OUTSIDE - a post-apocalyptic novel

Chapter Four

Chapter Four - Riley

The days loom ahead like tall grey mountains. I wake each morning with the same agonising realisation and it takes every ounce of willpower to drag myself out of bed. Ma’s mountains must be even taller than mine because she rarely makes it out of bed at all.

On the morning of Skye’s funeral I feel a mixture of terror and relief. This is the day I’ve been dreading, but it’ll soon be over. I shower, dress and go downstairs. Pa says little, walking around with red-rimmed eyes and a translucent pallor to his normally healthy bronzed skin.

‘Where’s Ma?’ I ask.

‘Where d’you think?’

‘She can’t still be in bed. It’s today. She has to …’

‘I know,’ he interrupts. ‘We have to wake her up, get her dressed.’

‘God.’ The thought of dealing with Ma makes the funeral seem like a walk in the park. I force myself back up the stairs and into my parents’ bedroom. She’s lying curled up under the covers.

‘Hi, Ma. Are you okay? You have to get up.’

‘I mean, how could I not have known?’ she says, without opening her eyes. ‘How could I not have known my fourteen-year-old daughter wasn’t upstairs asleep in bed where she should have been? What kind of mother am I?’ Her eyes snap open.

‘Come on, Ma, you have to get up.’ I swoosh back the curtains and open the window, letting a warm summer breeze dilute the stale bedroom air.

‘Never mind she was only with Lucas Donovan!’ she continues. ‘He’s a hormonal boy and she’s a young girl.’

‘It’s not your fault, Ma,’ I say uselessly, knowing my words won’t stop her from berating herself over and over. She keeps ignoring my attempts to reassure her. ‘Come on, you really have to get ready. I’ve put your clothes on the chair.’

‘Come on,’ Pa echoes, walking into the room. ‘We can’t let Skye down today. We have to be strong.’

But she goes on and on, repeating the same things. Blaming herself, making Pa and me want to scream. We coax her out of bed and between us manage to get her dressed.

To my relief, Grandma and Grandpa finally arrive by helicopter. Grandma pays extra special attention to me and, although she hugs Ma close and kisses and strokes her hair, I can tell that she’s also cross with her for leaving me to fend for myself in my grief. Grandma’s appalled at the state Ma is in; by that I mean her drinking. They conduct all their conversations in rising whispers but I can hear them perfectly well.

It’s wonderful to have such gentle attention lavished upon me after the barrenness of the past few days and, in amongst my sorrow, I feel safer and calmer. I’m dreading my beloved Grandparents going back home.

Grandpa chides Grandma for being too hard on Ma.

‘She’s just lost her baby you know,’ he reminds.

‘Oh darling, I know. I‘m so sorry,’ cries Grandma and holds Ma close. Ma cries some more and clings onto her parents like they’re Skye come back from the dead. Grandpa just stands solidly there, looking very old and very sad.

The funeral service takes place beneath the fruit trees at the bottom of our garden. Close to three hundred people come to mourn and the whole day is slow-moving and surreal. I don’t remember much of the service. Only that there were people talking about me as if I wasn’t there, which I don’t suppose I was really.

In bed I finally weep for Skye. I cry and cry until sleep dries my tears.

The days drag on like stubborn weeds that refuse to be pulled and everything seems fuzzy and disjointed. Even our Collie-cross, Woolly, lies dejected at the back door, with his black nose resting on his paws and his eyes cast downwards.