BooksBarbecue
Back One Year Later
Chapters (49)
  1. PROLOGUE
  2. PART I
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. PART II
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. PART III
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. PART IV
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. EPILOGUEAMY
  48. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  49. BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

‘She didn’t tell you?’ There’s a slight softening of her tone. ‘Well, she won’t need any of those items where she’s going.’

Where is she going?

I must have said it out loud, because Felicity says, ‘America. Not sure where; she’s given me no forwarding address and she’s deleted her email account. I expect it’ll be Los Angeles. She always wanted to make it over there. Though, frankly, I think she’ll find she spends quite a lot of her time waiting tables.’ She gives a bark of joyless laughter. ‘Unless that fellow Stuart Linfield comes through with a decent contact for her.’

I thank her and hang up. Even on the way over to Amy’s with Dad, the smell of tarka dhal and chicken dhansak steaming up my Vauxhall, I didn’t quite believe it. I expected Bethany would phone to tell me I was being an idiot, and Luca was right here with her, laughing at my stupidity, at the joke they’ve played on me – the ex-child psychologist saying, Is time to forgive her, no?

But now I know for sure. I know my sister is guilty of letting my niece drown when she was meant to be looking after her, and then drugging my father and blaming him for her death. And by leaving like this, she’s given me a get-out clause. I can simply say that Bethany has gone to LA. We can all chorus: How rude, how like Bethany to go for a better offer without telling anyone, without even saying goodbye. And we can watch Dad drink gritty smoothies and eat omega-3s and pretend he’s got memory problems, and eventually a part of us will be glad when he passes, because we cannot help but blame him for Ruby-May’s death, even though we believed he was ill and his mind was no longer what it once was; and maybe, as Bethany said, we do hold him responsible for our mother leaving and our shit childhoods, and for making us the emotionally stunted adults we’ve all turned out to be.

Quietly, slowly, we will start to heal. We’ll remember Ruby-May with sadness and with joy, but we’ll no longer see the world in shades of grey: colour will seep in, as weak as watercolour at first; two, five, ten years later, it’ll return in a triumph of technicolour. Days will pass when we don’t even think of Ruby-May, forever frozen at three years old, but still a piece of us, still in our hearts.

I close the door quietly behind me and I walk slowly down the stairs.

But that – that is sentimental bullshit.

I don’t want Ruby-May in my fucking heart. I want her here, with me. Alive. And my sister is going to pay for her death.

39

AMY