Dark Lullaby by Polly Ho-Yen (ready to read books .txt) 📕

layers that were at odds with each other. A camisole top, a blazer she used to wear to work, a draping scarf, threadbare pyjama bottoms that floated baggily around her thin legs.

She didn’t speak but headed into the kitchen. Walking seemed an effort. She sighed heavily from time to time as though she were remembering something, over and over.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked her. ‘Where’s Seb?’

‘Gone,’ she said as she filled the kettle with water. It took a couple of attempts to place it back on its base and as though the effort of that was enough, she did not switch it on but stood, her back leaning against the kitchen side, pulling the thin sleeves of her blazer over her wrists, up to her knuckles.

‘Gone – gone?’ I asked.

‘Gone, gone,’ Evie said. ‘Like left me, gone.’ She reached for her head suddenly, grimacing, as though she was reaching for a pain, or remembering one.

‘Do you have a headache?’ I asked.

‘No,’ she said in a snap.

I took hold of her, enclosed her in my arms. She remained stiff and did not return my embrace.

‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered into her hair. She smelt stale and yeast-like. ‘I wish I could… do something.’

‘Don’t say sorry.’ Evie struggled away. ‘You’ve got nothing to say sorry about. You shouldn’t keep apologising for something that has nothing to do with you.’

‘You’re cold,’ I said, trying to ignore the dagger-sharp anger in her voice. ‘Let’s have some tea to warm you up. I’ll put the heating on.’

‘Just leave it,’ Evie said sharply. ‘I’ll make tea if you want it. It’s my house.’

She clicked down the button on the kettle then and let it boil. It vibrated on its base, steam poured from its spout. She made no move to find cups, pull teabags out of cupboards and I, a mirror of her, leant against the kitchen counter too. We stood silently, together.

‘If you ever want to talk—’ I started to say and just that, my saying those words, lit a fuse within Evie. She pushed herself away, broke our symmetry, and rushed from the room up the stairs.

I stayed there a moment longer, wondering if I should follow her or if I should leave, but before I could decide, she’d come back and was swiping at her workSphere. She brought up a few documents, dismissed an advert, opened up a payment transfer screen.

‘The money from Dad has come through,’ she said. ‘I’ll transfer your amount now.’

Her business-like impersonality jarred. I hesitated, tried to speak and could not. How could she not have told me that she’d sold his place, that things had been wrapped up and so that now, at the end of it, there was just a figure? Evie was trembling, her face pale. It was as though there was something that was stirring inside her, bubbling up and over.

‘I can’t stop thinking about Mum and Dad…’ she blurted out, but then she stopped herself abruptly.

‘What about them?’ I asked gently.

‘Nothing… just, what it must have been like for Dad – after Maia and Mum died,’ she said vaguely.

‘I can’t imagine. Losing one after the other.’

Evie mumbled something.

‘What did you say?’

She turned her face towards me. ‘I’ve decided I’m going to go away for a few days. By myself. I need some time alone.’

‘Where will you go?’

She sent through the money in a swipe of the screen. ‘Not sure yet,’ she said. ‘I just need to get away from here for a while. Just another quarter. Just for a bit. Work some stuff out. I’ve got to go – get ready to leave.’

‘Well, get in touch when you’re back. Or while you’re away – if you need to talk… about anything.’

I turned to leave. I almost stopped before I got back to the door, I almost turned back but there was larger part of me that was glad she had provided me with the opportunity to escape.

NOW

There’ll be no quick escape now if Evie arrives home.

I carry Mimi into the bathroom next door to Evie’s bedroom and place her, stained clothes and all, in the bath. I peel off her top and see how far the sick has spread. It’s on her pyjama bottoms, her slippers, everything.

I try to make light of it. ‘Time for a little wash,’ I say to Mimi encouragingly, as if it’s no big deal, not a problem.

It takes me a few tries of turning the blank, silver boxes on the wall to make anything happen and then the water that spurts out is too forceful, too cold then too hot. Mimi cries out in unison with the water blasting against the pristine white enamel.

She lets me wash her although I can see she is tiring quickly. When I turn the water off she has already started crying. She has always hated the end of a bath, the feeling of the cold air against her wet skin.

I pluck a thick towel from a rail with one hand and wrap her in it. It’s so large that it engulfs her and for that moment I’m so grateful that Evie had left a towel. So stupidly happy she bought an expensive one that’s so big and soft that is comforting my daughter as she cries.

‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ I say, towelling her hair, hugging her to me.

It was inevitable, I suppose, that the moment I think that we’ve come through the worst of it, Mimi heaves again. The sick dribbles again over my shoulder and down my back.

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ I parrot. ‘Mummy better have a wash too.’

I catch in the mirror how her vomit clings to my coat. There’s so much of it, it’s surprising seeing as she has been sick three times already. It’s a greenish bile.

‘All gone,’ I tell her. ‘You’re all better now.’

I try to convince myself.

THEN

Santa insisted on throwing confetti; it fell upon us, skittering, like leaves in autumn.

Thomas and I married in a small ceremony with only a handful of