I wave to my friends from the window, watching Yorkshire slide away, and as we streak through the fields towards London I feel a sudden flush of life, a quickening, a new kind of hope, like a greyhound just let out of the gate.

7

Leena

My mum’s house is on Lower Lane, semi-detached, with a dove-grey door and a brass knocker. I wait on the doorstep for a moment, then fish out the key Grandma gave me – I left mine in London. Definitely a Freudian slip.

It feels weird letting myself into Mum’s house, but it feels weirder to knock on the door. A year and a half ago I would have barged in without blinking.

I stand on the threshold, trying to keep my breathing steady. The hall is horrible in its sameness: the faint smell of cleaning products, the old wooden side table, the plush carpet that makes you feel like you’re walking across a sofa. Mum’s always liked houses – she’s an estate agent – but it occurs to me now that this place actually feels a little out of date: she never changed the previous owners’ decor, and the warm yellow-cream on the walls is nothing like the bold wallpaper of the house where I grew up. This house was bought for convenience – it was bought for Carla, not for Mum.

It’s awful, being back here. I feel that same lurch in the gut that you get when you spot an ex-boyfriend at a party, a sense of your two lives colliding horribly in the present.

And there it is at the end of the hall: the living-room door. I swallow. I can’t look at it. Instead I focus on the huge framed photograph of Carla on the table at the bottom of the stairs. Mum put it there when Carla died, and I hate it – it makes coming to Mum’s house feel like arriving at the wake. Carla looks nothing like herself: she’s dressed up to go to her prom, her hair pinned back with two straightened stripes falling forwards à la Keira Knightley in Love Actually. She’d removed her nose piercing, and the photo was taken before she had the eyebrow ones done; she looks weird without them. She always said her face never looked right without a few studs here and there. It’d be like you going out without five coats of hairspray, she’d say teasingly, giving my ponytail a tug.

Mum appears at the top of the stairs. She’s dressed in a loose jumper and jeans, and as she comes down the steps there’s a slightly frantic air about her, as though I’ve just caught her in the middle of preparing a meal with many courses or rushing out of the door to meet someone important.

‘Leena, hi,’ she says, stopping short at the bottom of the stairs. She’s so much thinner than she used to be, all elbows and knees. I swallow, glancing away.

‘Hey, Mum.’

I don’t move from the doormat. She approaches me cautiously, as if I might bolt. I can see two versions of my mother at once, like layered tracing paper. There’s this one, frenetic, fragile, on the edge of breaking; the woman who helped my sister die and wouldn’t listen when I told her we had a choice, options, drug trials and private treatments. And the other, the mother who raised me, a whirlwind of honey-streaked hair and big ideas. Impulsive and bright and unstoppable, and always, always in my corner.

It alarms me how angry I feel just looking at her. I hate this feeling, how it blooms in my gut like ink in water, and it hits me now what a stupid idea this was, forcing myself to come back here for eight whole weeks. I want to stop feeling angry – I want to forgive her – but then I see her and I remember, and the emotions just come.

Fitz was right: this was the last thing I needed after last week’s panic attack.

‘I don’t really know how we do this, to be honest,’ Mum says. She lifts her mouth in an apologetic smile. ‘But I’m very glad you’re here. It’s a start.’

‘Yeah. I just wanted to come and say, you know, like Grandma said, I’ll help out any way you need. With errands, or whatever.’

Mum gives me a slightly odd look at that. ‘Did Grandma say I needed help with errands?’

Actually, Grandma has never been especially clear on what helping Mum involves, though she always makes it sound very important.

‘Just whatever you need,’ I say, shifting uncomfortably. That tight, anxious knot is back between my ribs again.

Mum tilts her head. ‘Won’t you come in?’

I don’t know yet. I thought I’d be able to, but now I’m here I’m not sure I can. I reach for a distraction, something to say, and my gaze settles on Mum’s favourite picture on the wall, an Indonesian temple with a supple yogi doing a tree pose in the foreground. She’s changed the frame, I think – interesting that she’s updated that and nothing else. She used to point at that picture when she’d had a bad day at work, or when Carla and me were doing her head in, and she’d say, Right, girls: for ten breaths, I’m going there. She’d close her eyes and imagine it, and when she opened them again, she’d say, Here I am. All better.

My gaze shifts to the table’s surface. It’s absolutely covered in – little rocks? Crystals?

‘What’s with all the stones?’ I point.

Mum’s instantly distracted. ‘Oh, my crystals! They’ve been wonderful. I bought them online. This one is snowflake obsidian – it helps with grief, it cleanses you – and that one there, that’s aquamarine, for courage, and …’

‘Mum, you …’ I swallow the sentence. I shouldn’t tell her it’s a load of crap, but God, it’s frustrating watching her go through these phases. At first she’s like this, all bubbly, sure it’ll fix everything. Then, when obsidian – surprise surprise – does not magic away the pain of having lost one’s daughter, she falls apart again. Grandma thinks there’s no harm in it, but I think it’s cruel, getting her hopes up over and over. There’s no elixir for this. All you can do is keep moving forward even when it hurts like hell.

‘I got you this, actually,’ she says, reaching for a rock towards the back of the heap. ‘Moonstone. It enhances intuition and brings buried emotions to the surface. It’s for new beginnings.’

‘I’m not sure anyone wants my emotions brought to the surface at the moment.’ It’s meant to sound like a joke, but doesn’t come out quite right.

‘It feels like it will break you, when they come,’ Mum says. ‘But it won’t. All my episodes, they’ve helped, in their way. I truly believe that.’

I look at her, startled. ‘What episodes?’

Mum frowns slightly, eyes flitting to mine. ‘Sorry,’ she says, stepping towards me. ‘I assumed your grandmother would’ve mentioned something to you. Never mind. Take the moonstone, Leena, will you?’

‘I don’t want a moonstone. What episodes?’

‘Here,’ she says, stretching the moonstone out further. ‘Take it.’

‘I don’t want it. What do I even do with it?’

‘Put it by your bed.’

‘I’m not taking it.’

‘Take it, would you? Stop being so closed-minded!’

She shoves it into my hands, and I pull back; it falls on to the doormat with a small, underwhelming thud. We stand there for a while, staring down at the ridiculous little stone between our feet.

Mum clears her throat, then bends to scoop it up again. ‘Let’s start over,’ she says more gently. ‘Come in. Have a cuppa.’