Every morning, Maman used to fling open the curtains, calling,
‘C’est le premier jour!’ Every day was the first day, a new beginning. That was how I remembered her: turning with a smile, the sun streaming through her hair, alight with expectation and possibility.
Pressed up against a cold wall, as dawn broke, I lay staring at the mould on the ceiling, pretending I hadn’t done it a thousand times before. It crept across a crack that ran along the corner above us, a blooming sphere amidst a crescent of smaller blueblack circles; my own little Rorschach test. There was a time when I loved tests. Was it a waxing moon, an apostrophe, or a bass clef? The body beside me shifted uneasily, pushing me further against the damp Anaglypta. A sickle, a fish hook…
An elbow jabbed me in the rib as I eased myself out of bed. When it came down to it, it was just mould – mould I didn’t have the time, money or energy to get rid of. Pulling on a jumper, I heard a murmur from the ruffled head buried in its pillow.
‘Go back to sleep,’ I said, and headed for the kitchen. There was a pot soaking in the sink and, after putting the kettle on, I plunged my hands into the congealed water, nails scraping at the softened pasta that clung to the sides. Outside, the sun was coming up, but it hadn’t yet reached our basement flat, never really did any more. The house I dreamed of was always perched up high, in the trees, light pouring through the windows. But that was like the pictures in the mould, existing only in my head. Dad didn’t stir when I tiptoed in to give him his tea, and when I went back to our bedroom, the body was barely visible under the duvet. Grabbing my clothes, I edged towards the door, but the head emerged, round eyes fixed on me.
‘Don’t be late for school,’ I said, and backed out. No need to worry; she never was…
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