It can't be. Even when Jane was at school, cooking, doing laundry or in her bed, she kept thinking it can't be.
Jane knew her aunt had been on the evening shift for turndown service, that as she was getting on the tram to go to work, the brakes had had some sort of issue, the train had jumped, making Helen fall and hit her head on the pavement. Jane knew she had gone to the hospital but it had been too late. Jane had cried herself empty, first in front of Gloria and then in Mrs O'Connor's arms, (Gloria had thought best to seek someone who knew the girl better). Jane had gone to the small funeral. Jane was aware of Aunt Helen's death every single time she pretended she wasn't dead when Anna was awake and alert and yet Jane kept thinking it can't be.
Jane decided she wouldn't tell her mother just yet. She wouldn't be able to take it. Gloria and Mrs O'Connor wanted otherwise, and as adults, their judgment was supposed to prevail but she begged and begged and argued her case and was able to sway them, for the time being at least. They didn't know Anna like Jane did. It was for the best.
Anna was too apathetic to realise anything that day, sleeping for hours on end and barely eating but she started mumbling her sister's name. Jane nearly dropped the basin she held on her lap, scared that someone had revealed the terrible news. «Where's Aunt Helen?», «Tell Aunt Helen that the milk was too hot», «Aunt Helen's soup was very good». But Jane's relief was short-lived. She couldn't be sure her mother hadn't heard anything and that the present tense wasn't a manifestation of that thick, confusing, and unfathomable daze that took hold of her and which blinded Anna to anything else but those things she was the only one able to see and hear.
«Aunt Helen in on the evening shift now, she won't be able to come that often, but don't worry, she always asks for you», «there's a lot of people at the hotel», «was the milk better today?», «Did you enjoy the soup?». For the time, those deflecting replies seemed to be enough to sate her mother's curiosity but Jane worried about what could happen if her mother felt better and got out of bed, even if it didn't seem that likely soon. Every word burned in Jane's mouth when she spun those tales, their flimsiness tearing her apart. She was doing it for a good, noble reason, Jane argued with herself every night. It was for a good, noble reason.
As most lies, this one also came to an end. Jane had thought about whether she should lock the doors while she was in school but in the end she had thought it best not to. Her mother might need to leave the house in a hurry in case of fire or flood or any other sort of emergency. Besides, she barely got out of bed anyway.
When Jane arrive at her house that day, she found Mrs O'Connor sitting by the door, Margaret sleeping in her arms and John playing with a toy car at her feet. If she had brought her grandchildren, she had been waiting there for quite some time.
«Mrs O'Connor», her name was almost a whisper in Jane's lips.
Mary O'Connor raised her eyes to the girl and found herself holding her granddaughter to her chest even closer.
«Jane… I am sorry, my dear, but your mother has been committed». Mrs O'Connor wished she could have been gentler, but she trusted it was better to be straightforward.
«Committed?», one of Jane's worst fears contained in such a bland word.
Mrs O'Connor nodded.
«I am sorry, my dear». She reached out her hand and caressed Jane's cheek with her thumb. «Apparently, she got out of the house and went around the neighbourhood in her night clothes searching desperately for your aunt, screaming her name and also mumbling to herself. She didn't hurt anybody, but someone told her Helen had died, perhaps trying to bring her to reason, she walked into traffic, caused an accident, the police was called and they took her away. I was putting the sheets out to dry when I saw the constable, they had come looking for a next of kin.»
Jane slid to the ground, draining next to a startled John, a ragdoll dropped suddenly.
She cried quietly for a bit, it slowly turning into sobs that shook her to the core. If only she had told her mother sooner, she could have dealt better with her reaction, found a way to keep her close and unharmed. Guilt weighted every tear that ran down her face.
Mrs O'Connor's knees didn't let her sit by Jane, but she gently guided her head to her legs, tenderly running her hand over the girl's hair, and that's how Jane cried years' worth of difficulty until the social worker came and took her away too.
A/n: Thank you for reading this chapter too. I hope you enjoyed it.
