Under My Skin. Zoe Markham
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as he starts straightening out all the crumpled newspaper that I’ve flung about. Like they won’t recycle it unless it’s in mint condition. Why does he do that?
This has all got to be crazy for him too, I know that. But it’s no picnic for me, and this was all his choice when it comes down to it. His fault – although I’d never say that; not to his face anyway. He’d say it wasn’t a choice at all, and that any parent would’ve done the same in his shoes. I don’t know about that. It’s not something your average parent would think of. Thank god. All this time together, and I can easily have our conversations in my head now. We barely used to speak, before.
We’re both throwing stuff into drawers, and getting in each other’s way, and the silence outside of my head starts to feel oppressive. Dad cracks first.
‘Just… finish up in here as best you can, will you. It’s almost done.’ he snaps, rubbing red-rimmed eyes heavily underlined with dark shadows. I feel bad, noticing for the first time just how tired he really is. It was a long drive down, and we left before it was even light. He’s got to be running on fumes now.
‘I’m going to go up and put your bed together,’ he says, heading for the door, but then he turns back to look at me. I suppose I must look pretty rough too, even more so than usual, because his voice softens as he says, ‘Once I’ve got that done, I’ll find us the nearest Chinese and order in a massive takeaway, ok?’
I’ve been meaning to ask ever since he first told me about the cottage, but I kept forgetting and it looks like I’ve run out of time now, so I just blurt it out and hope for the best. ‘Can I have the attic room?’
He sighs, and I know I’ve already lost. ‘Chloe, it’s just an empty shell up there. There’s no storage space, or heating even, and you need the en suite. I had the removal men put all your things in the master bedroom. You’ll be much better off in there. And it’s the nicest room in the house.’
I sigh back.
‘I’m not saying you can’t go up there, but you’re going to struggle with that ladder, and you need to be warm.’ He rubs his eyes again. ‘We’ve got those fan heaters you could use up there, but I haven’t unpacked them yet and god only knows where they are. I picked you the room that’ll be easiest on you.’
He’s trying, I know he is. And I’m trying too, mostly. He’s risked everything for me, and I know I need to meet him halfway, but it’s hard sometimes. And I can’t help thinking that if he’d been like this before – this caring, protective figure who’s always around, instead of the work-obsessed, distant parent who never came home – none of this would ever have happened in the first place. It’s all his faul– Don’t, don’t think.
He crosses the room and pulls me into a bear hug, and I can’t think of a thing to say.
‘Can we just try and make the best of it?’ he asks. ‘As soon as I get settled in at the hospital I’ll be working on the vaccine every spare minute I can find. It could only take a few weeks, Chlo, if I can just catch a lucky break. As soon as I can get you some long-term supplies made up, we can think about getting out of the country and really starting over. We just need to get through this bit first, and keep our heads while we’re at it. I know it’s not going to be easy, but we’re so close, Chlo. We’re almost there.’
He goes to kiss my forehead but I flinch and pull back. I’ve been by the fire with both my thick hoodies on, and I’m so self-conscious like this. I don’t feel like I’ve been sweating, and he always says there isn’t any smell, but… when I think about what I am… I mean, there must be. You never think about… them… being fragrant. I can’t bear the thought of it. He gives me a sad smile and squeezes my shoulder before heading off up the stairs.
I work hard at sorting out the last of the kitchen things, and there, right inside the very last box at the bottom of the pile, is the kettle. If kitchen implements could talk I swear this one would be laughing at me. As I pull it out, I spot the UHT milk tucked in neatly underneath it.
I get the kettle on at last, hoping that tea will maybe go some way towards an apology for how whiny and useless I’ve been today. I wrestle the last of the cardboard and newspaper over to the back door while it brews, and then head slowly and awkwardly upstairs with a full mug in each hand. I don’t know where anything is up here yet, but I follow the swearing to the room where Dad’s attacking a bed frame with a screwdriver, and park his mug on the windowsill before flopping onto the mattress lying on the floor with mine. I take slow sips, and try to get my breath back. I’m so unfit now. I’ve done way more today than I have since it happened, and I’m really struggling now. It makes me tired just watching Dad. He doesn’t stop until my bed is bed-shaped once more, and then he drains his mug in one go, and sighs in appreciation.
‘Oh, god, that’s better,’ he says, and I can actually see him starting to relax right in front of me. As if someone’s released a valve somewhere, and he can breathe again. I wish tea could do that for me.
‘Up you get then,’ he tells me, and as he hauls my mattress up onto the frame he catches sight of the longing look I give it. ‘Go on then,’ he says kindly. ‘Why don’t you lie down and have a nap, while I try and find somewhere we can get ourselves an enormous takeaway. I think we deserve it.’
He pulls a contact lens case from his pocket and hands it to me, and I fire him a grateful smile in return. I couldn’t remember to put the kettle in the right box, but he somehow remembers to keep everything I could ever need close to hand at all times.
He pulls my duvet up over me, and I’m asleep before he’s even left the room.
The crunch of tyres on gravel outside wakes me in a panic, and my heart races as the familiar cold, sick sensation spreads through my stomach. I roll awkwardly off the bed and crouch down beside it, my hands and knees trembling. There’s a loud rap on the front door, I hear voices, and the blood starts to pound in my ears so loudly it scares me. I feel dizzy, and I close my eyes tight, hating myself for being this afraid, but not knowing how to be any other way any more. They’ve found us. The voices stop, and the door slams, and then, nothing. Have they taken Dad? Where do I go? How am I supposed to survive on my own? A new kind of pain tears across my chest and I’m sick with terror. I only have a few months’ worth of vaccine left, what happens to me when it runs out? Don’t think doesn’t always work, however hard you try. My head races and the room starts to blur around me as the bad thoughts multiply.
Dad’s shout shatters the silence and makes me jump so hard I smack my head against the sharp corner of the windowsill, but I’m almost laughing with relief even as warm blood starts to run down my face.
‘Chlo! Food’s here!’
It takes me a minute just to relax my limbs enough to stand up. I wipe the blood away with the back of my hand. I won’t bleed for long, no matter how bad the wound. I run my fingers up to the pain and feel the small patch of torn skin on my scalp. It’s not deep, or wide, and I can probably hide it from Dad. I heal so slowly now, and he gets so frustrated at my carelessness if I hurt myself. It’s the last thing he needs today.
Chinese. I just nearly had a heart attack over a Chinese. I have got to get a grip.
My legs and back are stiff as I make my way down the stairs, squinting hard as I try to focus on each step as I come to it. When I get a whiff of the food my stomach cramps hard enough to make my head spin. Dad’s found a lone candle for the table, and he’s even got the little wood-burning stove in the corner going, so it’s gorgeously warm in here. The food’s on the table, and he pulls my chair out for me with a flourish. My glasses are sitting next to my plate, and I put them on, gratefully, as the room comes into focus.
I don’t realise just how hungry I am until I take that first mouthful. There’s an actual mountain of chicken satay in front of me, and I dig in with gusto. He’s poured me a pint of water too, as if the spice