Frances
They collected everything they could find that would work as a possible lock pick: one hairclip, one belt buckle, one bracelet. It was Frances’s bracelet and she had nothing else to contribute except ignorant enthusiasm, so she stayed out of the way and the lock-picking committee became Ben, Jessica, Napoleon, Tony and Carmel. They seemed to be enjoying themselves destroying her bracelet and discussing exactly what was needed: ‘teeth to push the pins out’ or some such thing.
She went instead to talk to Zoe, who sat in the corner of the room, hugging her knees.
‘You okay?’ Frances asked, sitting down next to her and putting a tentative hand on the curve of her back.
Zoe lifted her head and smiled. Her eyes were clear. She looked lovely. Not like someone who had spent the previous night tripping. ‘I’m fine. How was your . . . experience last night?’
Frances lowered her voice. ‘I don’t approve of what Masha did, outrageous et cetera, your mother is right, drugs are bad, illegal, wrong, just say no and all that . . . but I have to admit, I’m with Steve Jobs: it was one of the most fantastic experiences of my life. What about you?’
‘There were good and bad parts,’ said Zoe. ‘I saw Zach. We all saw Zach. You know . . . hallucinated him, we didn’t really see him.’
‘I thought I saw him too,’ said Frances without thinking.
Zoe turned her head.
‘I saw a boy,’ said Frances. ‘With you and your mum and dad.’
‘You saw Zach?’ Zoe’s face lit up.
‘Sorry,’ said Frances. ‘I hope you don’t think that’s disrespectful. Obviously, I never knew your brother. It was just my imagination, creating his image.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Zoe. ‘I like that you saw him. You would have liked him. He would have talked to you. He talked to anyone.’ She stopped. ‘I don’t mean that in a bad way –’
‘I know what you’re saying.’ Frances smiled.
‘He was interested in everyone,’ said Zoe. ‘He was like Dad. Chatty. He would have asked you about, I don’t know, the publishing industry. He was the biggest nerd. He liked watching documentaries. Listening to these obscure podcasts. He was fascinated by the world. That’s why . . .’ Her voice broke. ‘That’s why I could never believe he’d choose to give it up.’
She banged her chin against her propped-up knees. ‘When he died we weren’t talking. We hadn’t been talking for, like, weeks. We used to have these really big screaming arguments over . . . lots of things: the bathroom, the television, the charger. It all seems stupid now.’
‘That’s what siblings do,’ said Frances, seeing a flash of her own sister’s pursed lips.
‘We had this thing where if the fight got really bad we’d stop talking to each other and it was like a competition to see who would talk first, and the person who talked first was kind of saying sorry without saying sorry, if you know what I mean, so I didn’t want to be the one to talk first.’ She looked at Frances as if she were telling her something truly terrible.
‘I used to have a very similar arrangement with my first ex-husband,’ said Frances.
‘But I could tell there was something not quite right with him,’ said Zoe. ‘That week. I could tell. But I didn’t ask him. I didn’t say anything. I just ignored him.’
Frances kept her face neutral. There was no point saying, You mustn’t feel responsible. Of course she felt responsible. Denying her regret would be like denying her loss.
‘I’m so sorry, darling.’ She wanted to envelop the child in a big, probably unwelcome hug but she settled for placing a hand on her shoulder.
Zoe looked over at her mother. ‘I’ve been so angry with him. It felt like he did it on purpose just to make me feel bad forever, and I couldn’t forgive him for that. It just felt like the meanest, cruellest thing he’d ever done to me. But last night . . . this sounds stupid, but last night, it felt like we talked again.’
‘I know,’ said Frances. ‘I talked to my friend Gillian, who died last year. And my dad. It felt different from a dream. It felt so vivid. It felt realer than real life, to be honest.’
‘Do you think maybe we really did see them?’ There was so much tremulous hope in Zoe’s face.
‘Maybe,’ lied Frances.
‘It’s just, I was thinking how Masha said that after her near-death experience she realised there was this other reality, and I just thought . . . maybe we sort of accessed it.’
‘Maybe,’ said Frances again. She didn’t believe in alternate realities. She believed in the transcendent power of love, memory and imagination. ‘Anything is possible.’
Zoe lowered her voice so much that Frances had to lean in close to hear. ‘I feel like I’ve got him back now, in a weird sort of way. Like I could text him if I wanted.’
‘Ah,’ said Frances.
‘I don’t mean I will text him,’ said Zoe.
‘No,’ said Frances. ‘Of course not. I understand what you’re saying. You feel like you’re not fighting anymore.’
‘Yeah,’ said Zoe. ‘We made up. I used to always be so relieved when we made up.’
They sat in silence for a few comfortable minutes and watched the lock pickers crouched down next to the door.
‘By the way, I forgot to tell you: I read your book during the silence,’ said Zoe. ‘I loved it.’
‘You loved it?’ said Frances. ‘Really? It’s fine if it wasn’t your cup of tea.’
‘Frances,’ said Zoe firmly, ‘it was my cup of tea. I loved it.’
‘Oh,’ said Frances. Her eyes stung, because she could see that Zoe was telling the truth. ‘Thank you.’