Page 136 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
It’s Peach. Her voice is all croaky. She sounds as rough as toast.
‘Yeah, I’m all right,’ I say. ‘I’m just sorting out some stuff. Are you OK?’
‘I’m so sorry about last night. I feel like such a jackass. I only woke up about an hour ago. I’m never drinking tequila again. And now Matilda is crying. She won’t stop crying. What the heck is going on?’
I give Peach the highlights of the events that have played out over the last twelve hours: about Leo and mum’s diaries and Valentina. When I’m finished, she starts crying too.
‘Lord, I’m sorry, Jess. I could have helped you last night. Instead I was passed out in bed like a damn fool. I am a terrible friend.’
Ordinarily I would take the piss out of her for getting so wasted, for drooling all over Gavin. But I just haven’t got it in me today.
‘We’ve all been there,’ I say instead. ‘Is . . . is Matilda all right?’
‘I don’t know. She’s locked herself in her room. I can hear her crying in there and listening to old doo-wop songs. I don’t know what to do. You need to come back.’
My neck itches. ‘I can’t, Peach. Not right now. Will . . . will you look after her for me?’
‘Of course.’
I swallow.
‘And Mr Belding too.’
‘Sure. He’s right here on the bed with me, snug as a bug.’
‘I’ll be in touch soon, OK. You go and get some Berocca. And some Monster Munch.’
‘All right.’
She sounds sad.
‘And Peach.’
‘Yeah?’
‘You’re not a terrible friend . . . you’re, well, you’re my best friend.’
And the realization that that’s the truth, that, out of all this, I have met Peach, is enough to stop me from crying. For fifteen minutes, anyway.
* * *
When, around three hours later, we pull up at our destination, Jamie turns off the engine and unlocks his seat belt as if to get out of the car with me.
‘I need to do this on my own,’ I tell him with a small smile.
He nods, opens up his glove compartment and pulls out a textbook calledCardiac Imaging. He holds it up. ‘I’ll be right here.’
My whole body vibrating with nerves, I open the car door and climb out. I walk through the huge cast-iron gates and down a path bordered with trees and neatly tended shrubbery. I’ve only been to this place once in my life − ten years ago − but many times in my head. I walk the route as easily as if I’d been here just yesterday.
When I arrive at Mum’s headstone, my chest squeezes. My neck and scalp start to itch so much that it burns, and my heart seems to slow right down.
I plop down on the grass and reach forward to touch the smooth marble of the stone. It’s warm from the afternoon sun.
I take a breath.
‘Hey, Mum,’ I say, placing my hands back in my lap. ‘Sorry I’ve not been for so long. Or ever, really. It’s been . . . well, everything’s been a bit fucked–up, to be honest.’
I pause. The silence is deafening.
