Blood Loss by Kerena Swan (good beach reads .txt) 📕

I wander further along the footpath, appreciating the symmetry of the old brick archways striding along the roadside to my left.

‘Hi, Grace, it’s me.’

A moment passes before she answers. ‘Jenna?’

Her voice sounds… odd. Not as friendly as usual. ‘Is everything all right?’ I ask, dreading hearing that Mum’s taken a turn for the worse. ‘How’s Mum?’

‘Fine.’

That was sharp. Does she think I’m checking up on her? That I don’t trust her to look after Mum as well as I do?

I’m searching for words of reassurance when Grace speaks again. ‘Are you having a nice time?’

She sounds as though she’s got herself under control now. Perhaps she realises she’s been sharp and regrets it. Grace may not be family but I suppose the situation with Mum is putting her under strain too. ‘Lovely, thanks,’ I tell her, to help smooth things over, but then I hesitate because I still feel uneasy. ‘Can I speak to Mum?’

‘She’s asleep. Shall I wake her?’

‘Don’t do that. I’ll see her later.’

I walk back to Nisha, deep in thought.

‘Shall we buy lunch?’ Nisha says. ‘I’m feeling peckish.’

‘Sure.’ We’ve spent the morning ambling around the quirky shops in the Lanes, admiring the jewellery, laughing at the rubber duck shop and bemoaning the fact that a lot of the antique shops seem to have disappeared. It’s been a great day so far, but now I have an urgent desire to go home and check everything is all right.

‘I’m sorry to be a killjoy, Nisha, but do you think we could catch an earlier train home? I can’t stop worrying about Mum.’

Chapter 64

Early October | Grace

‘Who was that?’ my mum asks, when I go back to the lounge where she’s cocooned in blankets on the sofa.

‘Jenna. Just checking you’re okay.’

‘That’s sweet of her. Is she having fun?’

‘Yes. She’ll tell you about it later.’

I pick up my Scrabble letters again and stare at them to mask my feelings. How dare Jenna interrupt this special day with my mother? The bitch is supposed to be dead or at least in hospital. She’s like a fucking cat. How many chances can one person have? She must have used up all her lives by now.

‘Have you got stuck with the Q?’ Mum asks sympathetically. ‘I always struggle with that letter.’

I realise I’m taking too long to place my word. ‘Sorry!’ I shuffle my tiles about and see a word I can spell on the board but then stop. I can’t put DEATH.

I don’t want to play this stupid game anymore. I just want my mother to hold me and kiss my forehead. I clatter the letters around again then lay the word DEARTH. That’ll do.

‘Well done, you. A double letter score on the H. You’re so good at this game.’

‘Do you mind if we finish this another time?’ I ask. ‘I’d really love to look at the photos again.’

We’ve spent hours asking and answering questions, giving each other details and anecdotes about our lives – Mum’s in detail and mine edited because I don’t want to upset her – and we’ve pored over the old family photographs.

‘Of course,’ Mum says. ‘If that’s what you’d like.’

‘I want to see my father again, and you, when you were younger.’

I could weep when I see images of family holidays in the sunshine, Jenna on my father’s shoulders – her mouth wide with laughter, the four of them eating fresh fish in restaurants on starlit beaches, elaborate birthday cakes with brightly-clad children playing party games in the background, and Jenna curled up on my mother’s lap with her thumb in her mouth. I feel like I’ve been invited to the Queen’s private birthday party and someone has stolen my invitation. I know I’m torturing myself looking at these photos, but it’s like a wasps’ nest that I can’t resist poking with a stick.

Mum picks up another yellow packet of photos and this time it’s Jenna in her school play and my father on his feet applauding her, pride glowing on his face. I begin to feel sick. I get up abruptly and mutter that I need the bathroom then rush upstairs. I bury my face in a thick, fluffy towel and howl out my anguish. My life is in those photos. I want to scratch Jenna’s face out of them and put mine in instead.

I splash cold water on my cheeks and look at my reflection. My eyes are red-rimmed but they’ve looked like that all day. We’ve both cried uncontrollably at times and held on to each other like survivors being dragged from a tsunami.

I go back downstairs and snuggle next to my mum on the sofa. There’s one subject we haven’t touched on yet and it’s like a hungry lion in the corner that we’re pretending not to see.

‘Grace,’ Mum says, ‘we need to work out how to tell Lucy you’re her birth sister, but, more importantly, I need to tell Jenna that, although I think of her as my daughter, she’s not related to me in the biological sense. This is going to be really hard for her.’

What about me? I want to yell. Don’t you think it’s been hard for me?

‘I need to explain things to Jenna soon – very soon – so I can spend some time with her before I… before I’m no longer here. It’ll give her a chance to see that I mean what I say when I tell her how much I still love her. It would be terrible for her if all this came out only after I’m gone. And obviously it will come out. Partly because you need to get to know Lucy, and partly because I’m leaving you something in my will.’

‘leaving me something?’

‘As my daughter. As one of my three daughters.’

So, she still thinks of Jenna as a daughter. Damn it, hasn’t that bitch already had so much of what was intended for me without getting a cut of the will as well? Why should Lucy’s