Clopwyck River - revised version

Chapter Fourteen

I barely touched my spaghetti Bolognese which had nothing to do with the fact that Andrew had accidentally tipped three quarters of a jar of minced garlic into it, and everything to do with what was written on the note.
​I push strands of spaghetti around on my plate, the congealed sauce making my stomach turn. Who would write something like that? Making me sorry that I ever came here? Isn't that a little extreme?
​"Everything okay, Demi?"
​My fork clatters onto to my plate at the sound of Andrew's voice. I shift in my seat, wishing he wouldn't talk to me, wishing that nobody would talk to me. All I can think about is the note that's folded up in my bedside drawer, along with the photo of my Mum, and all my sketching stuff.
​"Fine." I reply.
​"Worms!"
​Elliot provides another welcome distraction as he's taken a handful of what's left on his plate and placed it on his head, screwing his face up and sticking his tongue out as he shouts the word over and over.
​"Elliot! No!" Daria jumps up and pulls the spaghetti out of his hair. I can't help but chuckle as he beams up at her, oblivious to how annoyed she is. "Yuck. Bath-time for you tonight, matey. Andrew, can you do bed-time if I get him in and out of the bath?"
​Andrew swiftly pushes his chair out and picks his phone up, waving it in the air. "I've got to make a phone call about work." Daria glares at him as she tries to wipe Elliot's Bolognese covered hands. Andrew looks at me, his face filled with hope. "You wouldn't mind putting this little man to bed would you, Demi? He'll be good as gold for you, won't you, buddy?"
   ​"She won't know what to do, Andrew."
   ​I agree with Daria but Elliot seems to disagree. "Dem-dem put me to bed." His chubby face is beaming at me as he wiggles down from his chair, pads over and reaches up to me. "Up!"
​"Euw, Elliot, you're all yucky."
​"You put me to bed!"
   ​"Well there you go, the boss has spoken." Andrew says. "You don't mind do you Demi, it would be a help. Just read him a quick story, and he should get off quite quickly."
​"Fine." I put him on my lap, making sure not to get any sauce on my clothes. "But only after you've had your bath, okay?"    ​
​"Okay, Dem-dem."
​To be honest, putting a toddler to bed will be a welcome distraction from what's waiting for me in my bedside drawer. "I'll find you after bath-time then."
***
I'm scanning through Ben's Instagram account, looking out for photos that show any sign of him being down or unhappy, but it's hard to tell from all the selfies what's real and what isn't. There's a knock on my door, and it swings open. Elliot is standing all shiny and clean in his Avengers pajamas, holding Daria's hand.
​"He's ready. You sure you're okay with this?"
​She really doesn't have much faith in me.
"Sure thing. Ready, buddy?"
​Elliot drops Daria's hand, and puts his arms up to me, so I scoop him up, hopefully looking like I know what I'm doing. I walk out of my bedroom, pausing as Daria ruffles Elliot's hair. Our proximity makes me feel awkward, as it's probably the closest we've been to each other since I arrived. She murmurs love and sweet dreams into his ear, kisses his forehead and then nods for me to go.
   ​"Dis way."
Elliot points his finger and successfully navigates me to his bedroom. I open the door, plop him down and he trots over to his bed and climbs in. I'm glad one of us knows what they're doing. He grips a battered fluffy rabbit and looks at me expectantly. I guess that's my cue.
   ​"Ok, so, I guess I should tuck you in?" He doesn't disagree so I must be on the right track. I tuck the cover around him until only his rabbit and his smiling round face are peeking out from under the duvet. "And now I read you a story?" He nods. "Which story do you want?"
   ​"Hungry tatterpillar." He reaches under the duvet and pulls out a battered copy of the Hungry Caterpillar. An unannounced memory bursts inside my heart and tears form in my eyes.
   ​"What's crying Dem-dem?"
   ​"Nothing. I'm ok. It's just...I used to like this story, Elliot, and my Mum used to read it to me when I was little, like you."
   ​"Where your Mummy?"
   ​I turn away from him and screw my eyes shut. God, I suck at story time. I breathe deeply through my nose, gathering myself before I turn back to him and try to smile.
"My Mummy fell asleep, Elliot, and now she's in heaven."
   ​"In the stars?"
He's looking out of his window, focusing on the twinkly lights that are scattered across the darkness. He doesn't seem upset so I guess this conversation isn't as traumatic for him as it is for me.
   ​"Yes, that's right. In the stars."
   ​"Ok, Dem-dem."
He turns his focus to the book and that seems to be the end of our conversation. I try to concentrate on reading the words from each page, ignoring the echo of my Mum's soft voice inside my memories. I finish the story, and look at Elliot to check I've read it to his standard. He seems happy enough as his long lashes weigh his eyelids down.
   ​"Time for sleep now." I flick off the lamp and tip toe to the door. I'm nearly there when he quietly calls after to me.
   ​"Dem-dem?"
   ​"Yes?"
​"Made dis for you." He reaches under the pillow and then holds up a small object to me. I walk back to him, sit on his bed and when I put the lamp back on I see that it's small plastic shapes threaded onto red elastic. He's made me a little bracelet.
​"Is this for me?" He smiles sleepily as he nods. "Elliot, it's lovely. Thank you."
​"Put it on, Dem-dem."
​I do as I'm told, impressed with how he's managed to alternate the red, yellow, and orange shapes. A couple of long pieces of elastic dangle from where someone, probably Andrew, has tied it together for him. I slip it onto my wrist, and turn my hand over and over, making a show of admiring it from every angle.
He yawns and rolls onto his side, tucking his arm under his head as he murmurs between wake and sleep. I quietly get up and start to leave him to his sweet dreams.
​"Dem-dem."
​"Yes, buddy?"
   ​"Love you."
   ​His words hit me in the chest like a water balloon. "Love you too, Elliot. Sleep tight." Despite my resistance to connect with anyone in my new life, I seem to have fallen for my little nephew. But I think I can live with that.
***
I wake with a jolt, my hair plastered to my sweaty forehead and I sit up in my bed, panting hard as my mind staggers between nightmare and reality.
​I dreamt about that night with my Mum again. The heat, the sounds, the smell, everything, it all seemed so real, and just as I could feel her fingertips on mine, those arms pulled me away, like they do every time. Like they did that night.
I push back my covers and swing my legs over the side of my bed, and put my head in my hands. I take deep breaths, trying to subdue the nausea that lingers from my nightmare. I squint at the glass on my bedside table, picking it up to confirm that it's empty. My shoulders sag and I muster up the energy to go to the bathroom to get a refill.
​I turn on the bathroom light and grimace at the mirror, my reflection staring back at me like an abstract version of myself. My birds nest hair is beyond any attempts of taming it so I turn on the tap and I lean forward, cupping the water in my hands and splashing it over my face, letting it cleanse my inner disharmony.
​I dry my hands on the towel, and flinch as the cloth catches something on my index finger. I pop my throbbing finger in my mouth, then hold it in front of my eyes under the bathroom light. Great, I must be the only person alive who manages to get a splinter in their finger while they're asleep.
​I rummage through the cupboards until I find a pair of tweezers, then put the toilet seat down and sit down to perform a splinter removal operation on myself. I squint at the offending piece of shrapnel that's protruding from the end of my finger, and hold my breath as I try to grip it with the tweezers without breaking it.
​After a few goes, I calm into the surgery and manage to get a good grip of the splinter. I take a deep breath and slowly tug it, being careful not to snap it and lose the other half of it inside my flesh forever.
​As soon as I start to pull though, pain radiates from the top of my finger, and when I pull the tweezers with a little more force, I chomp down on my lip in agony, as if the skin on the end of my finger is going to tear away with the splinter.
​I drop the tweezers on the side and take a couple of breaths, wiping my gammy forehead with the back of my hand. I bring my finger up in front of my eyes and peer at it from every angle. I've managed to pull it out a little, and it's slightly thicker at the end where it's protruding out of my finger.
​I pick up the tweezers again and grip the splinter around the thicker part sticking out my flesh. I pull, sucking air in through my teeth as the pain emitting from my finger intensifies, as though I'm pulling against a sinewy piece of muscle attached to my finger bone.
​Getting anxious, I squeeze the tweezers with my shaking hand and pull the splinter harder, panic burning through my forehead, into my veins and right down to my toes. Beads of sweat trickle down my temples and my back. I grit my teeth against the searing pain at the end of my finger, as the splinter moves and splits open my flesh making the shape of a tiny crescent moon.
​The bathroom spins along with my stomach. Either I give up now or go the whole distance and get this surgery finished. I push the sweaty hair from my face, count to ten, then pull the tweezers away from the end of my finger.
​I bite the inside of my cheek, widening my eyes in disbelieving horror as the splinter continues to emerge from my finger, splitting the cut even wider open, sending blood pulsing down finger and hand. My vision swims at the sight of the blood trickling down my wrist, but I keep pulling, my terror working its way up my throat in acidic chunks as the black splinter tears further from my flesh, widening out into a stumpy yellow pellet.
​The sight of the yellow foreign object mixed with my blood has spun the bathroom on its axis, but I carry on pulling until bile burns its way up to the back of my mouth at the sight of a pair of translucent, misshapen wings emerging from the gaping hole slashed at the end of my finger. I half gasp and half gag as spindly, blood-covered legs exit my torn flesh until the whole thing, including a pair of jet-black eyes, has now left my finger, and I spin round, open the toilet seat and throw up.
​A bee.
There was a bee stuck inside my finger.
​I wash my hands under the taps, mesmerised by the pink water that swirls down the plug hole, then wrap a wad of toilet tissue around the end of my finger, which I can barely bring myself to look at. I sit back down on the toilet with my head in my hands, wondering how many hours it will take for this nausea to pass so I can trust my legs to hold my weight.
​I sit up and close my eyes, waiting for the room to stop spinning, then look at the yellow and black insect as it lies on its back like roadkill next to the sink. How the hell did that thing get inside me? I peer down at it, staring into its tiny droplet eyes, until it gives me one last fright by flapping its wings.
​My heart explodes in my chest, and I scream, clamping my hand over my mouth halfway through stifling it, but not my terror.
​The bathroom door flies open and Andrew bursts in, his pyjamas creased and his glasses on upside down. He rushes over to me, grabbing the tops of my arms as he squints closely at my face.
"Are you ok!? Demi, I heard you scream. Are you ok!?"
​I slump against Andrews grip, pulling up every last ounce of energy from my toes and give Andrew a weak smile.
"I'm fine." He studies my face, and doesn't notice me put my hand behind my back. "Sorry I...I just...I found a bee, and thought it was dead. But it's not. Sorry, it just...made me jump."
​He takes a big breath before letting his shoulders slump and sits down on the side of the bath.
"Thank god. Oh thank goodness. I thought you were...." He shakes his head, and runs his hand through his hair. "I don't know what I thought. I'm just glad you're ok. And it wasn't Freddy Krueger."
​"Sorry I woke you."
​"Don't worry. Get back to bed. I'll get rid of the bee." I start to protest but he holds up a hand. "It's going to take a while for my heart rate to go back to normal. Please, Demi, you just get yourself to bed."
​"Ok then. Sorry again. Night."
​"Night." He gets up and I leave him by the sink. Standing in the dark hallway, I realise I'm still parched, but I'd rather go back to bed thirsty than find goodness knows what else stuck inside my body