Butterfly Fish (25 page)

I studied the fat trunk, already leaning against a harsh wind to come, the pattern of swirls. “I see a sad girl with legs that don't feel like her own.”

“Really? I see a resurrection and it's not Jesus.” She smiled thinly, laugh lines deepening. “So who do you think is right?” she asked.

“I don't know, both of us. Neither of us?”

She took my arm gently, held my gaze. “People like you and I sometimes find ourselves embracing different realities. There's a beauty in it. It's like having a key.”

Her eyes glowed and I felt their pull. For a moment she wasn't a sweet, older woman. She looked feral and other worldly. Then the flames in her pupils shrank and she let go of my arm, flicking her cigarette butt away coolly. The noise of traffic grew louder, threatening to break into our green oasis.

“It doesn't seem fair; you know this big thing about me. I don't know enough about you. Pretend we're strangers, tell me something true.” I instructed.

“I used to be an escape artist.”

“Tell me a lie.”

“I used to be an escape artist,” she sputtered, biting her amusement down.

“Come on!” I whined. “Play along.”

“Okay. My father was a Scotsman, tall and arrogant, a Doctor. My mother was Romany, a free spirit, what they call a gypsy. They were as different as two people could be but my father fell in love. His family were horrified; he married her anyway. He said it had been like something came over him.”

“What happened?”

“It turns out she wasn't the marrying or motherly kind. Oh she was beautiful and had this mysterious quality that drew people. She could be kind but she was selfish, self-possessed. She took what she wanted from people without an afterthought. I'm not sure what world she was from.”

“What did you want from her?” I asked.

“What any child would want I suppose. To know her more, be loved by her, it became increasingly difficult, my parents… they had terrible arguments. At times it felt like the whole house shook.” She paused, reaching for things long buried then continued. “My mother liked the company of men very much you see and that caused even more quarrels. Over a certain period of time, she started coming
home with strange cuts and bruises.” Mrs Harris shook, touched by a memory. “There were woods near where we lived and sometimes she'd arrive home from there covered in bruises, chanting bizarre things nobody knew the meaning of. One night when I was twelve, she left while we were asleep. Not even a note, I never saw her again.”

She ignored what must have been pity on my face, patted my thigh reassuringly. “In the years to come, I felt like I'd dreamt her. In a way you're luckier than me, you can make your mother indelible.”

The silence shrouded us in a deepening vacuum. There was no more bread left; Mrs Harris crumpled a white plastic bag before shoving it in her pocket. The ducks had begun to gnaw at shadows of passers by and pond water lapped at the curved lines of their bodies. The trail of white crumbs scattered into nothing. Maybe my mother was indelible, in the crackle of coppery gold autumnal leaves, in the slipstream bearing the ripples of a familiar looking back, in my one winged arm as I held the edge of a dark sky by mouth.

“Also, I'm celebrating.” Mrs Harris remarked, breaking the silence. “It's the anniversary.”

“Congratulations. What's the anniversary?”

“It's the date I was discharged from Bedlam.” This was revealed casually, in the same way a person would say, “Pass the salt.”

“You mean Bedlam the psychiatric hospital?”

“The very same. I even wrote a poem on that day:

Once I had a spell in Bedlam,

Dancing beneath a hat,

They came for me goggle eyed,

Wearing the whites of angels
.

This was followed by a bitter chuckle. I was stunned into silence. Mad butterflies, I thought. Now that the water knew secrets, it wore the glint of daggers. Bathed in another silence and connected by the mottled umbilical chord of lost mothers we stared at the water, lulled by its gentle, deceptive motion.

Talking Heads

Windswept and ashen, Mrs Harris stood on my doorstep flickering like the flame on the candle I held. Blanketed by night, her white hair shone even more ferociously. She'd thrown on a black hooded jacket over green pinstriped pyjamas. Glancing at windows of the other houses it was clear the power cut had affected the whole street, I saw the dim glow of candlelight silently breathing against glass in many of them.

“Are you okay?” I asked, ushering her in. “You look sick.”

“It's these terrible headaches I get occasionally. God! They're worse than migraines, as though someone's sawing my head in two.” She shrugged her jacket off, trailing behind me and slung it over the sofa. “I don't have any candles you see, it's horrible lying in the dark alone like that with an ice pack on your head.” Her voice was croaky and sleep lined, as if she'd just woken up. It was after 11pm. I'd lit the sitting room using fat candles that burned the scent of orange blossoms into the air. Some of my mother's old photographs were strewn on the small, wooden side table in a weird time line. The TV sulked quietly and half a glass of green ginger wine promised warmth, sweetness and spice.

“It was so bad; I took some sleeping pills to knock myself out.” She continued amiably. “When I came round, everywhere was dark. I had to feel my way slowly out of the house.”

“You can sit with me for a while,” I offered. “I know what you mean, I hate being ill if I'm on my own. I get this horrible feeling of dread worrying that the worse case scenario will happen. How long have you been suffering with these headaches?”

She sank into the edge of the sofa, right next to the photographs. “They come and go. They first started when I was a little girl. It was horrible; I used to cry from the pain. Anyway, it's dulling now somewhat. I feel like a stray! This is good of you, thanks.” She chuckled nervously and raised a trembling hand to wipe her brow. I headed into the kitchen; put the kettle on for some peppermint tea. I moved the blackboard covered with Anon's comings and goings further back, glad I'd had the sense to wipe away some of the chalk markings from the sitting room. In the dark, things changed shape. I was used to it but I didn't want disgruntled, faded markings to accost Mrs Harris.

The kettle hissed its intent. I looked around warily, watching for Anon to make an unexpected entrance. It dawned on me that she usually liked to wrong foot me during quiet times. I filled a cup with the word
grubby
emblazoned on its ceramic, blue body. Since Mrs Harris had revealed she'd spent time in Bedlam Hospital, I felt even more of a kinship between us. I wondered why she didn't tell me all those times she came to visit me at the hospital. I was intrigued by the things that had been set in motion, which bound us together and were tracing our movements with their secretive tongues. I carried the steaming mugs back into the living room where Mrs Harris eyed the pictures curiously. The sound of an ambulance siren flooded the street. I handed a mug over.

“Do you need any painkillers?” I asked politely.

“No thanks, I took some already. I love old pictures,” she mused. “They reveal something to you every time you look.” She nodded at the display on the table and the short piles on the floor. From my vantage point, the pictures had chalk-drawn miniature nets etched over my mother's mouth. I shook the invasion away. “I'm looking for anything that seems unusual. It's hard to see her appearing so alive… But I need to do it.”

“Is this in connection with the brass head?”

“I don't know, yes, maybe. It's to do with her in general. I'm not sure what I'm looking for but I'll know when I see it, if that makes sense. Will you help?” I asked.

“Sure, happy to be of use. I'll earn my drinks,” she said.

As we rifled through the pictures, the rough, thick scab inside me began to peel. The wound beneath was red and angry, snarling against bones in my chest. And there was my mother, leaving footprints on my organs, removing the lines on her palms to make one long thread that dangled hauntingly. Each picture showed versions of her plotting to keep growing in the damp soil of memory. There she was, running on a bridge looking behind, cream coat tails flapping in the wind. Outside a café called Sal's, wearing tattered dungarees and a white vest, laughing and holding a paintbrush dripping globs of red paint. In another picture she was on a pier, sunlight streaming over her body, clad in a Fifties flowery, orange dress. There was a wine red butterfly brooch pinned at the right side of her bust that looked ready to flap its wings and fly into my mouth. Mrs Harris watched my expression.

In the pier shot my mother's gaze was direct and intense. The backdrop consisted of a candyfloss stall and a fairground ride of plastic horses, illuminated by smatterings of light on their false bodies. I felt the waves crashing beneath the pier, the pull of the tide. I saw sand-speckled memories washed up on the beach, until the water's unpredictable line dragged them in again. My mother's lips were pursed; I tasted the salty sentences that had loitered on her tongue. Mrs Harris had remained quiet for a bit, rubbing her temples, smiling sadly, and sipping tea. Suddenly she piped in. “Very striking woman, elusive somehow. There's something in her gaze….” She paused, and then continued. “Chameleon like, I bet she navigated social groups easily, whereas you're more of an odd character, in a good way,” she added, touching my hand.

I wondered if through my touch on the photographs, my mother could feel my fingerprints on her back. Sending her limbs into
movement, crawling through dead soil onto fractured planes only those left behind could breathe into existence.

As we rummaged through more snaps, Mrs Harris's face swam closer, then further back under the gaze of candlelight. The candle flames burned wax, flickered, threatening to lick the edges of the photos. She gingerly set her empty cup down next to my glass. “You can ask me you know, about how I ended up in Bethlehem Hospital. It's only natural to be curious.”

“I guess I was surprised when you first told me but then it made sense, that's why you came to see me so much in the hospital, why you took an interest. I'm grateful for that. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.” I snuck a sideways glance at her; she seemed calm.

“No, its fine, I want to.” She drew her shoulders back, as if steeling herself then continued. “I had a break down just after my marriage ended. Nicholas, my husband was a very creative man. He had this ethereal quality about him.” She smiled wistfully. “He used to make the most beautiful scenes and figurines from wood. Oh, they were stunning! The level of detail… He'd lock himself away for hours carving those things.”

“Did he ever make any money from it?” I asked.

“Well, there were small commissions from friends, people we knew but nothing steady,” she answered. “He was your classic frustrated artist, delightful if you caught him on the right day. Struggled with terrible mood swings though. We fought a lot over money since I was covering most of the bills. He accused me of attempting to turn him into something soulless.” I stood and opened the window slightly to counter a growing tension in the air. She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear.

“One day, we had a terrible fight. He'd asked me for money, quite a large sum. I wanted to know what it was for. He claimed I was emasculating him. He was in a rage, he flew at me, grabbed me by the throat strangling me.” She stopped again, stared at the memory head on. “At the time, I was battling one of my awful headaches. You
have to understand that sometimes when they come, things take on a dream like quality; I can lose my sense of time. I picked up the metal poker we kept by the fireplace and hit him. I kept hitting him until I saw blood and he went limp. The headache was screaming.”

“Jesus,” I murmured sympathetically.

“I was stumbling around, my head felt like it was split open. I left him lying on the floor. I went calmly upstairs to find my medication. But he'd thrown them away you see. I blacked out on the bed the pain was so intense.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I responded, squeezing her arm. She laughed her eyes bright and leaned forward assessing my face. “You're shocked, you think I'm heartless. I have to admit at the time, I thought he was dead. When I came round, he'd disappeared, taken my bankcard and wiped out the account. Everything fell apart after that.” The sadness in her eyes cloaked the whole space. I felt sorry for her, sorry for both of us, cardboard cut-outs of ourselves crashing into real life.

“What about those pictures?” She pointed to a stash in a grey envelope at the foot of the sofa.

“I've looked, didn't pick up on anything.” I grabbed them, handed them over. “Feel free,” I added. She leafed through, lips curving up and brow furrowed.