Under My Skin

‘I’m going to go up and put your bed together,’ he says, heading for the door, but then he turns back to look at me. I suppose I must look pretty rough too, even more so than usual, because his voice softens as he says, ‘Once I’ve got that done, I’ll find us the nearest Chinese and order in a massive takeaway, ok?’

I’ve been meaning to ask ever since he first told me about the cottage, but I kept forgetting and it looks like I’ve run out of time now, so I just blurt it out and hope for the best. ‘Can I have the attic room?’

He sighs, and I know I’ve already lost. ‘Chloe, it’s just an empty shell up there. There’s no storage space, or heating even, and you need the en suite. I had the removal men put all your things in the master bedroom. You’ll be much better off in there. And it’s the nicest room in the house.’

I sigh back.

‘I’m not saying you can’t go up there, but you’re going to struggle with that ladder, and you need to be warm.’ He rubs his eyes again. ‘We’ve got those fan heaters you could use up there, but I haven’t unpacked them yet and god only knows where they are. I picked you the room that’ll be easiest on you.’

He’s trying, I know he is. And I’m trying too, mostly. He’s risked everything for me, and I know I need to meet him halfway, but it’s hard sometimes. And I can’t help thinking that if he’d been like this before – this caring, protective figure who’s always around, instead of the work-obsessed, distant parent who never came home – none of this would ever have happened in the first place. It’s all his faul– Don’t, don’t think.

He crosses the room and pulls me into a bear hug, and I can’t think of a thing to say.

‘Can we just try and make the best of it?’ he asks. ‘As soon as I get settled in at the hospital I’ll be working on the vaccine every spare minute I can find. It could only take a few weeks, Chlo, if I can just catch a lucky break. As soon as I can get you some long-term supplies made up, we can think about getting out of the country and really starting over. We just need to get through this bit first, and keep our heads while we’re at it. I know it’s not going to be easy, but we’re so close, Chlo. We’re almost there.’

He goes to kiss my forehead but I flinch and pull back. I’ve been by the fire with both my thick hoodies on, and I’m so self-conscious like this. I don’t feel like I’ve been sweating, and he always says there isn’t any smell, but… when I think about what I am… I mean, there must be. You never think about… them… being fragrant. I can’t bear the thought of it. He gives me a sad smile and squeezes my shoulder before heading off up the stairs.

I work hard at sorting out the last of the kitchen things, and there, right inside the very last box at the bottom of the pile, is the kettle. If kitchen implements could talk I swear this one would be laughing at me. As I pull it out, I spot the UHT milk tucked in neatly underneath it.

I get the kettle on at last, hoping that tea will maybe go some way towards an apology for how whiny and useless I’ve been today. I wrestle the last of the cardboard and newspaper over to the back door while it brews, and then head slowly and awkwardly upstairs with a full mug in each hand. I don’t know where anything is up here yet, but I follow the swearing to the room where Dad’s attacking a bed frame with a screwdriver, and park his mug on the windowsill before flopping onto the mattress lying on the floor with mine. I take slow sips, and try to get my breath back. I’m so unfit now. I’ve done way more today than I have since it happened, and I’m really struggling now. It makes me tired just watching Dad. He doesn’t stop until my bed is bed-shaped once more, and then he drains his mug in one go, and sighs in appreciation.

‘Oh, god, that’s better,’ he says, and I can actually see him starting to relax right in front of me. As if someone’s released a valve somewhere, and he can breathe again. I wish tea could do that for me.

‘Up you get then,’ he tells me, and as he hauls my mattress up onto the frame he catches sight of the longing look I give it. ‘Go on then,’ he says kindly. ‘Why don’t you lie down and have a nap, while I try and find somewhere we can get ourselves an enormous takeaway. I think we deserve it.’

He pulls a contact lens case from his pocket and hands it to me, and I fire him a grateful smile in return. I couldn’t remember to put the kettle in the right box, but he somehow remembers to keep everything I could ever need close to hand at all times.

He pulls my duvet up over me, and I’m asleep before he’s even left the room.

CHAPTER TWO

The crunch of tyres on gravel outside wakes me in a panic, and my heart races as the familiar cold, sick sensation spreads through my stomach. I roll awkwardly off the bed and crouch down beside it, my hands and knees trembling. There’s a loud rap on the front door, I hear voices, and the blood starts to pound in my ears so loudly it scares me. I feel dizzy, and I close my eyes tight, hating myself for being this afraid, but not knowing how to be any other way any more. They’ve found us. The voices stop, and the door slams, and then, nothing. Have they taken Dad? Where do I go? How am I supposed to survive on my own? A new kind of pain tears across my chest and I’m sick with terror. I only have a few months’ worth of vaccine left, what happens to me when it runs out? Don’t think doesn’t always work, however hard you try. My head races and the room starts to blur around me as the bad thoughts multiply.

Dad’s shout shatters the silence and makes me jump so hard I smack my head against the sharp corner of the windowsill, but I’m almost laughing with relief even as warm blood starts to run down my face.

‘Chlo! Food’s here!’

It takes me a minute just to relax my limbs enough to stand up. I wipe the blood away with the back of my hand. I won’t bleed for long, no matter how bad the wound. I run my fingers up to the pain and feel the small patch of torn skin on my scalp. It’s not deep, or wide, and I can probably hide it from Dad. I heal so slowly now, and he gets so frustrated at my carelessness if I hurt myself. It’s the last thing he needs today.

Chinese. I just nearly had a heart attack over a Chinese. I have got to get a grip.

My legs and back are stiff as I make my way down the stairs, squinting hard as I try to focus on each step as I come to it. When I get a whiff of the food my stomach cramps hard enough to make my head spin. Dad’s found a lone candle for the table, and he’s even got the little wood-burning stove in the corner going, so it’s gorgeously warm in here. The food’s on the table, and he pulls my chair out for me with a flourish. My glasses are sitting next to my plate, and I put them on, gratefully, as the room comes into focus.

I don’t realise just how hungry I am until I take that first mouthful. There’s an actual mountain of chicken satay in front of me, and I dig in with gusto. He’s poured me a pint of water too, as if the spice would bother me. I suppose old habits die hard.

‘What did you get?’ I ask between frenzied mouthfuls.

‘Rice and chili beef, with broccoli and spring rolls. It’s beautiful.’

It does look good. I feel a quick pang of jealousy, but I can hardly even taste the satay, eating rice and broccoli would be pretty pointless for me right now.

I attack the skewered meat steadily and feel my body slowly respond to the food. The cramps ease, and my head clears, and the more I eat, the more I tear through the pile like some kind of rabid carnivore, the more human I begin to feel on the inside (although god knows what it looks like from the outside). Even the dull ache in my back is beginning to subside, and I feel stronger with every mouthful. Dad’s told me, endlessly, that I need to eat every four hours or so during the daytime now, and it’s been well over double that since I ate this morning’s mound of cold bacon under the blanket in the car.

Dad chats away as I eat, and I try to nod and smile in all the right places. All I can focus on now is the food, and the effect it’s having on me. After a while, I catch him staring at me with an eyebrow raised, and I realise he’s waiting for something from me. ‘Hmm?’ I murmur thickly through a mouthful of chicken.

‘I said, are you any feeling better now?’

I swallow and take a long drink of water. ‘Yeah,’ I sigh contentedly. ‘Loads better. Thanks.’

‘I really should have got you something to eat sooner, it’s dangerous to go that long without protein now. I’m sorry Chlo, it’s just been a hell of a day. I’ve not been at my best.’

I drop an empty skewer onto my plate, and sit back in my chair, only just starting to feel full even though I’m over three quarters of the way through the huge portion he’s given me.

‘It’s ok,’ I tell him. I didn’t realise how late it was getting, and I thought I was just tired from the unpacking. I should be taking more responsibility for myself. I need to learn the signs of this messed up body of mine better. ‘It’s not your fault.’

‘Well, it’s something we both need to watch out for. Especially now. I’m going to be putting in some long days at the hospital, Chlo, and I need to know you’re going to be all right here without me.’ He reaches down under the table. ‘So, I got you this.’

He passes a small, white box across to me, and I wipe my greasy hands on my already grubby jeans as I recognise it: an iPhone 6. I dig into the box with glee. A phone is a big deal for me, any kind of phone, never mind an iPhone. It’s a big deal for both us. After the accident, my old phone went the way of my old life. Dad getting me a new one now, regardless of how shiny and cool the brand is, is a real sign of trust. I don’t know what to say.

‘You still need to be careful,’ he says, presumably thinking exactly what I’m thinking. ‘You can’t ever go back, Chlo. Things can’t ever be how they were.’ He pulls another, identical box from below the table and sets it next to his plate. ‘But we need to be able to keep in touch, all the time. In case… Well, just in case. And the lad in shop said you can set alarms on these, for reminders and what have you; so, once we get yours up and running you can program one in for your meals. And then you won’t have to worry, well, I won’t have to worry about you forgetting.’

I get up and go over to give him a hug. Because it’s more than a phone. It’s him trusting me to be smart, and trying to keep me safe. And as I hug him I start to cry, because I’m not sure I deserve either.

*

While Dad gets the phones registered in some fake name, and starts them charging, I close the door to my new room with a sigh of relief. I know he only wants to help, but I really don’t want him in here with me, going through my things. Not that I have much stuff any more, but still, I need to do this by myself. Three large boxes are neatly lined up for me, and I grab the scissors and dig in.

This is my life now. Three boxes.

I start with the books. The built-in shelves in here are gorgeous, and crying out for some literary love. I couldn’t keep all of my books when we left, there were way too many; but he let me make a list of fifty, and he went through and packed them up for me. There were a couple he couldn’t find, but he did a Waterstones run to pick up the AWOL titles. He can be amazing like that. I need to remember him like that, that version of him, not the way he is in my dreams. I wonder if Mum could ever have done that, pushed that version of him aside… but… well, it doesn’t do any good to wonder.

I kind of thought it was the end of the world at the time, with the books, I mean. I’ve been collecting them since I was a kid, and I lost hundreds of them to whatever charity shop Dad thought best. Loads of them were signed, too. But now it doesn’t seem so bad. Taking the ones that made it out of the boxes and finding places for them on the shelves feels almost like kicking back with friends. And these are pretty much the only friends I’ll ever have now. At least we won’t fight.

They’re mostly all urban fantasy novels, or classics, all far removed worlds that take me well away from my reality, which is everything I need right now. When I read, I can completely forget what I am, or why I am. I didn’t get to spend any time with them at the flat, I was out cold for most of it, and working through exercises and body function tests with Dad for the rest. My head totally wasn’t in a place where I could’ve read even if I’d been given the chance. I don’t want to think about those six months ever again. I need to find a way to let them go, but I’m not there yet. Now, well, I’m going to have plenty of time on my hands; so maybe they can be my escape. Maybe they can put me back together. Because I’m not really sure Dad did it right.

Once all the books are out, there’s hardly anything left other than my sad collection of jeans and hoodies. There are a couple of photos, my ancient teddy bear, Archie, and a first generation iPod that only ever works when it feels like it. The room feels almost as empty as I do.

Back when Dad moved us into the basement flat, he hardly took anything except his notes and his computer. And as much of the vaccine as he could carry, of course. Most of the stuff back home got sent around to various charity places. Dad said it would look better that way. Like he was clearing out and moving on. Like people would expect. It’s all about keeping up appearances with him; I resented that at first. All I wanted to do was grieve, and wallow in my guilt. I didn’t care about what anyone else thought. Now though, well, let’s just say I’ve kind of finally caught up. Keeping up appearances means Dad gets to stay alive. As for me, well, I suppose it’s not really that simple.

One of the photos in the box is of me and Tom, taken just a few days before the accident. I look so young, and so happy. My eyes are shining. I don’t think I’m quite ready to have this one up on display just yet, because it pulls at what’s left of my heart when I see it. I hardly even recognise myself. I slide it under my mattress for now. The other is of me with Mum and Dad when I was thirteen. We were on holiday in Spain, and we’re all sunburned and tired and smiling. That was the last family holiday we ever had. When we got home, things really ramped up for Dad at the Agency, and he never took more than a day here and there away from the place again. That one hurts too, but it also reminds me of a better time so strongly that I force myself to stand it up on the shelf, and take a good look. I don’t know why it seems more important to face up to it than the Tom photo. Maybe because it was taken longer ago. Maybe because Dad and I are there, and we’re both still here and in this together now, regardless of what happened before. Maybe it can somehow help me to remember who I was. Who I am.

I look for safer ground, I don’t want to start crying again for fear that I won’t be able to stop. Don’t think. I sort my clothes out next. They don’t even take up a quarter of the built-in wardrobe in here. All my old clothes got boxed up and thrown in with the charity run, and Dad’s had to do all my shopping for me since. Given that today is only the second time I’ve ever left the flat, and also that he’s probably the only person you’ll find who’s less fashion conscious than me, it’s pretty much just a small pile of jeans, t-shirts, lumberjack shirts and hoodies. Comfort clothes. It’s not like I need anything else. I’ve been losing weight steadily since it happened, and most of them are pretty baggy on me now, but I kind of like them that way. It feels like big, heavy clothes cover a multitude of sins.

Dad’s worried about the weight loss thing. The problem is that it’s hard to know anything for certain any more. Seeing as I’m such an honest-to-goodness, real life guinea pig, all we can do is wait to see what happens to my body, and hope for the best. Part of me really wishes he hadn’t quit the Agency, however dangerous he says it was; because now if anything goes wrong… well… I’m not supposed to think about it. Don’t think. I’m waiting for that reaction to become automatic, but I suppose I’m not quite there yet. Nothing good ever comes from thinking about it all. A person could go mad pretty quick that way. Anyway, he’s got this research post at the hospital down here now, something to do with stem cells, saying it’s the nearest he can get to having the same kind of resources as before, so I suppose I just have to sit tight and hope that he’ll work it all out. Somehow.

‘I do know what I’m doing Chlo,’ he’s told me, more times than I can remember, but I worry that he does it as much to convince himself as me. ‘The Royal has some of the most up-to-date equipment available, and one of the biggest research budgets in the country. I didn’t just pick this place for the views.’ He’s put so much effort into it all. All the time I was sedated he never stopped working. And he still never stops. He must be confident this job will give him everything he needs, even though he’s going to have to do all his ‘Project Chloe’ work in secret. I mean, it’s not something you’d want to have to explain to your new boss. Oh, this? I’m just trying to perfect my death vaccine! Ha. Awkward.

He’s kind of like a twisted superhero these days. Tirelessly working to save me. I feel bad sometimes that I don’t feel better towards him for it. I know why he’s doing it though, risking everything the way he is: Epic Guilt. He’s trying to make up for what he did to Mum. And I can’t stop myself from wishing that he’d put even a fraction of the effort in when she was still alive. The accident was his fault; I do think that, most of the time, but other times I convince myself it was mine. We never talk about it though. It’s like if we don’t say it out loud, it didn’t happen, and that way it can’t destroy us. It has destroyed me though. And here I am trying to hold it together because I don’t really know what else to do; I keep as much of it all on the inside as I can, trying not to let it show, but there isn’t a single day that goes by where I don’t wish that he’d brought Mum back instead of me. I don’t know if I can ever forgive him for that.

I find my diary in the last box. I never kept one before all this, but when I was first starting to get better, Dad thought it might be a good idea for me to start writing one. It was a pretty poor substitute for being able to talk to someone, but I suppose it did help, in a way. It was all the emails and texts and tweets I could never send. Flicking through the pages my stomach twists as I see how weak and spidery my handwriting was. I close it again quickly, but not before some of the words leap out at me: frightened, confused, weak, alone. They’re like ghosts. I don’t want to see them. I don’t want to remember how I felt. And most of all I don’t want to admit that really, nothing’s changed. I’m still all of those things, I’ve just got a little better at hiding it. I wear my mask, even when it’s just me and Dad. Hell, I wear it even when it’s just me. I don’t dare take it off. Act happy Chlo, take the piss Chlo, don’t think Chlo. I slide the photo of me and Tom back out from under my mattress, slip it into the diary, and shut both of them in the bottom of the wardrobe.

With the boxes all empty, I fold them down flat and fling them out of the window. It’s easier than carrying them down the stairs, and I’ll ask Dad to go out and move them later; if he falls over them in the morning I’ll never hear the end of it.

I’m starting to ache again from bending and stretching, so I treat myself to a long soak in the elaborately sunken bath in my en suite. Dad had to help me in and out of the narrow, cracked tub in the flat, it was pretty manky and he was always worrying that I’d fall, always hovering outside the door just in case. Having a bath on my own like this, well, it’s a rare treat. Dad shouts in that he’s heading down to try and sort things out in his ‘office’, which means the creepy, cobweb-filled basement. It was on his list of must-haves for the new house – not the cobwebs, I mean, but a basement. I don’t know what it is with him and them, I’d be happy to never see one again. I yell back a ‘’kay!’ and then sink my head under the water and lose myself in the heavy, salty warmth.

The salts I have to use each day feel like heaven while I’m in the water, but if I don’t use the shower to rinse off properly before I get out they scratch like crazy through the night. It’s such a bloody complicated process. Dad developed them himself, but, like everything, he’s still ‘tweaking’ them. I’m still running as ‘Chloe 1.1’ – he says there’s a long way to go yet. If I soak in them for at least thirty minutes a night, my skin looks clearer and brighter in the morning. An hour’s better, but some nights I just can’t be bothered, even though I know I should. It’ll be easier here, in a warm bathroom that isn’t crawling with mould. It’s my face that needs the salts the most, which of course is the one part of me it isn’t really easy to submerge for long. I soak my flannel in the mineral-enriched water, and lay it over my face, recharging it every few minutes as much for something to do as anything else. The heat of the water feels good on my back and legs, and after my meal and my soak combined I feel better than I have done all day as I shower off and then towel myself dry. Better than I have done in months. If I could feel like this all the time, I don’t think it would be so bad. It would be maybe a little easier to forget about things, at least. Not thinking might come a bit more naturally. I keep wondering if I should ask Dad if he can make me a pill for that.

When I finally part company with the water there are two creams I need to douse my skin in. The first one’s fine, it’s just one of those water-based over-the-counter moisturisers. The second is a nightmare; it’s thick and oily and takes forever to sink in. And the smell, god. If there was one reason I had to give for why I’ll never be able to get a boyfriend, it’s this. No one in their right mind would want me sliding into bed next to them in this state. And the worst part of it is that if I don’t use the cream, I’ll look even worse in the morning. Even more of a monster. Damned if I do…

Of course, there’s really a much bigger and more obvious reason for why no one would ever want to be with me than the smell and state of my skin, but it’s never going to come to that anyway, so why worry.

Dad’s tried but he hasn’t been able to do much to help with the scar. I wipe the condensation from the mirror over the sink, and there it is, plain to see even in my horribly blurred reflection: a raised, white, jagged reminder, running across the bridge of my nose, over my eyelids, and then out in almost a straight line to just above both my ears. It runs further, but my hair hides the rest. It kind of looks like I’m wearing these weird comedy glasses, only it’s really not funny. I hate looking in the mirror, I don’t know what possessed me to wipe it. It starts playing in my head again. Glass flying towards me, shattering as it finds my face. I don’t feel it slice my skin open, the pain comes much later, now there’s only the warm wetness of the blood and the coppery taste of it as it fills my mouth. I smell the rain, mixing in with the burnt, rubbery tang of shredded tyres, and I hear the sick cacophony of crying and screaming and twisting metal, and then that awful silence that followed. The silence is always the worst part. The silence means she’s gone. And this is the moment, right there, when my world ended.

I turn away, too late. Seeing the glass of the windscreen in the glass of the mirror like that, well, it’d mess with anyone’s head, I think. I’m frightened I’ll totally lose the plot if I look for long enough. Why would I want to look, anyway? I’m a twisted, broken mess. If I don’t see myself, I can sometimes almost convince myself, just for a little while, that I’m not a freak – a perversion of nature – a nightmare in my own right. When I see myself, I don’t know what I am. It’s better not to look.

Dad said it’s a miracle my eyes made it. I used to feel sick thinking about what it would have been like to come back like this, but not to have my sight. It’s the only way I can imagine my world could be any darker. But now, a lot of the time I wonder if it would have been a blessing in disguise. See no evil… it works the same for ‘see no freak’ I’d imagine.