Hidden Behind Closed Books

Hidden Behind Closed Books

            Emma reached up and pulled the dictionary off the top shelf. English homework was tiresome at the best of times and having to use over 30 verbs in a 100 word essay turned into a more difficult task than she would have originally imagined. It was typical for the only proper dictionary in the house to be on the top shelf of her Mother’s bookshelf. As the book tilted towards her outstretched hand it fell just past her grasp, and from the pages flew about 30 thin pieces of paper, scattering all over the floor.

            Trembling, she picked one of the delicate pieces. She was not meant to be in Mother’s room and it had been a bad day at school. She couldn’t handle another disappointed look, as walking out of maths had meant a call to her parents from the headmistress. ‘Troubled past’ was one of those things which kept teachers on red alert. Since the ‘incidents’ last year she had always been on special alert by the headmistress, automatically contacting parents when there was a disturbance. Her attention was re-drawn to the thin leaf of paper in her hands, and she saw it was a letter. She began to read

“I am writing to tell you a secret. It’s an awful secret that I only wish you’d known sooner. You are 14 now, and I was only a little older than you when I got pregnant. I couldn’t handle myself, never mind a child. I gave my beautiful baby girl up for adoption. A little while later I got diagnosed with bi-polar disease, a genetic disease which can be fatal. This is why I’m writing to you. You are my beautiful baby girl. I wish you were here with me, I really do. Please get in contact, I need to talk to you. Love Mum”

            Suddenly Emma heard footsteps on the stairs, and quickly swept the letters back into the dictionary. She stretched and returned the large book onto the shelf. She ran back to her room, wondering who this mysterious woman from the letter was. At 16 she felt she needed some more freedom, but having all sharp objects taken from her, and meals given to her at certain times every day she had about as much freedom as a caged canary.

            The ‘incidents’ had scared her parents into being the opposite of what they used to be. The party-going free-wheeling couple had ignored their 15 year old daughter to the extent where she would do anything to get the attention which she so desperately craved. She used to be ignored when she didn’t eat for months. Then her parents screamed and shouted until their voices were hoarse and their throats were raw. And then it all stopped. Two weeks in hospital and 6 pints of blood lost was all it took for her rebellious cool parents to turn into the quiet and demure servants, waiting on her hand and foot. And yet she still wasn’t happy. Whilst mulling things over in her mind, she drifted to sleep, the last thing on her mind the image of a young girl, pregnant and writing a letter.

            Two days later, Emma ventured again into her Mother’s bedroom. Father’s stuff had long been disposed of, thrown out because her Mother could not bear the memory of the runaway coward – the one who couldn’t handle the problems that had overcome the family. She reached for the dictionary, more carefully this time, and walked back to her room, reading the 2^nd to last letter in the pile.

“Dear Emma, I am writing, again. I know by the fact that you have not answered for over a year that it is of little importance what I write, yet I still continue. Why? Because otherwise there is no hope that you may return to me for a while... You are 16, and I am 30. It seems so young, so irresponsible, and yet I know that you are more responsible that I ever was. I have no idea how long I have left on this Earth, The disease grows stronger daily. Even though you do not write back I wish you would get tested, I would hate for this plague to befall anyone. I am leaving you this jumper. It was my mothers, and her mother’s before her. I am your mother, and it is only right that this should now be yours. All my love, Mum”

            Dear Emma? Thoughts reeling through her mind, Emma’s head was filled with conclusions and subjunctive worries, what may or may not have happened. This was common for her, to imagine every possible bad outcome to the situation, so as to avoid hurt or pain. She opened the last letter and read quickly, desperate to try and find out what was going on, not wanting to waste time and regress to the 1^st letters.

            “Dear Emma, I write to you from hospital. This may be the last chance, but as I look out my window at the settling snow” ... Emma looked out the window to see a thin layer of frost covering the hedges, and she imagined this woman... her Mother?... writing and looking at the same weather. “I think that I must at least beg for forgiveness. I had no right not to visit, but as your Mother assures me that you lead a healthy normal life I should not bother you with warnings of diseases and new ideas. All my love. Mum.”

            Emma was shaking violently now, as the realisation flooded her that her worst nightmares were verified. Her one constant, her Mother who had stayed strong where her weak father had left her, was not her Mother at all. Her craving for attention, the desire to remove all pain, the swaps from high to low and happy to abysmally sad, were not her choice but a disease which removed the control she thought she had.

            Curling up in a ball on her bed, Emma’s silent sobs echoed through her body but went no further than her skin, and she thrust her wrist into her mouth to stop the shrieks she could feel building. She bit down, hard, harder than she had ever bitten before, until she felt the skin break. The bitter iron liquid flooded her mouth, but she continued to bite as the hole in her body was a hole from which the bad things she had read flowed onto the sheets like a coursing river gushing through a break in the rocks. She felt herself drowning in the pain, and as her door opened, she blacked out.