Let Him In

I’ve felt it ever since I was a child: the fear that what I want and who I am don’t align—and never will.

Love’s a dishonest word,” she mused, swirling the cold wine around in her glass. “We use it to describe all kinds of feelings for all kinds of people. But no two versions are ever the same.

That’s one good thing about lightning,” she whispered. “It never strikes in the same place twice.” I strung that cliché round my neck and wore it like an amulet. And, like an amulet, in the end it preserved us from nothing.

I turn to face the river, its frozen surface like a clouded mirror. All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea isn’t full. I glance down. Beneath the immaculate ice, its currents still flow, and flow fast.

Abruptly, realization strikes: I’m not in the dark, at least not completely. The bedroom light is off, but a bright sliver is running along the bottom of the door to our en suite—a crack through which light seeps like sand. It’s Pippa. That’s my first thought. It’s an automatic reflex, and a cruel one. That’s something you can’t prepare yourself for: the pain that’s self-inflicted. The unbearable cruelty of dreaming and waking—of forgetting, and half forgetting. And remembering. “Sylvie?” I call out. “Cassia?” Silence. “Are you okay?” The light in the en suite flicks off, the door opens, and a dark shape moves across the room as my daughter, whichever one it is, leaves the room. Ordinarily, I’d get straight up, find out who it was, check she’s all right, but I’m so tired I sink back into the folds of the bed. All I want to do is return to sleep—to a dream or a nightmare; any place where Pippa isn’t dead forever. I don’t want to be a single parent when I wake in the morning. Sometimes, I don’t care if I wake in the morning.

Sarebbe poi così male? Rimanere fermi. Appartenere a qualcuno. Avere una famiglia e crescerla in un luogo solo, nella nostra bella casa, anche se ciò significava indebitarsi con sua madre? La verità? È stato più bello di quanto potessi immaginare.

I bambini non soffrono come noi. Il loro sistema nervoso funziona in maniera diversa. Non riescono a essere tristi per periodi prolungati. In alcuni momenti, di solito quando sono impegnati, quando sono attivi, stanno bene. In altri no. L'ora di andare a letto è un momento critico. Un fattore di stress. È buio. C'è silenzio. Non hanno compiti, non hanno stimoli. Si ritrovano soli con i loro pensieri. I loro sentimenti.

They say that grief numbs, but I still feel everything and mostly it hurts.

Oh, Pippa, with your drawings and dreams, your sensitivity, your femininity. She was the sun, and I was the moon—only ever reflecting her light.

I never had faith, not really. Not even when I believed in God.

I strung that cliché round my neck and wore it like an amulet. And, like an amulet, in the end it preserved us from nothing.

The perils of growing near the exit are not explained to children in the womb, but perhaps they should be.