Finding Audrey (24 page)

She breaks off as Dad appears, breathless, holding his mobile.

DAD

They’ve found her. In the park. Asleep. She was hidden away, behind a . . . We must have missed her . . .

He can barely form his words.

DAD

They’ve got her.

The weird thing is, I lost my sunglasses that night and I didn’t even notice until Dad suddenly said, ‘Audrey! You’re not wearing your dark glasses!’

And I wasn’t. My eyes were bare. After all those months. And it took Dad to point it out to me.

We were in the police waiting room at the time and the nice policewoman, Sinead, got the wrong end of the stick and thought we were complaining and that we’d lost a pair of dark glasses on the premises. It took a while for us to explain that I didn’t
want
them back.

And I don’t. I’m good the way I am. The world seems lighter, although I don’t know if that’s because of the dark glasses or because I’m back on my meds. For now. Dr Sarah gave me this whole great lecture about the dangers of coming off meds without supervision and how it can cause dizziness (check) and a racing heart (check) and loads of other symptoms, and I must promise never to do it again. Which I did.

The stuff she gave me kind of knocked me out so I’ve been sleeping a lot these last two days, but everyone’s come into my room to see me, like, all the time. To make sure I’m still here, I guess.

Dad has told me about the new song he’s writing, and Frank has shown me endless YouTube clips of knife skills (which he is getting very boring about) and Felix has told me he cut the hair of his friend Ben at school and Ben cried. This is apparently true, according to Dad, but Felix maintains that Ben cried ‘because he was
happy
’.

Mum’s been in to see me the most. She sat on my bed all afternoon and we watched
Little Women
, which is, like, the perfect movie to watch with your mum when you’re in bed, feeling a bit weird. (The old one with Elizabeth Taylor, in case you’re wondering.)

While we were watching, we decorated these handbags we’d made out of felt yesterday. This is Mum’s new thing: she buys little craft projects and we make them together. Neither of us is very good at it, but . . . you know. It’s nice. It’s relaxing. It’s not
about
anything. And Mum just sits on my bed, hanging out, not looking anxiously around the room, not trying to get clues to my thoughts. I don’t think she needs clues any more. She knows. Or at least, she knows enough.

It was while I was trying to glue an appliqué star onto the front of my bag that I said, ‘Mum, why don’t you go back to work?’

Mum kind of stiffened. She carefully looped a piece of ribbon into a bow and stapled it before looking up and saying, ‘Work?’

‘Yes, work. You haven’t been for ages. Not since . . .’ I trailed off.

‘Well, it’s been difficult.’ Mum gave a short laugh.

‘I know. But you’re brilliant at your job. And you win prizes and you wear great jackets . . .’

Mum threw back her head and laughed again. ‘Darling, you don’t go to work just to wear great jackets.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘Well, most of the time you don’t.’

‘You’re staying at home because of me, aren’t you?’ I persisted.

‘Sweetheart . . .’ Mum sighed. ‘I love being here with you. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.’

‘I know.’

There was silence and we watched as Jo turned down Laurie’s proposal, which, every time I watch it, I wish she would say yes.

‘But still, I think you should go back to work,’ I said. ‘You’re all shiny when you’re at work.’

‘
Shiny?
’ Mum seemed a bit taken aback.

‘Shiny. Like, super-mum.’

Mum looked incredibly touched. She blinked a few times and threaded another ribbon through the bow, and then said, ‘It’s not as simple as that, Audrey. I might have to travel – there are long hours – you’re starting a new school . . .’

‘So we’ll make it work,’ I said, as robustly as I could. ‘Mum, there’s no point me getting better if things don’t get better for all of us. I mean, we’ve
all
had a bad time, haven’t we?’

I’d been thinking about that all morning. About how it would be easy for me to get better and spring happily through the door, and leave Mum and Dad and Frank and Felix behind. But it shouldn’t be like that. We were all affected by what happened. We should all spring happily out of the door
together
.

Well, you know. Maybe Frank could slouch happily.

We watched for a while more in silence. Then Mum said, as though she was carrying on the same conversation, ‘Dr Sarah told me why you ditched your meds. You wanted to have a straight graph?’

My heart kind of sank. I had
really
not wanted to get onto the subject of meds. But I might have known it would come up.

‘I wanted to be better,’ I mumbled, feeling hot. ‘You know. Properly, one hundred per cent better. No meds, nothing.’

‘You
are
better.’ Mum put my face between her hands, just like she used to when I was a little girl. ‘Sweetheart, you’re so much better every week. I mean, you’re a different girl. You’re ninety per cent there. Ninety-five per cent. You must be able to see that.’

‘But I’m sick of this bloody jagged graph,’ I said in frustration. ‘You know, two steps up, one step down. It’s so
painful
. It’s so
slow
. It’s like this endless game of Snakes and Ladders.’

And Mum just looked at me as if she wanted to laugh or maybe cry, and she said, ‘But, Audrey, that’s what life is. We’re all on a jagged graph. I know I am. Up a bit, down a bit. That’s life.’

And then Jo met Professor Bhaer, so we had to watch that bit.

And then Beth died. So I guess the March sisters were on their own jagged graph too.

That night I come downstairs for a cup of hot chocolate and hear Dad saying, ‘Anne, I’ve ordered Frank a new laptop. There. I’ve said it. It’s done.’

Wow.

I creep forward and peer through the open door to see Mum almost drop her mug.

‘A new
laptop
?’

‘Second-hand. Excellent price. I went to Paul Taylor – he has some good deals—’ Dad breaks off at Mum’s expression. ‘Anne, OK. I know what we said. I
know
. But I can’t cope with the tension in this house any more. And Frank’s right, he does need the internet for his schoolwork, and he can hack into my emails, as we now know—’

‘I can’t believe you just went and did it.’

Mum is shaking her head, but she doesn’t sound quite as shrieky as I was expecting. In fact, she seems almost calm.

It’s eerie. I’m not sure I like Mum calm. She’s better all mad and voluble.

‘Is it
so
bad for Frank to play computer games once in a while?’ ventures Dad.

‘Oh, I don’t know, Chris.’ Mum rubs her face. ‘I don’t know any more. About anything.’

‘Well, nor do I.’ He pulls her in for a hug. ‘Anyway, I’ve got him a laptop.’

‘OK.’ Mum kind of subsides onto Dad and I can see how tired out she is. Frank said he’s never seen Mum like she was when I was missing. She was kind of grey, he said. And her eyes were flat inside, like their battery had died.

I’ll never get over doing that to them. But I’m not brooding. I’ve talked to Dr Sarah about it and we’ve agreed that the best way I can make it up to them is to stay well. Stay on my meds. Think healthful thoughts.

‘You remember that Christmas when they got ill?’ Mum says presently. ‘The year they were about two and three? Remember? And got poo all over their Christmas stockings, and it was
everywhere
, and we said, “It has to get easier than this”?’

‘I remember.’

‘We were cleaning it all up and we kept saying to each other, “When they get older, it’ll get easier.” Remember?’

‘I do.’ Dad looks fondly at her.

‘Well, bring back the poo.’ Mum begins to laugh, a bit hysterically. ‘I would do anything for a bit of poo right now.’

‘I dream of poo,’ says Dad firmly, and Mum laughs even more, till she’s wiping tears from her eyes.

And I back away, without making a sound. I’ll get my hot chocolate later.

And so the only piece left in the jigsaw is Linus. But it’s a big piece.

Frank just showed me the footage of Mum laying into Linus in the sitting room and I stared in total disbelief. First, I couldn’t believe Mum could blame Linus for anything. Second, I couldn’t believe he’d only just got my text. Third, I couldn’t believe he’d come over to see me.

So he hadn’t given up on me. He didn’t hate me. I hadn’t spoiled everything. I’d been wrong on pretty much everything. As I watched it for the second time I felt pretty sheepish and I could tell Mum felt even worse.

‘I
don’t
sound like that,’ she kept saying in horror. ‘I
didn’t
say that. Did I?’

‘You totally sound like that,’ said Frank. ‘You sound worse, actually. The camera was flattering.’

He was rubbing it in. She doesn’t sound
quite
as shrill as that in real life.

‘So, I need to apologize to Linus.’ She sighs.

‘So do I,’ I say quickly.

‘So do I,’ says Frank glumly.

‘
What?
’ Mum and I swivel to look at him.

‘We had a fight. About
LOC
. He was talking about the tournament and I got . . . well, jealous, I suppose.’

Frank looks like an overgrown schoolboy. He’s got ink on his hands and is staring miserably at his knees. He doesn’t know about the laptop yet, and I would love to whisper it in his ear to cheer him up, but I’ve had enough of going behind my parents’ backs. For now.

‘So.’ Mum is in her brisk mode again. ‘We all need to apologize to Linus.’

‘Mum, that’s all very well,’ I say in a flat tone. ‘But it’s too late. Linus’s parents are emigrating. He’s at the airport right now. We’ve missed our chance.’

‘
What?
’ Mum looks up as though scalded.

‘We could make the airport.’ Dad looks alertly at his watch. ‘Which airport? Anne, we’ll take your car.’

‘Which flight?’ demands Mum. ‘Audrey, which flight?’

What are my parents
like
? They’ve watched too many Richard Curtis films, that’s their trouble. They’ve gone soft in the head.

‘He’s not at the bloody
airport
!’ I expostulate. ‘I said that as a
joke
. Don’t you think you’d know if Linus was emigrating?’

‘Oh.’ Mum subsides, looking highly embarrassed. ‘OK. I just got carried away for a moment. What shall we do, then?’

‘Invite him to Starbucks,’ I say after a moment’s thought. ‘It needs to be at Starbucks. Frank, you text him.’

It’s actually pretty funny. When Linus arrives at Starbucks we’re all sitting there at one big table, the whole family, waiting for him. He looks totally unnerved, and for a moment I think he’s going to run away, but you know, Linus isn’t a runner-awayer. After about five seconds he comes forward resolutely and looks at us all in turn, especially Mum. And last of all me.

It takes him about thirty seconds to realize.

‘Your glasses!’

‘I know.’ I can’t help beaming.

‘When—?’

‘Dunno. They just fell off. And . . . here I am.’

‘So, Linus,’ says Mum. ‘We would all like to apologize to you. Frank?’

‘Sorry I got ratty, mate,’ says Frank, turning red.

‘Oh.’ Linus seems embarrassed. ‘Er . . . that’s OK.’

They bang fists together, then Frank turns to Mum.

‘Mum, your turn.’

‘OK.’ Mum clears her throat. ‘Linus, I’m very sorry I took my worries and fears out on you. I got completely the wrong end of the stick. I know how good you’ve been for Audrey and I can only apologize.’

‘Right. Um.’ Linus looks even more embarrassed. ‘Listen, you don’t have to do this,’ he says, looking around the family. ‘I know you were all stressed.’

‘We want to.’ Mum’s voice gives a sudden waver. ‘Linus, we’re all very fond of you. And I should
not
have shouted at you. It was a bad time, and I really am sorry.’

‘Sorry!’ chimes in Felix, who has been chomping on shortbread biscuits all this time. ‘We have to say sorry to Linus. Sorry, Linus.’ He beams. ‘Sorry, Linus.’

‘Felix, you’re fine,’ says Linus.

I can see Felix gazing at Linus, his dandelion-clock head on one side, as though trying to work out what we’re all doing here.

‘Did Mummy cut your hair?’ he says, as though he’s cracked it. ‘Did you cry? Ben cried because he was
happy
.’

‘Er, no, Felix, no one cut my hair,’ says Linus, looking baffled.

‘Ben cried because he was
happy
,’ reiterates Felix.

‘So that’s me,’ says Mum. ‘Chris? Your turn?’ She turns to Dad, who looks a little startled. I’m not sure he realized this was a go-round-the-table apology.

‘Er . . . hear, hear,’ he says. ‘What she said.’ He waves towards Mum. ‘Count me in on that. Understood?’

‘Understood,’ says Linus with a little smile.

‘And, Linus, we’d like to give you a little present to make amends,’ says Mum. ‘A little gift. Maybe a theatre outing . . . or a theme park? You choose.’

‘I can choose anything?’ Linus looks secretively from Mum to Dad. ‘Anything I want?’