If I could melt, I would—melt away into nothing. Simply evanesce into his being.
‘Lee.’ He shakes me a little, sinking his head to move closer by a fraction so his face draws level with my own, making it impossible not to notice the inviting curve of his lower lip.
‘Do you think it might be true?’ The words stick to the roof of my mouth before leaving my lips, sounding strange in the dead of night.
Tino stares for an eternity, serious, not his usual self, absorbing my question until he straightens.
‘Wait here,’ he tells me before walking past his mom and taking the stairs two at a time.
She mutters something in Italian to him that’s beyond my understanding, and in return he tells her she should go back to bed. She gives me a tender pat on the arm, ushering me into their living room before ascending the stairs.
Being so alone in Tino’s front room, icy coldness seeps into my skin. I wrap my arms around myself. Thankfully, the drenching from the rain made the stains inconspicuous on the front of my dress. I hadn’t waited to change or grab a coat. I fled my flat and got in my car before driving all the way here like a woman possessed.
Tino appears in the doorway, fully clothed now, holding more garments clutched in his grasp, caution caught in his gaze as his eyes search my body. The sudden scrutiny makes me blush again.
‘Sorry, Lee. It’s obvious you have no pockets or anything, but….’
‘I’m not….’ I swallow hard. ‘I haven’t relapsed.’
He nods with a certain carefulness and steps towards me, holding out a jumper and jogging bottoms. ‘You should change. You’re shaking.’
I don’t respond. Instead, I bow my head, burning with shame, though I’ve done nothing to earn it. After taking the clothes from him, I proceed to shuffle to the bathroom to change. Being in his home again is a strange sensation, so familiar, yet under the cloak of the early hours of the morning, there’s a stark chill about it. Keeping the lights in the bathroom off, I peel my dress from my cool body, thankful when the downy material of Tino’s jumper slides against my skin. Lifting the front of the soft fabric to my nose, I inhale. It smells like fresh laundry, all comforting warmth. When I smooth the sleeve against my cheek, the panic ebbs out of my chest. I slip on his jogging bottoms and roll the waistband over a few times.
As quietly as possible, I pad downstairs and peek into the kitchen as Tino potters around, his strong features more relaxed now in the mellow glow.
When he catches sight of me in his clothes, his smile warms me further. ‘They suit you,’ he says.
‘Thank you. Even changing out of those clothes has made all the difference.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
The rich aroma of the drink settles me even further as I watch my friend move around the kitchen with a graceful ease. My psyche floats back down to earth, rooted around Tino, someone from my life before. I almost lose my nerve to ask my burning question again when he passes me my mug of coffee, leaning against the counter to better assess me.
He beats me to it when he returns to my earlier question. ‘Do I think what might be true?’
I take a moment to glance at him, although I return my stare to my coffee as I admit, ‘You were the only one who never called me crazy. Who didn’t treat me like a pariah. I never thanked you for your kindness, Tee.’
His silence permeates the air between us. I chance bringing my eyes to his, but he doesn’t respond to my thanks. Instead, he holds my gaze, waiting for me to go on.
I blow a little on my coffee, attempting nonchalance. ‘Did you ever believe me, or was kindness the total sum of it?’
‘Lee. I’m so not qualified,’ he says, putting his own coffee to one side.
‘When I had an episode—’ I train my gaze on him, and for its loneliness, the distance between us in this moment could be an expanse of ocean. ‘—when I told you I had visions of the dead reaching out to me. Did you ever consider if they were real?’
Tino stares at me hard before dragging his palm over his face. ‘What happened, Lee? Why now?’
Going back to pretending like my coffee is the most interesting thing on the planet, only my shaking body sends ripples across its surface. His avoidance of the question should be answer enough. He never believed it for a moment. He was merely being himself—too kind, too understanding.
‘Please answer the question,’ I probe regardless.
His pause is so long and so loaded, I assume he isn’t going to answer. When his feet come into view with an urgent step, his hand forming a delicate cradle on the side of my face, my eyelids flutter closed. The caress is so gentle that for someone like me, it comes harsh against my skin, it’s so alien.
His voice is just as reassuring. ‘I know it was very, very real for you. I’m not going to pretend to understand.’
‘I saw him tonight, Tee.’ My voice trembles. ‘It’s never been someone related to me before. My own dad’s corpse was in the middle of my kitchen, dead and wretched and reanimated.’ I tear my gaze from Tino’s to stare at his chest. ‘He was terrified, and his eyes…. They were so like his. It was so real. Something inside me clicked.’ Tino moves his arms around me, and my breath catches at the grim admittance of my reality. I confess, ‘What if all this time, it’s been real, and it wasn’t brain damage alone? What if those people needed me, and my response was what? To do nothing? To get so high that I hoped to drown them out?’
The grip of hysteria fizzes at my edges, my body shaking so violently that Tino removes the cup from my fingers and puts it on the counter before bringing me into a tight embrace. For a moment my body goes rigid before relaxing into it, and I allow myself to collapse into him a little.
Tino grasps the top of my arms to return my attention to him. ‘This is all so fresh. Your dad died. You’re exhausted. It’s normal to grieve him.’
My body slackens a little in his grip. ‘You don’t believe me.’
‘It’s a big leap of faith you’re asking me to make here. You’ve been absent from my life for over a year.’
Something stirs within me, a certainty. I wiggle from his grasp, and then I curl my freezing fingers around the warmth of his own.
‘I’m asking you to entertain the possibility,’ I implore him. ‘It was my dad, Tee. I could feel him. All this time, I’ve been ignoring them, and they need something from me. My dad needs me now.’
His eyes search mine, perhaps for any signs that I’m high or lying or possibly crazy.
I am crazy.
I bat the paranoia away. It was an episode, nothing more.
Stop. It’s not the time for my brain to turn on itself.
Tino steps away from me, dragging his hand down his face. Processing. Then he says, ‘Let’s say for a moment this is real. Let’s say you were visited by your dad tonight. If he needs your help, what comes after? How do you help the dead?’
He waits, standing in the kitchen where we both spent much of our childhood, cast in the merciful trappings of a new dawn, for me to have answers.
‘I have no idea,’ I breathe, and he flaps his arms at his sides in consternation. Annoyed, I pop my hip at him. ‘You were the one who said you would have been there for me when I left before. My mistake to assume…. It’s been so long….’ The words crumble into nothing in my mouth.
Tino’s expression turns to one of defeat. ‘Of course I’m here for you, Lovely.’ He never calls me by my real name. Then his expression turns clement. ‘We’ll figure this out.’
Stiffness lingers in my neck muscles as I gingerly rise to sit, blinking as I take in my surroundings. The accusing stare of daylight filters in through the net curtains. What happened last night returns to me in a haze. Exhaustion finally sank its claws in, and I fell asleep on Tino’s sofa after he agreed to help me figure out how to contact my dad.
My dad. My dead dad.
I push my head into my hands. I’m having an episode, aren’t I?
Fingering the edge of Tino’s jumper, I tease it over my wrist, my heart beating in double time. I almost don’t want to look, but I should check. Maybe if there’s clear evidence of a relapse, whether I’m in the grips of psychosis or not would become clearer to me. But I don’t get there before the living room door bangs open, bringing Tino in. I shove the sleeve down to its original position near my thumb.
‘Did you manage to sleep?’ he asks, the corners of his mouth betraying a smile as he takes in my appearance.
I nod, trying to smooth out the mat of my waist-length curls that is now bunched up on one side of my head. It must resemble more of a bird’s nest than hair right now. I pull my knees under me, trying to make myself small.
‘Glad to hear it.’
For the first time, I take in what Tino is wearing: a black uniform complete with heavy-duty trousers, boots, and a black shirt with a thick black vest over the top. ‘You work security?’
‘Who would have thought it?’ He grins, checking his reflection in the baroque mirror above the fireplace, sliding his fingers through already perfect hair.
‘You always preferred starting fights, if I remember right,’ I tease him.
‘No, Lee, you’re remembering wrong. I liked finishing fights—there’s a difference.’ He winks.
‘Right.’ Staring at the floor, I fiddle with my nails. ‘Tee, is it okay if I stay here while you’re at work?’
His surprised expression is enough to make me laugh, almost. ‘You want to hang here with my ma?’
Embarrassment creeps in, and I drop my gaze. ‘I’d love to, actually. I don’t believe I should be on my own right now.’ I wish my body would cave in on itself and disappear as he scrutinizes my person, assessing me. What should he do? Am I going to snap, escape, relapse, run away? All fair assumptions.
You should run far away, Tino, I think.
My own patheticness must be tangible, because his voice is all sympathy when he says, ‘Of course—please stay. For as long as you want.’
His eyes are so warm, I’d like to lose myself in them. This past year has left its mark on him, coupled with our drifting apart during my drugs love affair. He’s not the skinny teenager who was always fighting my battles for me. Or trying to, at least.
He clears his throat, taking a step away from me while pointing his thumb at the door. ‘I have to get to work, but stay, relax. I’m sure my ma will love cooking you a three-course meal for breakfast.’
The colour rises in my face as I recall how I ate almost every piece of food I own last night, but yes, I’m so ravenous, a three-course breakfast wouldn’t stand a chance against me right now.
‘When I get home, we’ll talk about what to do next,’ he adds when I don’t respond.
‘Thanks, Tee,’ I say, weak with relief.
He edges towards the door, unsure if he should leave. He must give me more credit than I deserve, because he ducks his head and exits the house.
* * *
Tino’s right—his mom relishes having me here. I sit with a stack of three fluffy pancakes in front of me, covered in butter, syrup, and sliced bananas with both a glass of orange juice and a cup of tea on the side. I make a pointed effort to use the cutlery, take my time, and not devour it with bare fingers like I wish to. Rose sits opposite with a careful expression, cup of coffee in hand. I don’t mind the silence between us. I’m almost sorry when she breaks it.
‘Was it an episode, dear?’ she asks quietly.
My chewing slows as I meet her gaze. I whisper a yes.
‘Stay for as long as you like.’
‘Thank you’ is all I say, avoiding her sympathetic expression by taking a long drink of tea.
‘It’s funny,’ she continues after another silence, ‘your uncle had a “sighting” once when he was younger—much younger. Before you were born. The ghost of his mother flashed before him not long after she passed.’
I’m unable to conceal my shock. A choke leaves my throat, my cutlery clatters to the table, and tea all but splutters from my nostrils. ‘Why did no one tell me about this?’
Pushing her long hair off her face, she gazes out the window, her expression becoming distant. ‘It was nothing more than a story, one that came out after a few drinks in the pub. An amusing story is all. Just….’ Her eyes take on a wistful sheen. ‘Sometimes I wonder how much tragedy one family should suffer.’
But I’m on my feet, scrambling around for my car keys. ‘No one told me. No one ever said a word, Rose.’
Where are those goddamn keys? After everything I’d been through during those early days, when I cried over ghosts before I learned my lesson and stopped talking about the dead I’d dragged out of hell with me—why did no one stop and think about how my uncle had seen one too?
‘Honey.’ She stands now, trepidation rising in her voice. ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you.’
Pulling my car keys out of the crack in the sofa, I turn to Rose. ‘Tell Tino I’ll be back.’
I fly out the door and into my car, not bothering to buckle my seatbelt. It’s over an hour’s drive to my uncle’s farm. I haven’t been there since I was a kid—before my accident, before his son died. I didn’t even speak to him at my dad’s funeral. The road is long, and as the journey progresses, calm does not descend. Instead, cortisol floods my body, sending my knuckles white in their grip on the steering wheel until it’s nothing but winding country roads and single-track lanes, not another house for miles. Nothing like the busy Birmingham streets I’m used to.
The farm is cast in quiet as I make my way along the seemingly endless drive, still wearing Tino’s oversized clothes, my untamed hair whipped by the wind. The farm is eerily quiet. Usually there’s a Timms running about, tossing a hay bale. Or at least a chicken on the loose, clucking across the yard. But as I park and ease out of the car, the windows look dark, the farmhouse cold. Only the clinking of the metal gate that leads to the fields below rings through the crisp air. I knock on the door, unsure of myself now that I’m here. What exactly am I going to ask him—‘Are you visited by the dead too? How could you leave me believing myself insane when you see them?’ The weight of the accusation sits heavy in my chest. If he shares my visions or believes it’s even a possibility, he’s never given voice to those beliefs, never attempted to reach out to me.
I’m just about to turn around to leave when the door opens. ‘Lovely?’
I peer into those piercing blue eyes. His voice is so like my dad’s that grief rubs rough against my soul.
‘Jacob, I was hoping we might talk?’ I squeak.
He continues to appraise me, not saying anything more, instead opening the door wide for me to come in before leading me into the kitchen. All sorts of vegetables are stacked high on the counter, potatoes and carrots caked in earth. Muddy wellington boots line the wall by the door. Signs of a busy family life are scattered across the vibrant room. The coldness of the outside was all in my head. I’m so terribly tired of seeing what is impossible for others to behold.
Jacob puts the kettle on the hob before moving to fetch the biscuit tin from a high shelf and sliding it across the table in my direction. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the others. They’re in Cambridge visiting Jen.’
‘It’s okay. It’s you I wanted to speak to anyway,’ I tell him as I open the biscuit tin, perusing his selection of treats.
He leans against the counter, crossing his arms before bowing his head, silently urging me on.
‘I’m sorry to spring a visit on you so suddenly,’ I say, turning a custard cream over in my fingers.
‘It’s okay, Lee. Tell me what’s on your mind.’
As I crunch through the biscuit, words whirl round my mind. I attempt to conjure an explanation for my sudden visit without sounding like I’ve lost my marbles. ‘I was talking to Rose this morning. You remember Tino’s mom?’
‘Of course.’
‘She was saying—’ I falter, remembering her question. ‘Was it an episode, dear?’ I swipe at the doubt in my mind and push on. ‘She told me….’ My mouth is so dry, instinct screams at me to leave. ‘What she said was….’
Jacob’s silence is deafening.
This is a bad idea.
‘Actually, Jacob, so silly of me—there’s somewhere I need to be. Thanks for the biscuits.’
I snatch another from the tin and attempt to make my getaway, but Jacob cuts me off before I arrive at the door. ‘You came here to talk, so talk. What did Rose tell you?’
Faltering once more, I bring my gaze to his too-blue eyes, encountering the same knowing look my father wore. ‘She told me you had a vision once—something that appeared to be a ghost. Is it true?’
Jacob releases a big sigh, letting me out from under his stare. ‘I did, once.’ He paces into the belly of the kitchen, where he places his palms on the table, his back to me.
My heart thunders. ‘How come you never mentioned anything?’ I should be furious, but more than anything, I want to know how he could leave me so alone.
Jacob’s head hangs, and he speaks to the table. ‘Because I didn’t believe it mattered. What happened to you was mere months before Brady died. By the time your parents had revealed the true extent of the problems you were facing, I was in a dark place. I’d just lost my boy. Besides, my own apparition happened such a long time ago, and only once—nothing like what you were going through. Lee, trust me, if I believed my experience would have helped you as the years went on, I’d have brought it up. I didn’t want to confuse the situation further.’
Swallowing several gulps, I force the words out. ‘Rose told me it was your mother.’
‘Yes,’ he whispers.
‘Did—’ My voice cracks. ‘Did she appear wet?’
Jacob swivels on his heel, agog, his eyes widening. ‘How did you know that?’
My chest convulses, fresh pain ripping through it. I cross the kitchen in two strides before sitting at the table and throwing my head into my hands. For the second time in two days, I cry uncontrollable, loud sobs for the last four years of a life of pain riddled with insanity and nothing but self-doubt—other than the certainty that I’m crazy. Numbness. More pain. The dead stretching their awful, dripping fingers towards me.
Every cut.
Every dose.
‘Jacob, why didn’t you tell me you had a vision?’ I cry.
His grip comes heavy on my shoulder, clearly intended to be comforting, but I jerk from his grasp. It’s unbearable to be touched right now.
‘Lee, I didn’t…. You were having so many episodes…. I didn’t….’
‘They’re always sodden.’ My voice shakes. ‘It’s how they appear to me. I assumed it was related to the trauma from when I drowned, which explained why they seem to have drowned too. But when your mother visited you, she looked wet, too, didn’t she?’
Jacob takes a seat opposite, easing himself into the chair, his eyes never leaving mine. He examines me as if I’ve changed my very form.
‘It was over before I knew it. Happened in the blink of an eye. When my mom died, I didn’t get to the hospital in time, never had the chance to say goodbye to her. It rained the whole journey home. When she appeared, it was for a split second. In the moment, I forgot she was dead. I thought she must have got caught in the rain. Then she was gone, and the fact that she died hit me all over again. When I did tell people, I described it as how she came to me to say farewell. For me, it wasn’t terror—it was comfort. She came to say goodbye when I couldn’t.’
Jacob slides his hands over to mine, but I avoid his consolation with a swift jolt.
‘Lee, I’m so sorry. If I had known….’ I briskly brush the tears off my face as Jacob pulls himself upright to regard me with mild horror, his words dying on his lips for a moment before he fumbles on further. ‘All those people…. You mean to say that all this time…. How many?’
A coldness settles over me, the chill in my marrow offering a certain detachment. I shrug. ‘Hundreds.’
‘Hundreds,’ he repeats in the barest whisper. ‘Why? Why you?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. But they obviously needed my assistance in some way, yet I’ve ignored them. For four years I have told myself I’m traumatised, living with brain damage and psychosis. Listened when doctors, friends, and even my own family have told me I’m crazy. I have been dying for the past four years, chased by hallucinations no number of drugs, prescription or otherwise, had any hope of slowing down. When one word from you—one word—would have helped me so much. I would have known I wasn’t alone. And I’ve been so alone, Jacob.’
My chest heaves, and as my brain spins, passing out is a real possibility. The truth. The truth is such a weird thing. The truth will set you free—that’s what they say. The truth will set me free. But that isn’t the case. For some reason, my truth makes me nauseous.
It was all real.
It is all real.
‘I saw my mother once, Lovely. I explained it away as comfort. Truth be told, I’m not sure if I ever believed in it or if my mind needed to do something to bring me peace after she passed. Something to ease the guilt.’
‘Did Brady visit you?’
Jacob stills. ‘No.’
His cheeks become wet with tears while I garner the courage to speak. Several seconds pass before the words come. ‘My dad came for me last night. I need to help him. He…. They…. What if they need my help?’
Jacob swallows hard, and when he rises, it’s so sudden, it makes me jump backwards. He gives a few sharp sniffs while nodding. ‘There’s someone you should talk to.’
My pulse quickens as I wait for him to go on, and I pick at the healed wound on my fingernail.
‘I keep in contact with some of Brady’s old friends. Most are local, but a friend of his lives in the States now.’ He shakes his head, smiling a fraction as he pulls out his phone followed by a piece of paper. ‘She leads a different type of lifestyle these days. A free spirit. You’re not going to find answers from me or around here.’
He scribbles something on the paper before sliding it across the surface of the table to me.
I examine the information on the paper, finding a simple name paired with a phone number. ‘She knows about this stuff?’ I ask.
‘Lorna might be able to help. I’m a practical man. I don’t pretend to understand how everything works in this world, but I’ve had many people taken from my life too soon. I have to believe there’s something more.’
My throat becomes coated with grief. His son and I were the same age. Brady was barely eighteen when he died. Our families were wrecked. My near-death experience followed by all the terrible repercussions of brain damage, and then Brady had a fatal car crash under a year later. Only, I got to live, while he didn’t.
Examining the paper in my fingers, I scrutinize Jacob’s tight scrawl.
‘Speak to Lorna,’ he says after a while. ‘I’m sure she understands more than I do.’
* * *
When I arrive at Tino’s some hours later, I check my phone to find five missed calls from him. I take the piece of paper with Lorna’s number on it from my pocket, and I thumb the thick graphite of the pencil markings.
What did Jacob mean by ‘different lifestyle’? Even more, do I really want to go down this rabbit hole?
I hit Redial on Tino’s number, and when he answers, I tell him I’m in the car outside and ask if he’ll come out. Minutes later he’s in the passenger seat next to me. Heat radiates from him, filling the enclosed space, the condensation his presence provides giving us privacy.
‘Jesus, Lee, you just took off. I was so worried.’
‘Sorry.’ I stare straight ahead through the sweating windscreen. The street is much busier now with people arriving home from work, the jubilant shouts of children ringing through the air as they scamper home. ‘I had to go talk to my uncle.’
‘And?’
I pass him the scrap of paper, not needing to meet his eyes, as his stare burns into me before he takes a moment to inspect it.
‘Ah, of course. This makes sense,’ he says wryly and shakes his head. ‘What am I looking at here? A number? Who is she?’
‘A friend of my cousin, apparently. I never met her, though.’
‘Your cousin who died?’
I nod.
‘Sorry, am I missing something?’
Sighing, I say, ‘According to Jacob, she’s someone who has the know-how to help.’
‘Help you contact your dad?’
‘Yep.’
A kaleidoscope of confusion flitters across his face. ‘How on earth does your uncle have the number of someone in contact with the dead?’
Exhausted and inescapably hungry, I give my head a noncommittal shake. ‘No idea. But it’s our only lead right now.’
Tino shoves the scrap of paper back into my hands. ‘Well, for God’s sake, call her, then. The suspense is killing me.’
Daughter of the Drowned by Kerry Williams | Copyright © Kerry WIlliams 2024
