A Stringed Instrument Ch. 12

"But they need to keep her in for observation and a psychiatric evaluation. God, Yvonne, I had no idea it'd gotten this bad. Danny is working overseas for the next three months and I've been working late a lot, so... anyway, I'm taking time out to be with her. You'll have to manage without me for a while."

"I'll be fine." I hope. "Poor kid."

"I found one of her exercise books in her room. Every page, they'd written something horrible in it. 'Fat bitch', 'ugly dyke'... every single page."

"Oh, that's awful. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I want to kill those girls." She sounded matter-of-fact, as if she'd been nursing the idea over the last two days. I found myself remembering stories I'd heard from friends in the USA who'd told me of hikers who'd gotten between a mother bear and her cubs. "I'm not going to do it, but god, I want to. They have no right to do that to my daughter. No right."

I gave her my sincere but ineffective sympathies, and reminded her that she'd be more use to Zara if she wasn't in jail. She agreed — reluctantly, I thought — and we ended the conversation soon afterwards with a "let me know if there's anything I can do".

It was only after I got off the phone that I realised I was jittery and trembling. I'd never met Zara, but I'd developed enough loyalty to Susan to be upset on her behalf. Besides, it brought back unwelcome memories of friends who went through similar crap at my school. Not all of them had made it out the other side.

I wanted to call Phoebe and decompress, but even if she'd been available to talk, the day of her mother's funeral wasn't the time to bother her with my own vicarious concerns. The sensible thing would've been to go to bed and get some rest to prepare me for dealing with Peter the next day, but I needed to blow off steam before I could sleep. So I fired up the computer and killed orcs until about one in the morning, when I was feeling less shaky and starting to doze off at the keyboard. Then I sent Phoebe a quick I love you and finally turned in for the night.

The next day was gruesome. I spent two hours meeting with Peter about the Redmond Barry sales website. He'd clearly decided it was time to put his own stamp on things, which meant micro-management and changes galore, second-guessing everything Susan and I had decided in the last month. Most of it was trivial stuff, easy enough for me to do and annoying only because it was so pointless: changing the sales website to a slightly different font, tweaks to the colour scheme and layout.

But some of his requests — while just as pointless — meant a lot more work. Susan and I had agreed to keep the virtual tour and the sales options on the same page, so would-be customers could explore what all the apartment options looked like without having to jump back and forth to see the costs. Peter felt differently: "Show them the place first, get them in the mood to buy before you tell them how much."

Along the way, he found time to nag about my attendance record and cast aspersions on my choice of work clothes. I could feel my blood pressure rising as I sat there being lectured on professionalism by the man who'd choked up his work PC with porn, and I had to tell myself repeatedly: It's Friday. Just make it through the rest of the day. Do not strangle him with his tie.

After two hours in Peter's office I was behind on my regular support work for the day, so I ended up eating at my desk and catching up over lunch. Then, before I could start making Peter's changes, I had to send him a plan detailing all that I was going to change and when it would be done. By the time I sent it out and made a start on some of the smaller things, it was getting dark outside and my stomach was growling.

On the way home I texted Phoebe: You okay? Worried about you. I love you a lot. I have to admit, it wasn't all about cheering her up; I was feeling stressed and lonely, and badly needed some human contact.

I'm okay, just busy today. Call you tomorrow and catch up? ILY too.

Sure, catch you then.

I'd planned to sleep in on Saturday, but my phone rang at nine. The voice at the other end had a strong accent, and at first I couldn't place it.

"Hello, this is Yvonne Ponting here, who is that?"

"Hello! It's Leon. From the garden, you remember?"

"Oh, yes!" Yaya's boyfriend. "Hi Leon, what can I do for you?"

"I need to ask you about my computer, I hope it's not too early to call..."

So I spent twenty minutes helping him set up his new scanner. He didn't know much about computers but at least he could listen and follow instructions, and we got it working. I was about to say goodbye and go back to bed when he asked:

"How is Phoebe? It's very hard on her to lose her mother like this."

"I don't really know. I haven't heard much from her since the funeral."

"I worried for her. She looked so sad, sitting all alone."

A cold hand began to stir in my guts. "Oh. You were at the funeral then? I thought it was just family?"

"Oh no, lots of people come. Her sisters and cousins, people from her work, neighbours. Fifty, sixty people all together? Kalliope asked me to come keep her company. I'm surprised Phoebe didn't ask you, or was it that your work didn't let you?"

The hand twisted, and it took effort to keep it from showing in my voice. "Something like that, yes. Look, I'm sorry, I have another call coming in, I should go —"

"Well thank you, then. Goodbye Yvonne!"

I hung up and started counting, breathing in, breathing out, as slow and even as I could manage. There would be a reasonable explanation for this. There had to be. Maybe Leon had misunderstood who the other people were, or maybe I had understood Leon. That had to be it. I got out of bed and opened a web browser...

It's so easy to find things when you know how to use a search engine. Funeral notices with the location of the service. The funeral home's website, with information about each of their chapels: the parking facilities, the stained-glass windows, the seating capacity. Tagged photos.

The hand in my belly clenched into an icy knot of anger and hurt. Phoebe had lied to me. There was plenty of room in the chapel. The funeral notices had read "all welcome". She'd told me otherwise... why?

I closed my browser and stared at the wall, trying to make sense of it all. Then I went back and searched again, pulled up the same pages and read them over as if they'd tell me something different this time, and the thoughts went round and round in my head. I don't know where the rest of the morning went, but I was still sitting there at three o'clock when Phoebe called.

I heard the phone ring, and adrenaline flooded through me: fear and anger. I couldn't talk to her, not now. I let it ring out, and then I tried to think. Phoebe would call again. How should I deal with it? I couldn't keep ignoring her.

The second call came an hour later. This time I waited four rings and picked it up.

"Hi there."

"Hi darling, it's me."

"Oh, hi, Phoebe. How are you?"

"Oh... dealing. Still taking things in. Wishing you were here."

"How was the funeral?"

Just a little hesitation. "It was... not too bad. I remembered my music, anyway."

"Oh. That's good."

"Yeah."

Silence.

"Yvonne, I was thinking... I could probably make it down in a couple of weeks to visit you."

"Oh, but don't you need to catch up on your cello?"

"Yeah, I do, I was thinking just the weekend..."

"I don't think I should distract you from your audition. I know how important it is." Or from whatever the fuck it is that's important enough to lie to me.

"Oh, well... maybe not, then? Just a thought." There was a trace of hurt in her voice — didn't I want her to come? — and I felt a flicker of vengeful pleasure. Why should I be the only one hurting? But the pleasure was gone quicker than it takes to tell, replaced with dismay at my own pettiness.

The silence grew, yawning and uncomfortable, until Phoebe broke it. "So what've you been up to today?"

"Not much. Just sleeping in, checking my email, that sort of thing." And snooping on you, my dear. Then, because the dead-end response made me feel like a sulky teenager, I added, "Susan went on leave so Peter's supervising me now, and he wants a whole bunch of changes, so it's been a bit stressful."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Why's Susan on leave? I thought she'd just started on this project."

"I don't know, I just came in on Thursday and found out Peter was supervising me." Why did I lie to her? Two days ago I'd wanted so much to talk to her about what had happened with Zara, and now when I had the chance I couldn't trust her with something so close to my heart. And perhaps I felt the need to repay a lie with a lie, however stupid.

"Well. I hope she's okay, she sounded nice."

"Yeah."

The silence began to yawn again, and Phoebe ahem-ed. "Well, I should go grab stuff for dinner. I need to hit the cello this evening, but feel free to call later if you like?"

"Okay. I might just have an early night, though."

"Oh. Okay. Bye, love!"

"Bye."

I didn't call, and I didn't get an early night either. I went through the next week on autopilot. I carried out Peter's time-wasting requests, I fixed computers, I ate and slept when I remembered that I ought to. Phoebe called me sometimes and I replied politely, keeping my defences up until she hung up. Every time she sounded just a little disappointed and hurt, and I felt like a spiteful bitch: however much she'd hurt me, she'd just lost her mother, and I ought to be offering her comfort. Somewhere in there I still loved her, and I wanted to be there protecting her.

But every time I thought about that, it turned into anger: I'd offered to be there for her and she lied to keep me away, wouldn't have me there even as a "friend". The anger steered me into more little cruelties — deliberately going out with friends so I'd be unable to talk when she called, neglecting to respond to her "I love you"s, the sort of tiny leech-bites that leave you bleeding without even noticing it. The knowledge of what I was doing twisted itself into guilt and self-loathing, and then transmuted back to anger: fuck you for making me feel like this.

And in the end I couldn't hold on to it any longer. In the middle of a phone call — I don't recall what it was about, something trivial — I abruptly said:

"You could just tell me the truth. It's not like I could get any angrier than I already am."

"What?"

"About the funeral. I know there was plenty of room. I know it wasn't true, about it just being a small funeral. Was it?"

"...Jesus. I'm so sorry, I was going to tell you. I swear I was."

"Yeah, when was that going to be?"

"I was waiting for the right time. Every time I was going to tell you, you seemed so... odd. Tense. I was scared to tell you when you were like that."

"Yeah. 'Tense'. Funny how tense I get when I find out somebody I love's been lying to me."

"Please don't. I said I'm sorry. I was trying to stop you from getting hurt."

"What, by lying to me? If you didn't want me there you could have bloody well said so, and I wouldn't have bothered driving up to see you."

"I did! I did want you th-there!" She'd started to cry, and that offended me: I was the one who'd been wronged, I was the one who should be crying, but I was too angry to conjure ups tears.

"I can't believe my girlfriend's ashamed of me. Fuck, this is why they always say not to date straight girls."

"You — you know what? You have n-no fucking clue what you're t-talking about. No c-clue what I've risked for you."

"Yeah? Anything like risking your heart with somebody who won't be seen in public with you?"

"Oh, you — I can't believe — no. You know what, I'm n-not going to do this. Call me when you're ready to talk l-like an adult."

Click.

And the sound of Phoebe's tears stopped, along with her voice.

I didn't call. I reached for the phone a hundred times and every time I caught myself: No. She lied to you, and now she's claiming the high ground? This isn't fair. You've been hurt. She needs to call and apologise to you.

She didn't call.

I stumbled through the next week waiting to hear from her. Every time the phone rang my heart would jump, juiced on a cocktail of hope and fear. Every time I looked at the number, and saw it wasn't Phoebe, I wanted to crawl away into a hole.

John called once, to make sure I'd remembered it was Mother's Day on the weekend. (I'd forgotten it one year; never again.) I could tell he'd noticed something was wrong, but I wasn't ready to talk about it, and when he suggested we catch up I told him: "I'm flat out just now, maybe in a week or two?"

After I hung up, I realised: it'll be Mother's Day for Phoebe too. And the thought was almost enough to make me pick up the phone and call her.

Almost.

The only good thing in that time, and it wasn't much, was that RJ announced he'd be taking a break for a few weeks and leaving Peter in charge of RJC, while he travelled to Greece to visit extended family. That meant I could work around the office without having to steel myself in case I should bump into Phoebe's father, and it meant Peter had less time to spend on pestering me. Just as well for both of us; I was in no mood to put up with his bullshit, or anybody else's.

As the days went by I wondered: do I really mean so little to Phoebe that she won't call me? And inevitably came the reply: does she really mean so little that you won't call her?

But calling her would've been dishonest: You're right, dear, it was silly of me to get upset over such a little thing. I'm quite over it now and ready to talk like an adult again. It wasn't a little thing.

When I saw an email from her in my inbox — it arrived on a Friday morning, just as I was about to leave for work — I knew it wasn't going to be good news.

Yvonne,

I can't deal with this. I have the most important audition of my life coming up, and I can't work for it like I need to when I have all this running through my head and wondering if you're even going to talk to me again. I'm sorry for hurting you, but I need to be free to concentrate on rehearsal.

So I need to take a break from us, at least until after my audition. I hope you'll understand.

Phoebe.

Her audition? June 25th. More than a month away. Well, that was me put in my place.

I shouldn't have replied, not then. I try not to send email when I'm angry. But I had to go, and my mind was running around in circles; I couldn't stand to hang on to the words all day, and I didn't expect they'd change by nightfall.

Phoebe - thank you for letting me know where we stand. Just a month? Have all the time you want, please consider yourself COMPLETELY at liberty.

And then I hit 'send' and walked out the door.

I held it together through the day, still angry and disbelieving. Perhaps I thought when I got home there'd be an apology waiting for me, but there was nothing. Not even junk mail.

That's when it really hit me and I started to cry.