Double Vision

Chapter Three

                  I couldn’t avoid Mum forever.

                  Though that much was obvious, it didn’t stop me trying. Archie dropped me home just after lunch; I was settled in front of the telly before two, all set to lose myself in pointless reality shows to stop my mind wandering anywhere else. This, it seemed, was another side effect of grief: when Reese was around, I had no interest in TV as infantile as Geordie Shore, rolling my eyes when she sat down religiously each week to tune in. And yet in the month I’d spent at home, faced with hours upon hours of free time, I’d gradually become sucked in too.

                  When I wanted to block everything out, it was always nice to have the option.

                  I had a couple of hours to myself before Mum came in, and then the peace was shattered. Not in a literal way, of course: she was as quiet as ever from the moment her key rattled in the door, and I barely heard her footsteps padding across the hallway carpet. The only thing that had me glancing over my shoulder was the reflection of her silhouette onscreen.

                  I knew how the conversation was going to go. There was no confrontational tone, no frowning; even her words had me wondering whether she was trying to extract information at all. Still, I knew better. It was nothing out of pattern; for the past month, she’d been burying her nose in self-help books like they were the only thing keeping her going. I wondered if she truly believed putting on a falsely bright tone and an unwavering smile would fill the gaping hole left in our family, like if she kept talking long enough we wouldn’t notice Reese’s empty space at the dinner table. I wasn’t even sure which words were her own anymore; it all sounded straight from the pages of Managing Your Mind or Fast Track to Your Future, Volume Two. I knew it was just how she coped – where I turned to the mind-numbing realm of reality TV, she found comfort in the words of people who had their lives together – but it was irritating all the same.

                  She persisted for five minutes, lowering herself onto the seat beside me, inching closer as if broaching the physical distance would affect the mental one too. The questions were calmly relentless; she wanted to know everything about my day. The more insignificant the matter, the more eager she was to ask; I felt battered by questions about lessons I could barely remember, whom I’d said hello to in the hallway, what I’d eaten at break.

                  She didn’t mention the fact I left early, but it was hardly necessary. Even her eerily breezy tone couldn’t mask the look in her eye that said she knew already.

                  Before long, she grew impatient with my half-hearted responses. I couldn’t help it, though. Any time my thoughts ventured near what happened earlier that day, I seemed to snap into panic mode, my brain throwing down the shutters and blocking the rest of it out. There was no use even trying.

                  She gave up eventually, pursing her lips and rising from the sofa. I noticed the irritation even through her question of what I wanted for dinner.

                  Even when Brian got home, things didn’t improve. He barely made it through the hall before being whisked away into the kitchen, door shutting behind the two of them, and no effort was made to conceal the sound of whispering from within.

                  At the dinner table, Mum kept up an excruciating effort to keep the conversation flowing, skimming expertly past anything that might set me off. I knew she was dying for me to jump back into the conversation, or at least offer something other than the occasional murmur, but I just couldn’t bring myself to get there.