Chapter 51 #2
Another memory now, there is the smell of popcorn.
I look down to my feet skipping then swooping over the grey carpet.
We stop, hand in a ticket. We’re at a cinema.
I’m high up. My hands being held by warm ones; shiny purple shoes bouncing against a chest. I can hear laughter and I turn, looking down from my place on someone’s shoulders.
A deep voice now.
Daddy.
Time to get down, Pumpkin.
Strong hands are under my armpits, there’s a rush of lightness as I’m lifted and placed on the floor.
They take hold of my small hands, nothing but love in their eyes, as they swing me forwards and backwards.
People I haven’t been able to picture my entire life are suddenly clear, like they’re on screen, in the same way as Riz’s memories were. Mum’s green eyes the same colour as mine, Daddy’s wild curly hair.
The lights dim, my hands clutching my cuddly fish, the seat throne-like to my small body, little hand dipping into Mum’s popcorn.
A car then.
It’s dark outside, fireworks off in the distance. I can feel the heat of the blowers, the swipe of the windscreen wipers. Dad’s voice:
Look.
A finger pointing towards the sky, Mum looking at me over her shoulder. I can taste something sweet on my tongue: cherry cola.
I watch Daddy’s hand move the gearstick. My feet in small polished purple shoes dancing from side to side. There is another boom of firework to my left. I throw Bruce forward:
Look, Mummy! A flying fish—
Sounds then.
Metal. Heat.
The world upside down. A tightening of a belt across my chest.
I gasp, a scream coming from my mouth long and low and high and short.
There is an emptiness in my chest.
I’m now in a room with white walls. A woman in a grey jumper and baggy black trousers leaning forwards:
Take all of those memories.
Hide them away until you’re ready to deal with them.
I don’t know who she is. I don’t like her. But I like the idea of not thinking about them. It hurts too much. I miss Mummy and Daddy.
On the wall are posters and pictures, one of them is an iceberg the shape of a volcano and a calm sea.
I like that. I want to be there, on that iceberg.
The woman’s voice drones in the background, but I’m picturing myself climbing on top of that iceberg, looking down into the cavity below.
I should be cold but I’m warm in my big fur coat and patent lilac shoes.
It can help to hold your worries and fears in your hand.
Imagine filling a bubble and blowing them away.
I’m cross at the woman. I don’t want to blow Mummy and Daddy away. I want them to wait for me. And the ice is pretty and cool. It will put out the fire; it will keep them safe.
Next to the photo of the iceberg is a cartoon picture of a boy.
He’s sitting cross-legged, a big smile on his face, the words: ‘Good Listening’ are written in jaunty handwriting.
I’m thinking about how happy the boy is.
Around him are words: Think. Know. Listen. I like the boy and want to be like him.
The woman is still talking, but my eyes have dropped to the sign above the sink. A hand inside a red circle and big red strikethrough and the words: Don’t Touch. Stay Safe.
Here, inside my flat, my hands want to release their grip on my arms, but I don’t let them. I take myself deeper into my past.
I’m a little older now.
I don’t remember a woman with curly hair and green eyes, or a man with me on his shoulders and a kind laugh.
Now I see other people’s homes. Images of my childhood flash by, things I’ve never looked at before: a warm hug from a foster mother, a robust laugh from a foster father playing Snap!
with me. A deep sadness pulls me away when I return to the children’s home.
Christmases, Easter egg hunts, and the feeling of being ripped away from the warmth and safety of a ready-made family on repeat.
Of not understanding why they say one thing and do another.
The tapestry of my childhood is made up of hundreds of stitches of hope, hope that this family would be the one to keep me; that maybe this time, I wouldn’t go back to the children’s home. Always living half a life, being half a person, half a daughter, half a sister.
I see kind families extending a helping hand towards me only to pass me back when the damage in me was exposed.
That quiet girl with big wide eyes and dimples who they let into their home soon became a child who would scream when kindness touched her, would push and kick when she couldn’t process what and who it was she could hear inside her infantile mind.
And so that little girl had learnt that the only way to protect herself from the cruelty of hope was to carve a space around her where hope couldn’t get in, where she wouldn’t get hurt, where she was the only person in control.
Where she could hear the truth, not the lies they said about being welcome. Wanted.
But I’m not that little girl any more.
A sharp pain rips through me. My body feels like it’s splitting in two but I wrap my hands tighter and tighter around myself, feeling and seeing everything that I’ve kept hidden from myself for so long.
I release my hands. Nausea rushes through my body, hands gripping the carpet. My body is aching, shaking, thick snot beneath my nose, my face wet.
That empty cold space inside me is flooding with warmth.
I was loved.
I was wanted.
I had a family.
There is a boom, a flash of white and then—