Keys of Life

Chapter Ten: Faye

Chapter Ten: Faye

   My parents were home, had been for an entire fourteen hours. I had just set down the phone when they had burst through the door, leaving me breathless with the worries of what might have happened if they had arrived just a few seconds earlier. I knew that they had spent too long eradicating all of the traces of Jason from their lives to have a curious daughter spoil it for them. They'd met his girlfriend, once, a couple of months before the fire. My mother had come home with her lip curled and a string of bitter words, but at the same time, she had light in her eyes, as well as concern and a strange type of guilt, or maybe remorse. I didn't know why. I had always thought that she would plainly detest anyone who tried to infringe on her relationship with her 'little boy'. It was ironic that, in the end, she was the one who had cut ties to him.

    My mother had disappeared to talk with Keenan, most likely to cajole him into painting something new. A half-smile played on my lips as I thought of her shocked expression when she saw me staring back at her with charcoal eyes, nothing more than an image captured by talented hands. Dad was sitting in the in the kitchen as the morning light glowed a rainbow of colours on the white tiles. His hand shook as he raised the cup to his lips, an awkward clanging of pottery on teeth. He opened his mouth to speak, gulping air like a fish out of water, before grimacing and deciding to remain silent.  

   I grabbed the two pieces of toast from the counter and practically ran from the awkward tension that was percolating like finely ground coffee. It hadn't always been like this. We used to laugh and joke about the most serious things, but since Jason died, I can't think of anything to say, and moreover, neither can he. Efforts at conversation just seem flat, and no matter how hard I try, I can't scale the wall carefully constructed between us, closing me off from his heart in case something should happen to me, too. My mother had been the opposite, pinning all of her hopes onto me and spoiling me with everything she could conceive I might want in a vain effort to try and fill the tear in her heart. Gradually, though, all of that stopped, and although she threw herself into a flurry of activity, none of it included me.

   The gallery is more profitable than ever, the pay cheques are bigger than ever, and I'm more excluded than ever. Isn't that the way it works?

   I stared at myself in the mirror. My uniform was perfectly ironed, and my shoes polished to a high sheen. The teachers didn't bother pulling me up over the short skirt or shiny, patent stilettos. I was the girl who had lost her brother. I was the girl who was going through a rebellious phase. I was the girl who was invisible. 

   I walked to school, the wind whipping against my cheeks and turning them a flushed red, the colour of holly berries on Christmas Eve. The bite in the air seized hold of me. By the time I saw the school gates on the horizon, my lips were purple and my toes numb, the sting of cold long since passed to a dangerous lack of feeling. I could tell it wasn't going to be a good day.

***

   Jason had always been good at school. Some people are. They glide through the process like a swan, nothing but the occasional threat ruffling their wings. He had always gotten the best results, been good at sport with plenty of friends on the rugby and Gaelic teams. Teachers threw 'A's at his feet, spewing words like 'gifted' and 'focussed'. It was just another reason for my parents to look at him with pride and joy, yet all he received was stiff congratulations and a frozen smile. Every now and again my mother would let a genuine beam of warmth through her mask of calm dignity, before allowing it to fade behind the ever-present clouds.

   I tended to stumble through the day, frequently losing any good grace I might have gained through hard work and extreme efforts. Just forcing myself to obey the commands of an adult I barely knew was a power struggle between me and my rather large ego. Back in Northern Ireland, I had been constantly told off for talking, but it was more like good-natured banter between me and a friendly acquaintance than a conscious effort to conform to a dictatorship. I didn't have that problem in Lakeview Heights.

   It was just another Monday. Yet everywhere I turned, the ghosts of another life stood in front of me, barring my way with painful reminders of the past. For a second I could have almost believed them, allowing myself to fall back on memories of a happier place. Then I would shake myself free, the pain of remembrance biting into my stomach.   

   I walked from class to class, for all intents and purposes seeming oblivious to the people around me, even though their malicious whispers were ringing in my ears. I tried to concentrate. I failed. I battled with my brain to make it accept algebraic equations and metaphors as its lot in life for the next few years. I lost. I scolded my mind for wandering, and reminded myself that I couldn't disappoint. I cried inside. A nagging thought pestered a far-reaching corner of my consciousness, so small I could almost ignore it. It continued to question me, breaking through walls of logic at the most inconvenient times. Whose opinion was I so worried about?

I didn't have a reply.