Chapter 45: Veering Away

Cully's eyelids flew open, her gaze on the shadowed white ceiling, though patches gleamed in the light of her bedside lamp. The glare had woken her from a dreamless sleep with an old book from her school years on her chest, still held open by one finger. Blinking heavily, she felt a few tears escape her eyes, warm and stinging as they rolled across her skin. Over the course of the day, she had pushed it all away—just like every day. She smiled as visitors to the library van handed back their books before glancing through the small selection on board, perhaps leafing through the latest release the library had acquired. And then left, almost everyone without a new volume to hand. "As expected." No matter what the patrons said, they always returned far more than they loaned out. "Some days, there doesn't seem to be much point." Except...it filled the hours that ticked away until night fell.

Every day, Cully shoved her memories of Aunt Alice a little further away, deeper into her mind, smothering them with what needed doing now. Ten days ago—or was it really thirteen, fourteen?—didn't mean anything now. The world was changed, and the kind, giving woman who had become as dear as her grandmother was gone. Nothing could resolve that, no matter how many memories burst forth when she least wanted them.

The late autumn air snapped as it gusted around them on the gravel lane leading away from Aunt Alice's small house through her back garden, a few thistles poking their leafy chokes through the swaying blades of grass. The older woman's hair was already grey, now streaked with white, though her face only had a few lines. Cully's head barely reached her shoulder, though she kept up with more steps, compared with her great-aunt's slower pace.

As afternoon tea ended, Aunt Alice asked for Cully to come outside, to walk to the hedge and the roses at the bottom of the rocky path. Though she knew her great-aunt was still quite strong, Cully offered her arm, which was taken gratefully. As the back of the garden came into closer view, Cully let out a deep sigh, her mouth falling open. Rising up before the green clipped shrubs, roses twined upwards on thin trellises, the stems so thickened by age, she mistook one for a small tree. Red, pink, yellow, even white blossoms exploded from the thinner shoots, thorns and delicate leaves cupping the vibrant petals. "Did you do all this yourself, Aunt Alice?" Cully gasped, scuffing her shoe along the tiny pebbles.

"Oh, no!" her aunt said with a laugh. "Your uncle did, many many years ago."

"It looks ancient. Like a hundred years old!"

"I wouldn't go that far, Cully."

They strode closer to the trellis, leaving the scrabbly path for the softer, quieter grass. A few feet from the roses, wind whistling through the branches and leaves, Cully turned her head up, following the climbing leaves until she could strain her neck no further. Stems twisted together through the wood, occasionally pulling a rough shrub stalk in with their thorns, the floral scent wafting from the blooms. "You never know what you'll find when you get your head out of a book."

"Or out of tea," Cully said, stroking one of the lower roses. Her pale fingers were so tiny beside the mammoth bushes, even swamped by some of the leaves.

"Or that." She paused. "Cully, you're just like your father, you know that?"

Cully looked up, Aunt Alice gazing at the highest flowers. Those blossoms were larger, brighter, smoother, as if protected from gnawing rabbits that darted through the grass. "He always says I sound just like Mum."

Her aunt laughed again, holding Cully's arm closer, chilly fingers wrapped around her wrist. "Well, maybe he's trying to be polite."

"Aunt Alice, that's not nice."

Her great-aunt glanced down at her, smiling beneath her mane of thin white hair, skin creasing in the waning sunlight. "Cully, sometimes we have to be honest, not nice."

"Is that something I'll really learn when I'm older?" she asked.

"Probably."

She slammed her arm down on her bed, the impact muffled by the blankets and sheets. Her finger remained crushed between the pages of her book, the rest of her hand squeezing the covers together. It would have been so simple, driving to the edge of the county for an afternoon, a moment to say "hello" and share a cup of tea. "But you didn't."

Turning onto her stomach, Cully buried her face in her pillow, inhaling cotton-scented air. But you didn't. Letting out her breath, the warmth recoiled onto her face as she brought herself up onto her elbows, setting her book on the pillow where her face had lain. The wrinkled covers bore witness to years of reading, dozens of poems memorized for recitation in secondary school, some for auditions, others read time and again for pleasure. Cracked, bent, stained, torn in one corner. Opening it to where she had paused, she flipped to the next page. 'The gingham dog and the calico cat side by side on the table sat—'* She turned the page again; somehow, it felt wrong, reading something so amusing and silly, even if all she could really use was a laugh, something to push the black cloud from her mind.

'Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone. For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, but has trouble enough of its own. Sing, and the hills will answer—'**

No. Barely closing it, Cully tossed the book aside, hiding her face in her pillow once again as it knocked into her side table before clattering to the floor. She remembered that poem, had read it so many times in school, and she knew its final lines… 'But one by one we must all file on through the narrow aisles of pain.'** "Not now."

Rolling onto her back once more, Cully pressed a hand to her stomach, just letting it rise and fall with her breath. Calm and shallow. "One by one," she whispered. Wasn't that the way it always was: the instant you needed a hand to hold, arms to hold you and whisper calm words into your ear ("Everything will turn right in the end."), then it was…silence. Nothing. She turned onto her side, tucking her elbow under her body; she was unable to sleep, to stay still, to quiet her thoughts. Splaying her fingers on her sheets, Cully clenched them around the white fabric. She didn't want this, not now, this solitude. And perhaps, it was selfish, what she wanted.

All Cully wanted was to go back to that night six weeks ago, warmth and heat finally breaking through the cold air that always enveloped them. Wherever his hand touched her skin burned, his fingertips dancing up along her spine, teasing as he clutched her against him. "No more—here," she'd whispered, her mouth almost pressed to his ear, Gavin's face reddening as she felt his back muscles tense through his jacket. Hardly inside his flat, he'd crushed her to him, kissing her like he meant to devour her, both of them now freed from prying eyes, hands finally released—

"Stop it," she told herself, sitting up and squinting as her lamp shone straight into her eyes. "You know why." Over the past week or so, her father had been home more often: leaving later in the mornings, arriving earlier in the evenings. "Troy's been very good," he said more than once, "and more organized than usual."

Oh, she knew. Gavin was far busier than normal, buried beneath his sergeant's tasks as well as some of her father's responsibilities, all while pursuing his theories. Thanks and gratitude were probably what she should be feeling, but all that bubbled up was loneliness. Resentment. Anger. "You're being daft." How did she feel so alone, what with her mother and father working through everything at her side, just like when her grandmother died? "Everything is just so different now."

He pulled her closer, despite how warm everything was and the sweat covering them both. Cully's breath slowed, coming back down from its high. One of his fingers ran along her arm, just following the muscle. "Gavin," she whispered as the feeling between itching and pleasure grew beneath her skin, followed by a laugh. "Stop—"

"Or what?"

He did not stop, instead stroking her arm faster as her stomach rose, tightening. "Gavin—please!" Pausing, he lifted his hand, tucking a strand of limp hair behind her ear, now slipping his fingers through its ends, running them along the curve of her jaw, tracing her lips.

"Sorry," he said quietly. Stroking her cheek with the back of his hand, Cully felt every knuckle graze her skin, sharp and gentle at the same time. And he kissed her again: no longer frantic and hungry, but quiet—kind. His hand fell away, drifting to hers, twisting his fingers into her own, still hot.

"You can't have everything," Cully muttered, shaking her head and refusing to close her eyes, instead turning to the shadows lingering in the corners, the light banished from their darkness. And what else could she expect? Gavin had driven her home that day, sat with them for a short time, been nothing but kind—all while refusing to come near her, to hold her hand. And he sat so stiffly, so very obviously away, once gripping his pale trousers. The one need she was desperate to sate...was the one that remained. Her parents' embrace had pushed away some of the gnawing pain, but it was his she wanted. "Forget it," she said, swinging her feet onto the carpet, her feet cold as they touched the floor.

Padding across the room, Cully tugged the bottom hems of her shirt sleeves further down, curling her fingers around them against the chilly air that autumn's nascent week had blown in. She turned the brassy knob, pulled the door half open—then closed it again, dropping her forehead against the smooth white painted wood. All through the rest of the house, it was only her mother and father, no doubt asleep for hours. And, well, it wasn't their comfort she really wanted, was it?

But…

Was it really what she wanted, then? The last three months were wonderful: warm, bright, like a brilliant summer's day shining down, stretching on despite the dawn of evening. It twisted her stomach in ways she hadn't felt for years, shortening her breaths, drawing a smile to her face before she realized. There was beauty in it, really, something delicate in need of protection and nurturing, like a dandelion turned to seed. The gentlest touch could destroy it while a cautious hand could harbor it with ease, keep it shielded from a breeze ready to shatter and scatter it into the wild. Yet, it wasn't just the last handful of weeks.

How many broken moments littered the road they had walked together, before they ventured aside to the footpaths leading away? Arguments, fear, all the words unspoken...Not months, but years. And even cowardice, perhaps: Gavin unwilling to confront his worry, she desperate to hide from the ugliness laid bare before her. There was no more pretending it didn't exist, a veil torn away to show the misery simmering under the polite veneer of bucolic Midsomer.

Drawing away, Cully finally opened the door. Her mouth was suddenly parched, her throat scratchy, desperate for a glass of water. Leaving her door cracked, she took a few quiet steps down the hallway, illuminated by a small nightlight and the glow from her lit lamp. She still touched the wall to keep her bearings, but as she reached the top of the staircase, light drifted through the wooden slats below the handrail. Who?

Sliding her hand along the rounded banister, the glow grew brighter, easier to locate: her father's study. Why's Dad still up? Cully took the last few stairs faster, not as concerned with being quiet. Foregoing the desire for water that had brought her from her bedroom, she took a few gentle steps toward that room. One of the doors was still open and the light fractured as it shone through the rippled glass of the other.

Even through the gap between the doors, the piles of papers were obvious, scattered from one edge to the other. Her father's head was craned over the pages, shifting a glossy photograph from one stack to another, scribbling away on another paper. The lamp bent over his desk was hardly enough to read by, just enough throw shadows across the bookshelf and the small potted plant on its edge.

Catching up? she wondered, curling her left hand into a fist beneath her chin. She took another step, and the floor creaked.

Her father sat up, turning round to the door. "Cully?" he asked.

She pushed the door completely open, slipping inside. "Sorry, I don't mean to interrupt—"

He shook his head, spinning around in his chair. "Of course not," he said, waving her forward. "Shouldn't you be asleep?"

With a few quiet strides, she approached him; he was still clad in the suit he wore that day, though he had discarded his jacket and loosened his tie. More lines crossed his cheeks, and purple-blue rings lay just beneath his eyes. "Speak for yourself."

He laughed quietly. "Perhaps."

"What are you reading?" Cully asked, leaning forward. Everything was jumbled, the reports, the photographs, the notes, the folders. "Is it all for one case?"

"I suppose it is." He paused, adding another line beneath his scrawled notes. "At least, this is everything I'm not caught up on."

She took one of the pages, a SOCO report on the patterns of broken glass. "Fully back to work?"

"We all have to, some time," he said quietly. He began to gather things, at first reaching for a few photographs, stacking them together as he found more beneath other documents. "Troy has really been doing quite well—"

"Oh?" Cully asked, handing him the report she held.

"Quite."

"Hmm." He looked up as she sighed, frowning.

"Well, handling this almost on his own—"

"I guess he's been focusing on his work." This was the last conversation she wanted to have with her father, not when her own emotions were a maelstrom that refused to stop threatening to drown her. The lingering ache, uncertainty over the future, confusion about...she didn't need to hear anything else he might say about Gavin, not now.

"Cully?"

"For once," she added, crossing her arms over the churning in her stomach.

"Is everything all right, Cully?" her father asked softly, touching her arm.

She took a small step back. "Of course—why wouldn't it be?"

Pushing his chair back a foot or so, he stood. "You don't sound like yourself."

"It's fine, Dad—"

He settled his hand on her shoulder. "No, it isn't."

Aunt Alice, the Playhouse, Gavin...It had all been pounding her skull for the past week and a half: if it wasn't one, it was another. Some sadness or concern or doubt, burning sometimes brighter, sometimes dimmer, yet never ceasing completely. "Really—"

"And you have to deal with that," her father said gently, cutting her off. "It comes to us all."

The sadness crept up again, shortening her breaths. Everything crashed. Before she realized it, she had wrapped her arms around her father, pressing her face to his chest, like she had done as a child and refused to much after. As he pulled her closer, she swallowed against the lump growing in her throat, ready to silence her other fears. She squinted against the burning in her eyes...but the hot tears trailed over her skin again. "I miss her, Dad," she whispered, her voice muffled against his shirt. "I didn't realize—how much I would..."

"We all do," her father said, holding her tighter.

"How long...how long does it take?"

"What?"

"For it to get easier," she added, loosening her grip on her father.

"How so?" He let her go, though he left his hands on her shoulders.

"Ah..." Her words had gone ahead of her mind, her thoughts veering between everything and everyone suddenly absent in her life. "Until you stop missing them?"

Her father sighed, running a hand over the stubble across his jaw. "I don't know. You'll never really stop missing her, but you have to answer that yourself."

"I know, but I don't just mean—" Not right now. Perhaps he wore it better, but she could see her father's grief, just as harsh and raw as her own. "I don't understand..."

"All we can do is remember, and love her memory."

Cully shuffled back a couple more steps, loosening her shoulder from her father's remaining hand. It wasn't right, was it, mentioning Gavin—and how raw his absence left her. She could still see her father's pain in his crinkled gaze and his gentle frown, like his own memories were dancing before his eyes. No. "I was thinking about her," she said quietly, rubbing her elbows.

"When?"

"Just now. I—I woke up and couldn't fall back asleep."

"What about?"

"Do you remember the first time she took me back to see roses at the bottom of the garden?"

He shook his head. "Not particularly. But they were quite a thing. Still are, I suppose."

"Yes." Looking down, she dragged those words back from the depths. "Cully, sometimes we have to be honest, not nice." "I—remembered something she said to me that day." She shivered; how much of her mind would be betrayed by this? There was nothing else for it, though. "How sometimes it's more important to be honest, rather than nice or polite."

Her father narrowed his eyes, like he was trying to imagine his aunt speaking those words. "She usually found a way to do both, you know that," he said slowly.

"But...do you think that's true?" She dropped her hands to her side, her fingers brushing against her plaid pajamas. "If you have to choose?"

He touched her face lightly, running his thumb over her cheekbone. "There's almost always a middle path, Cully." He paused, drawing his hand away. "But things built on anything but the truth rarely stand the test of time."

Cully swallowed, not sure what else to say. Whether her father meant to or not, his words sounded less like an answer, more like a question. As though he meant, "Do you want to tell me something?" And she did—more than anything—but...what? The words and thoughts were all a jumble she couldn't assemble for herself, let alone anyone else. "I suppose."

Ignoring Aunt Alice already? You're being so nice.

"You'll feel better tomorrow," he said quietly.

She let herself smile briefly, the first moment of levity her mind had offered her all evening, like she had come up for air after a wave thrust her into the ocean, pushing her into the depths beyond the sunlight. "See you then." Her father gave her one more hug before she said a final good night, still detouring to the kitchen for the glass of water that had led her down the stairs at all.

Tucking herself beneath the sheets and quilt and reaching for her book of poems, Cully stopped, her head slumping against the wall as she peered up at the ceiling again. Do I have to choose? she wondered, stretching her left arm over her head and running her fingers through her hair as her sleeve rode up her arm to her elbow. "I mean, it's not like anything is wrong," she whispered, thumping her arm onto her quilt.

Then why are you so unhappy?

"I'm not—I just miss him."

Why ask Dad?

"Not because something is wrong—"

You don't really believe that, do you?

"Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?"

Then why have you been upset all night?

"Be quiet!" Cully hissed, drawing her knees to her chest, propping up her book. She crushed her forehead against the pages, the paper edges crinkling on her skin. "It's not like that."

You have to decide—

"Not tonight." She reopened her book, the flick-flick-flick drowning out that voice as she returned to where she had stopped— No, not there, a few pages earlier. As she settled into her pillow, she pressed her thumbnail into the yellowed paper.

"The gingham dog and the calico cat side by side on the table sat;
'Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!) nor one nor t'other had slept a wink!
The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate appeared to know as sure as fate
There was going to be a terrible spat.
(I wasn't there; I simply state what was told to me by the Chinese plate!)"*

* First lines from "The Duel", by Eugene Field.

** First and last lines from "Solitude", by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.