I Wrote the Sky

My mother left in a hurry. Dad and I weren’t really surprised, but the actual morning she left went past like a blur, and hurt like old wounds being pulled open. I remember waking up at half six in the morning. It was cold, late November, still dark. Waking up to the sound of her muffled shouts, it felt like the rest of the world was asleep, and I was the only one awake.

She thumped down the stairs, lumbering a suitcase with her. Dad said nothing. He was sat on the floor, on the cold wooden floor, leant into the doorframe. He was watching her walk out of his life, our lives. All I could see was her mousy brown hair, the same as my own, bobbing down the stairs. She went in a rush but she clanked down on each step slowly, like she was hoping one of us would call out and stop her. Beg her to stay with us.

I pulled my dressing gown tight around myself, I remember. It was pink, the kind of pink that only your mum would buy for you. I sat down next to my dad, but he barely noticed me. We sat at either end of the door frame like that long after she slammed the door. She took the car, too. We heard it speed off down the road. She didn’t take anything else though, just some of her own things. Clothes, books, presumably whatever could fit in that dusty old suitcase.

I was fourteen, it was mid-November. April had slept over my house maybe two days before. She’d told me about the boy that kissed her at school, tall and spotty, but she liked him. She’d told me that she couldn’t wait to kiss him again. I’d told her that I couldn’t sleep in the dark, it hurt my head, made my senses throb. She hadn’t laughed at me, and we didn’t sleep for one minute that night, just like she promised we wouldn’t.

The floor was hard underneath me. I was cold, tired. Nothing felt real, even my dad looked like someone had painted him into the hallway.

‘Dad?’ I said quietly, shifting my legs underneath me. My skin burned. He was blank. The man who stared back at me with blue eyes identical to my own, the man who’d taught me how to ride a bike, put plasters on my grazed knees even when I didn’t need them. Empty. ‘Dad, please?’ I remember how much my lip shook, how hard it was to stand up.

I gripped the door frame for support and tried not to feel the softness of the dressing gown. She’d gotten me it for my birthday. I opened it and hated the colour, but once I’d put it on I loved it. It was like being wrapped up in a cloud. My birthday was two weeks before. I blinked. The warmth against my skin made my stomach churn; I was wrapped in everything she didn’t care about. I tried to fix my eyes on the weary pair in front of me, but they couldn’t stay still, drifting to the room, just from something else to look at. Everything my eyes scanned burned more.

We had wallpaper in our upstairs hallway, dad had picked it out. It matched the floor, the same soft browns, but with small flowers scattered throughout it. He’d disappeared into the wallpaper. His body was slumped down in the doorway, but the rest of him was gone. I could see it, I could see the wallpaper sucking him through, and I felt my head start to sting.

His blue eyes were fixed on me, completely expressionless. ‘Come on,’ I tried to hide my shaking hands, standing up straight and shoving them into the pockets of the dressing gown. ‘You have to get up.’

‘I knew she’d go.’ His eyes didn’t move from me. I could almost see his mind, fluttering through the memories they’d shared, counting every single way that I looked like her. Every mannerism we shared. ‘I’m going back to bed.’ His voice was almost ripped apart, raw and broken.

He found his way to his feet, and stumbled the few paces back to his bed, choking back the tears I wasn’t managing to stop. I was trying to plead with him, trying to tell him to stay up, I’d make him a cup of tea and we’d work it out, we’d be fine. But all that was coming out of my mouth were ugly sobs.

I don’t know why I was so upset, looking back on it. After I’d gotten over the shock a few days later I just felt empty, but at the time, enveloped in that dressing gown with awkward limbs, puberty not quite settled in yet, I could feel nothing but pain. Screaming through my every pore. Nothing made sense.

I gently made my way down the stairs, careful not to tread on the remains of her. I didn’t even want to disturb the air she’d stepped through. I set both my feet flat on at the bottom, on the floor. The carpet we had in the downstairs hall rubbed against my toes.

My hair blew into my eyes and the wind stung my face. I remember thinking ‘What wind?’, but then looking up, the door was wide open. She’d left so quickly, not ever wanting to look back that she didn’t close the door. So torn, and self-pitying, that she thought she could walk out of our lives without even closing the door. Literally.

I stood up to close the door, but I couldn’t. I gasped for air and turned, feet smacking down hard on the carpet as I ran to the bathroom. My stomach heaved and I didn’t make it. I threw up on the blue tiles, inches away from the toilet. I vomited up shame and anger, and this strange embarrassment that pricked all underneath my skin.

My face was puffy, and for a few seconds I sat there in the dark, in front of a small puddle of my own sick. I cried harder. I cried so hard the tears dripped off my face and rained into the vomit. A chill washed through my body, blurring my vision. My head felt hot, all I could smell was my sick, all over the floor. All over my chin.

I didn’t stop crying until I pulled my school blouse over my head. More than an hour after she’d gone. I was going to be late for school, but I’d never cared about that before and I cared even less then.

Clearing up my vomit was the first thing I’d done, after I scraped myself off the cold floor. I then made my lunch, since I figured that dad wouldn’t be doing it. I made him a sandwich too, and took it upstairs with a glass of water. He wasn’t asleep, but he didn’t seem to notice me coming it, or acknowledge me putting the tray down on the bedside table.

Somehow I managed to shower too. The water burned no matter how cold I had it, but I desperately needed it; all I could smell was my own vomit.

When I came back from school dad was still in bed. There was one bite out of the sandwich and the glass was empty. I didn’t even try to talk to him, just picked up the tray and went downstairs. I thought about clearing it up, doing the washing up, making an effort. I just couldn’t. Everything was so heavy and I couldn’t bear it.

April wasn’t at school, but I was okay. I coped. I got through the day without breaking down, and was at least glad about that. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to show emotion. Many people say that. They go on about how they ‘never cry in front of people because it shows weakness.’ I wasn’t scared of breaking down, I just thought it was pointless without April there.

I should also point out that April isn’t at all as vapid as I’ve made her seem so far. She spoke of boys, but her eyes spoke of the things that hurt her. Not that it really matters, what you think of her (or me, really) is out of my hands now. Words don’t belong to anyone once you’ve said them.

Dad got up a few hours after I got home. He made dinner and we ate in silence. I went to bed and all I could feel was the dressing gown, even though I’d shoved it into the bin bag, alongside all of her candles.

When I got dressed the next morning, all I could see in the mirror was my mother’s face. I couldn’t see my brown hair, how it pooled at my shoulder without a single curl, or how my eyes shined blue. I could just see her. I was like a photograph of her.

In the weeks that followed, things softened out, and became more normal. Dad and I spoke about it, began to heal. April held me as I cried, not saying a word.

She opened up to me, more than just what her eyes were telling me. It wasn’t the first time she’d done so, but it was important nonetheless. We were fourteen, and had been friends since we were six, and she told me about her nightmares. Nothing more than that, but it was significant.

My mother never did come back. She had no reason to. Her and dad were never married, so she didn’t even have to hassle with divorce papers. I don’t know if dad ever looked for her. I shouldn’t imagine he would’ve, I can’t picture him walking into the local pub and asking around for her. She’d gone, and nothing was going to change that.