In Living Memory

1 - Thinking Things Over

1 - Thinking Things Over

A soft whisper. A teardrop. An apology.

Every night.

"Carmen, I'm sorry," I whisper, stroking her tear-stained picture which I keep under my pillow every night. She just stares up at me, her green eyes reflecting the camera at the time it was taken. Her brown, perfect hair tumbles down her shoulders, her mouth the usual thin, perfect line, her lips pink and glossy. Behind her, the sea reflects the sunshine from the sky. Golden, and sparkling. Like her.

A tear escapes my eye, and I tuck the picture inside my pillow, then lie back and look up at my dark blue ceiling. I decorated it with tiny diamonds, and when the lamp shines on them, they sparkle like stars.

Please, God, I say in my head, Make her wake up. Bring her home. Let me show her all the collages I've done, all the paintings, all the drawings. All the poems. Let her wake up. Don't take it out on Carmen.

-

My sister died at the beach last summer.

Well, not really.

She almost died.

We'll never know how she fell, until she wakes up.

If she ever does.

She's in a coma, lying in a hospital bed three miles away from home.

She's not dead.

But she's not alive either.

It's all my fault. I turned away. I turned my back to her. I left her alone. I knew she wasn't as sure-footed as me on those rocks.

I know I was angry, but it's not an excuse is it? I never should have left her like that. She would be happy and smiling right now, probably on some sunny beach in Australia, not in drab, dull England, in a hospital bed, neither dead nor alive, in the cold English summer.

And Adam, her annoying excuse of a boyfriend, wouldn't be moping around our house every night. He blames me for everything. Ev-er-y-thing. He would be in Australia too, which would be good. He wouldn't be here, annoying us. We've had quite a few heated arguments, which my dad has had to break up. He's on my side. I don't know where my mother stands, but I think it's slightly away from me.

-

"Any idea what this summer will bring?" Charlie asks me, as we walk down the wooden pathway up to my house. Her voice is barely audible through the heavy, harsh rain. The sky is grey, cloudy and miserable.

I have known Charlie since I was four. We were the two quiet kids on the first day of school who didn't want to play kiss-catch in the cold playground, and sat on the frosty grass. Charlie had walked up to me, stuck out her hand.

I had looked up at her, my eyes wide, and examined her blonde, long, plaited hair, her brown eyes. Then I had took her hand and jumped up.

"What shall we play?" she had asked me, putting a hand on her hip.

I had decided she was like my sister, at that very moment. I know my sister was five years older than me, and she never ever had worn her hair in two plaits. But her body language, her tone of voice . . . it was all hints that she would be there to lead me, and look after me.

I was right.

Now, as we walk up the steps of my house and I push open the door, and those memories flash through my head, I can't help but smile.

But then I remember her question. "I don't know. It can't be worse than last summer," I mutter, hanging up my dripping coat, and putting the small bucket of sea shells and pebbles we have just collected on the floor next to the stairs.