more weeks until 4 July. Six weeks, forty-two days. I can see the days lined up in front of me, like brown empty envelopes. Mom says we can go up to the beach house right at the beginning. Then at least I’ll be there, seeing the same places, the old places, even if I have to wait… but I’m used to waiting and watching. I know how to be patient. I can keep it all wrapped up inside me, my secret. Mine.
Then a whole summer, a long chain of days, shiny beads in a necklace …
Do I feel happy or scared?
I don’t know, I don’t know.
Sometimes I wish I could tell someone, just talk, but who? Imagine telling Amy, or Mel. Ha ha. That is so weird it is almost funny.
May frowned. The next line was just numbers.
66 7 10 146 12 2 67 10 9.
And then the writing resumed.
Went to Amy’s last night. We just hung out and painted our nails and watched TV. She talked about Scott T. all night. That is just so dumb.
Forty-one more days.
What did the numbers mean? They weren’t dates, nor did they suggest anything else May could think of. She flipped forward through the blue-lined pages and saw there were more groups of numbers, of two and three, sometimes whole paragraphs of them. Interspersed between the numbers were ordinary jottings, about school and sleep-overs and parties and friends, reassuring to May because they sounded so familiar. If the names were changed they could have applied to her own life as readily as to Doone’s.
Then, among the numbers and the scribbles about everyday events, there were the other paragraphs. These were passages of introspection, which caught May’s attention and held it hooked as if the barbs bit into her mind.
Argument with Mom.
I know everyone has rows with their mothers. You’re supposed to, even. Only I know there’s a difference with ours.
I’m like two people. There’s the one they all want me to be and I pretend that I am, the A-student and the choir leader and the student councillor; and the one I really am, that’s so dark and strong and deep that sometimes I can’t stop it bursting out of me.
Like tonight when we were arguing, about nothing at all, just what time I should come in on Saturday nights, and I couldn’t keep up the control: I felt the real me speaking.
Not shouting or any of that stuff. Just cold and quiet and sure. I said I didn’t care, their rules didn’t touch me, nothing really touches me except things they would never know about.
I could see Mom staring at me like I’m an alien. And fear in her face that she kept trying to rub out.
She said did I want to talk, I could trust her, I could tell her anything I wanted.
And I had to keep my mouth still to stop it making this crazy smile. Because I know what I am and what I have, and I know what I hold on to, and it’s nothing I could tell. Never.
Sometimes just the knowledge, the memory of it does make me feel so strong. Like I could hike up the highest mountain or live alone on a deserted island – oh, an island – just with this for food and drink and warmth and company.
And if I’m truthful there are other times when I doubt it all. All the wishing and waiting. Miss Straight-A says in my head, who are you kidding?
But it’s easy to quieten her. And the easiness makes me sure that I’m real and what I have experienced is real.
And then I feel happy.
After that there was a long sequence of numbers, scribbled and jumbled close together so that the hasty digits were barely legible. They looked as if they had been written in high passion.
Because May read too quickly she sometimes missed the sense, so she went back and made herself study each line. After a while she yawned, and the yawn caught in the back of her throat and swelled into a greasy surge of nausea.
She realised that the diary frightened her.
It was the combination that was unnerving. The way the accounts of normal everyday experiences were linked by the fierce jumbles of numbers to the passages of declaration. And Doone’s declarations of strength made her uneasy. If she was so strong and happy, why did she keep writing it down and why did what she wrote make her sound so lonely? What secret was hidden in the numbers?
May looked at them again. They were usually groups of three, sometimes only two. Once or twice the same number or similar ones occurred several times close together, but otherwise there was no apparent link or pattern. If it was a code, she had no idea how to break it. The thought of what the numbers might spell out increased the sick pressure so that May wondered if she might actually vomit. Holding her legs tensed against the chair’s worn slipcover she closed the book and waited.
Slowly the nausea subsided, but she couldn’t get Doone’s words out of her head. I could never tell. I could live on a desert island with nothing but this for food and warmth and company. It made her sound so isolated. And yet, May thought, I know her. This bed was where she had slept. From the window she had looked at the view of the island and had gone out and drowned in the blue water.
Somehow, with her diary and her introspection and her coded secrets – and her loneliness – Doone Bennison was slipping under her skin. Now that the knowledge of her was there, hooked in beneath the surface, May did not know how she might rid herself of it. She remembered how finding the diary had made her feel that she hugged the secret to herself like a shield.
Perhaps I’m like her, she thought. As if she were looking down from some vantage point up under the cracked ceiling, she saw herself sitting splay-legged in the old chair, with the closed diary in her lap and the chair wedged up close against the door to keep out intruders. Or, maybe, was it Doone she was seeing and not herself at all?
‘I would tell my mother,’ May said. The words sounded startlingly loud in the enclosed room. ‘I wish I could tell her.’
One grey, sleet-filled afternoon in the weeks after Alison’s death, driven by an impulse she didn’t understand, May had gone to the boxes where John had stored her clothes. She had taken out the dresses and jackets one by one and cut them, making long tattered ribbons, with the kitchen shears. ‘See?’ she had angrily demanded as she did it. ‘Do you see what I’m doing?’
She hadn’t expected her mother to hear the question, or to be hurt by the destruction of her clothes. Nor had the frenzy been a relief, only another shame to add to the ones May was suffering already.
The therapist John took her to see after this episode had advised May to search for something in nature that reminded her of her mother, and to look at it and think about her when she felt overwhelmed by grief or anger. Reluctantly May had chosen a tree, one particular tall, graceful tree, which grew in a little park near to their house, and in a way the strategy had worked. She thought of it secretly as Mom’s tree and tried in a stilted way to address her mother through it. Now she felt a sudden urge to run out and put her arms around the rough trunk.
There didn’t seem to be much variety in the trees around here. They were mostly hostile pointed firs.
May jumped to her feet and the
