Upon moving to Grandma’s house, Sam continued his role as protector – holding me when the nightmares came, brightening my days with silly stories and surprise presents like a flower, or a piece of paper twisted into the shape of a mouse, coaxing me out of my hiding place in the wardrobe. He walked me to school every morning, before sprinting to reach his secondary school on time. He helped me with my homework, took me to the park or the library when Grandma needed a rest, and every single day made sure I felt safe, loved and that I was not alone.
But the previous years had taken their toll – done deep damage that refused to heal long after Sam’s physical scars faded. Grandma tried, but she was hopelessly ill-equipped todeal with the anger and hurt of a boy with Sam’s level of trauma. When I remember that time, I still feel my growing distress as my hero began to disappear, frequently staying out well into the night, retreating into his bedroom the rare times he remained in the house, and meeting Grandma’s worried questions with silence.
It was only when I got the unexpected invitation to a classmate’s party, held in a pub, that I realised the smell accompanying my brother was alcohol.
By fifteen, his attempts to drown out the pain had progressed to cannabis, pills and, soon after, cocaine. He scraped through school for my sake, still surfacing enough to be a surrogate daddy as best he knew how. But the stealing and the lies, the fights and the increasingly bad reputation were more than Grandma could cope with. The week after his seventeenth birthday, when a man showed up at the door with a baseball bat looking for money, she finally cracked. Sam came home the next day to find his meagre possessions waiting in a suitcase in the hallway.
For the next few years, my big brother was a fleeting shadow in my life. Without him, I felt as though I had lost a lung – every breath a challenge, I clambered through the days exhausted, fainthearted, a whimper of a girl. The days I would exit the school gates to find him slouched against the wall across the street were like brief bursts of oxygen.
We would hug, for a long, long time, before setting off to walk around the village. We’d sit in the park on warm days and make daisy chains, or find a seat in the café if it was too cold or wet.
‘How are you?’ he would ask, eyes hungry as he searched my face.
‘I’m fine. I got an A in English,’ I replied on one of these visits, thawing my fingers on the mug of hot chocolate he’d bought me.
He smiled. ‘Good for you. You look taller. Have you grown again?’
‘I’m taller than Grandma now.’
‘Is she being okay? Managing to take care of you? Does she give you enough money for clothes and things?’
I felt too anxious to tell Sam that for weeks now, I had been the one doing all the shopping and paying the bills.
‘Yes. We’re fine.’
‘Good.’ He sighed, and I caught a whiff of the toxins on his breath.
Look closer, Sam. Look at me. I’m not fine! I need you. Grandma keeps forgetting things and getting tired all the time and I’m trying to make her pension last till the end of the week, but it’s so hard. I need you. Come home. Come back to me.
We would chat a little longer, but soon his hands would start to twitch and eyes wander beyond me to the café door. Sometimes before going, he asked if I could lend him money. Other times, he would offer out a fat roll of notes. I didn’t take them. Those notes scared me. They were tainted with the unmentionable things he must have done to get them. Instead, I would lie about how Grandma had doubled my pocket money that month (which could have been true – zero doubled is still zero), or how I’d babysat for a neighbour.
But even when the months stretched without a visit, every night, I went to sleep thinking of my brother. Praying for his safety, wishing he would come home, imagining the dark and dangerous places and people he dwelled amongst.
Then, one morning, I woke up to find Grandma cold on the bathroom floor.
And I learned my wildest imaginings hadn’t come close.
Sam fled before the coffee had cooled on the tiles, but by the time Perry had carried me to a sofa, tidied up the mess and said a charming, if brisk, goodbye to the guests, I felt recovered enough to get up again.
Perry found me in the kitchen. I turned from loading the dishwasher, a thousand apologies on my lips.
‘Leave that. I can do it. You need to sit down.’
I mustered a weak smile. ‘No, I’m fine. Just embarrassed. I didn’t think I could top that meal, but…’
Perry leaned against the countertop, his hands in his pockets. ‘What happened with Sam?’
‘It wasn’t Sam. I’m really sorry he came round – he does that sometimes when he’s not well. And when he texted me earlier this evening, I mentioned I was here. But I must have had a weird migraine. Or maybe the residual smoke overpowered me. It’s been a really busy day.’
He walked over and took my hands in his, lifting one to kiss it. ‘I’m sorry I caused you so much stress. You were amazing tonight. You saved the day. And the Baker deal. I’m so glad you were here. Will you come to all my disaster parties?’
‘If you give me a couple of days’ notice, they might not be a disaster.’
He gazed at me. ‘Fifteenth of August.’
‘Now that should be enough notice.’
He was no longer laughing. ‘Marry me on 15 August. Come and live with me and you can burn my dinner every night.’
