Page 3 of The Wonder of You
I always remember the way he sighed once. “It was good, but not like the circus I visited as a young man. Oh, how I wish I could see that one again. They were a special kind, they were.”
God knows if my grandad was telling the truth. I loved his stories though, and something in his eyes told me that at least part of the story about visiting the circus was true. It was my first and only experience of the circus. I am quite happy to go again. Maybe I’ll see that magic again, the way I did that night with him all those years ago.
Still, this is unusual for me, as someone who is quite unhappy to do just about anything. Especially if it means leaving the house. But this feels like a journey worth making. If it reminds me of a happy time, a memory of my grandfather, then I am up for it. It’s also better than my other ideas for the evenings, which usually consist of dreaming about death and the easiest, quickest way to bring it on myself.
***
Lydia walks into the kitchen wearing a pretty flowery dress. The minute she meets my eyes, she sighs.
“Renée! Have you not got a dress? Some make-up? We’ve got time to go back to the house to borrow some of my stuff.” I hate the disappointment on her face as she scans me up and down.
“No, this is fine, it’s a night-time circus event, Lydia, it’ll be fine.” I lift my head to let my younger sister know that I am, indeed, the boss of my own clothing style.
She takes a deep, dramatic sigh and crosses her arms. She tuts again when I put on my blue jacket which is ripped at the cuffs.
“What if there is a nice guy there?”
I laugh out loud.
“Lydia, have you ever seen me with a boyfriend?”
I regret my question.
“Yes, that’s right.” She looks at Simon who has just followed behind her into the house and smirks. “My sister, the twenty-nine-year-old virgin!”
Simon drops his head in embarrassment.
“Thanks, Lydia!” I respond sarcastically. I feel annoyed, but I work hard to close my eyes, count to ten and not let her spoil the night by putting me down. She should know better than to make a joke about my virginity. This is one thing my dad would take my side on if he was here. Trying to let it go, I leave the house and lock the door before joining Lydia and Simon. We walk down my grandparents outside steps and onto their driveway before exiting the little black gate. I turn back, glancing at the living room window, expecting nan to be waving me off. It would give me a confidence boost whenever she did that. Knowing she’d be there waiting for me to come back, ready with a cup of tea to hear how my outing had been. With Lydia’s joke and the thought of my grandmother who will never be waiting for me again, my mind starts to struggle. I put my hand to my head to stop the incoming thoughts. It’s no use. I’m hit with a memory.
“Nan, I love you so much, you know that, right?” It comes out as a whisper and tears strike my eyes as my nan smiles weakly at me. I hold her hand tighter and lean forward in the chair which is next to her bed. It’s so lovely for her that she’ll get to die at home, just like grandad. It was their first and only house. They raised their children here. It was important to them to die peacefully in their home.
“You were always so kind to me. I missed my mum so much…” I take a deep breath again; it’s hard talking about my desire to have had a mum. To have had someone to miss, someone with a personality, with shared memories and not just the idea of them. “But you were a mum to me instead. I never needed anyone else because I had you and grandad. It never mattered that I didn’t have friends at school, never mattered that they bullied me, it never mattered what Uncle Carl did, because I had you both.”
A weak animal like sob breaks from my mouth. It seems unfair to mention my mother, as my grandmother lost her daughter. No one should have to bury their own child. My mum’s illness had been quick and cruel, but my grandparents pushed through for us.
I feel even worse mentioning their son. The man who contributed to my anxiety levels and childhood therapy. My grandparents naively left me with him for the night so they could go dancing. In truth, despite my words, it did matter to me.
What my uncle did to me as a child has marked me in a way I will never get rid of. I can manage the memories, but they will always be there. An internal haunting. My mind wants to forget, but my body will never let me. They felt so guilty, but it wasn’t their fault and they did everything they could to help me get through the nightmares. Everything they could when my dad stood there, confused and hopeless. Undoubtedly wondering how the person who was once the best man at his wedding could commit a crime so cruel. But my nan needed to know that despite every hardship I have faced, it was her that made me better. It was her that helped me through and gave me hope for another day.
It didn’t matter when the kids picked on me when my uncle’s face made its way into the local newspaper.
Everyone knew the horrific story involved me.
I’d go home to the warm arms of my grandparents. There would be hot chocolate and cake waiting. My dad would let me sleep at my grandparents as much as I wanted. And whenever they were around, I was safe.
“You have been everything to me,” I remind her as I grip her hand tighter. “Everything. My nan, a second mum, my friend. You were my friend, nan.”
Dad’s hand is on my shoulder and I realise through my deep sobs that nan has closed her eyes for the last time.
I rest my head on her hand and I lose the ability to cry anymore as a chunk of my heart falls off. Wherever my grandparents have gone, they’ve taken a part of me with them.
“Renée? Miss Renée Stipe! Stripey Stipey!” Lydia is clicking her hands in front of my face. Simon is behind her looking at me like he’s wondering if he’s met a girl with a weird sister.
“I’m sorry, I zoned out,” I admit quietly.
“Yeah, we noticed.” She looks more annoyed than concerned. Her personality and love towards me is conflicting. I’m so in my head with my intrusive thoughts that I can’t even focus on the fact she called me by my school nickname. On reflection, the nickname was not that bad. I had turned up on the first non-uniform day in Year Seven wearing a stripey top and there it began. It was never done nicely though; it wasusually called before an insult or any kind of comment to put me down. When Lydia joined the school a couple years later, she overheard it and made it her thing too. I asked her to stop. I told her I didn’t like the cruel intention behind it, but once she caught onto the idea that I didn’t like it, she did it more.
“The circus won’t wait for you, let’s go!” she claps her hands and off we walk.
