Keeping it Together Read online

  Sian ran into the hallway, pulling the phone from its cradle on the bureau and stabbing at the nine three times.

  When the ambulance came, her father was unconscious.

  He was rushed to the hospital—a heart attack, they said, brought on by stress. Sian had never ridden in an ambulance before, and it was a horrible curiosity, her father laid out on the stretcher with the paramedic leaning over him, his eyelids fluttering open and closed, gaze unfocused.

  He was wheeled through the reception area while Sian and her mother were told to wait. They were given paperwork to fill out, and Sian went to get tea from the machine just to give herself something to do while her mother fretted over the paper.

  "Can you read this?" her mum asked the second Sian returned with the tea, shoving the paper under her nose.

  Sian blinked, stared down at her mother's scrawled handwriting, then nodded.

  "It's not too messy? My hands..."

  "No, Mum, it's fine," she said, handing over one of the cups.

  They didn't drink the tea. Sian took a couple of sips from hers, but it had a strange tang to it. She held it in her hands, picking at the rim of the cardboard cup as it cooled.

  Time seemed to bend in on itself—the clock above the reception desk ticked, but the hands didn't seem to move at all. What had been seconds felt like an hour, and when it had finally stretched out to two hours since her father's admittance, Sian felt like it had only been minutes.

  Her mother was pacing in front of her, alternating between standing and sitting every few minutes. Several times she went over to the desk to ask if she could go in to see him, always refused by a solemn shake of the head.

  It came as a surprise when a nurse came through and told them they could finally see him.

  "He'll be fine," she said, "although obviously now the priority is to make sure this doesn't reoccur. Keep his stress levels low, make sure he eats well, keep his cholesterol down. We have some booklets on that we can give you—what to cook, what not to cook, that sort of thing. But most people find just Googling this stuff is the biggest help. There are some good, healthy recipes out there. But anything high in fat or salt? Not good." She seemed to talk constantly, too fast for Sian to really keep up, but her mother was nodding, taking in every word.

  They came to yet another corridor and were led up a flight of stairs, down another corridor and into a ward. Curtains were pulled around some of the beds, open around others. A couple of the inhabitants were reading magazines, but most were sleeping.

  "Perhaps you'd better wait here," her mother told her at the door. "I'll speak to him first, then I'll call you over, okay?"

  Sian wanted to say no. She'd waited long enough in reception and just wanted to see her father, to tell him she was sorry. But her mother was right. After all, she was the one who'd caused this, and she didn't want to stress him out any further.

  She hovered by the doorway, watching as one of the magazine readers picked his nose and wiped it on the front of his t-shirt.

  Eventually, her mother came back for her, her shoes squeaking as she walked. "Please, don't say anything about this business now, alright? Whatever your personal feelings, just agree with whatever he says, okay? We don't want to—"

  "I know," Sian said and made towards the curtain her mother had disappeared around a few minutes ago.

  Her father didn't smile when he saw her. He looked too pale, his face set in a grim expression, his eyes dark and shadowed.

  She tiptoed across to the bed and laid a hand, very gently, as though she could shatter him into pieces with a touch, on his shoulder. "Daddy?" she said and had to blink back tears, swallow past the lump in her throat before she could talk. "I'm sorry."

  Her father nodded and licked his lips before speaking. "I know," he said. His voice was hoarse, croaky and strained. "You're a good girl, Sian. Most of the time. Just, please. I'm only looking out for you, you know that."

  "I know." She nodded, then: "I'll try harder, I promise." And she meant it. Seeing her father like this, she understood that it didn't matter what she wanted; she was stronger than any of them thought, and she could bear it. If her heart had to break so that her father would live... well, then it would have to break.

  She slunk out after a while, wandering the corridors, thinking of nothing, her mind a total blank. At a flight of stairs, she sank down on a step, held her head in her hands, and cried.

  *~*~*

  It had been a good practice, Alisha thought as she let herself into her flat. Everything had come together, even the new songs that usually took at least a month to get right. They had four gigs planned for the week, and she had extra hours in the shop tomorrow, which meant she could finally afford the new amps she wanted.

  She flopped onto the sofa with a mug of tea in her hands, hot liquid sloshing up to the rim and almost spilling over onto her lap. She settled back into the cushions, taking her first sip as Bolan jumped up beside her and curled up on her stomach. She scratched him behind the ears and smiled as he purred loudly.

  She was halfway through the tea and only three pages into her magazine when the buzzer went.

  Groaning, she dislodged Bolan, who looked almost as pleased about that as she felt, and went to answer the door. Most likely it was just Andrea from downstairs having forgotten her key again. She was a lovely woman and an excellent cook, but she was a total scatterbrain, and Alisha had had to let her into the house five times in the last two months. No wonder the woman had given her a spare key to the downstairs flat as soon as she moved in.

  "Hello?" she asked, pressing the button on the comm.

  "Alisha?" a small voice crackled out over the speaker. "I need to talk to you."

  "Sian?" It certainly sounded like Sian, but the speaker was so crappy it was often hard to tell who was on the other end of it.

  "Yeah. Can I come in?"

  "Of course. I'll be down in a sec."

  Unlike a proper block of flats, the little renovated house didn't have a release button for the front door, so Alisha had to go downstairs to unlock it herself.

  Sian was standing on the step in a pale blue cardigan, pulling it tight with her hands practically hugged around herself, fingers clenching in the fabric. She looked like she'd been crying.

  "What's happened?" Alisha asked, going to pull her into a hug. Sian flinched backward, and Alisha hung back, stung. Sian hovered on the step, making no move to come inside.

  "Are you going to come in or what?" Alisha asked after a moment, feeling increasingly unnerved.

  Sian nodded meekly and stepped past her into the hallway. Really, Alisha wanted to know right then and there what was going on, but something told her to wait, that this was a conversation better held inside, in private with a hot cup of tea or, better yet, a cold beer.

  She had boiled the kettle and was pressing a mug into Sian's hands before she asked what was wrong. Sian just shook her head and sipped at her tea, even though it was still hot. Alisha waited, trying to appear cool and collected when really she wanted nothing more than to shake whatever it was out of Sian.

  "Sian, what's wrong?" she asked again, wiping away a tear that slipped from the corner of Sian's eye. "Please, you can tell me."

  Sian shook her head again and pulled away. "Don't be nice to me," she said, sniffing.

  "Why?"

  "Because you shouldn't be nice to me. You should hate me. You will hate me."

  Alisha shook her head firmly. "I swear, whatever it is, I won't hate you."

  Sian sniffed again and set down her tea on the coffee table with a shaking hand. "I can't see you anymore."

  Five words. Just five words, and that was all it took to make Alisha feel as though she'd been lifted off her feet and turned upside down, shaken out, like someone was emptying her pockets of all the happiness she'd felt over the past month.

  "Why?" she demanded through gritted teeth. She'd be damned if she was going to let Sian walk out of here without an explanation.

  "I can'
t do this anymore. It's... My dad, he's sick. He found out about us and the stress—" She broke off with a shaky half-sob and took a deep breath. "I just can't."

  She wasn't making much sense, but Alisha thought she got the gist of what she was saying. "You're breaking up with me to save your parents' feelings?" she asked, anger rising in her.

  Sian shook her head. "No, it's... My dad, it'll kill him. I can't do that, I can't, so I can't see you anymore, even if... even if it hurts."

  Alisha let out a huff of air and took another swig of her beer. "I don't believe this," she muttered, standing and pacing around to the other side of the coffee table. She snatched up the packet of menthols from the table and lit one, letting smoke curl up around her, breathing deep, letting it settle in her lungs. It didn't make her feel any better.

  "I'm sorry," Sian murmured, reaching out across the table. Alisha ignored her outstretched hand. She wanted to take it, but she couldn't. She thought if she did, she might break, and she couldn't do that, not with Sian, not now.

  Instead, she gave a shrug. "It's okay. You do what you have to, right?"

  Sian nodded, obviously so miserable that it hurt to look at her. She stood, stepping back around the sofa toward the door.

  Alisha felt the urge to grab at her, cling to her and stop her from leaving, but that was absurd, and she had to stifle a laugh at herself; God, she really could be ridiculously pathetic sometimes. Instead, she said, "You're off, then?"

  "I think I should get going, yeah," Sian said quietly, and Alisha thought she heard something in her voice that might have been a plea to stay, but they both knew that couldn't happen. Sian had to go. If they were going to do this, it had to be a clean break. Anything else was just too much.

  Alisha gestured to the door with her hand, cigarette still clutched between her fingers. "You mind showing yourself out? I've got stuff to do."

  She turned away before the door closed, the quiet click like a gunshot to her ears, devastating and final. She blinked back tears. She wouldn't cry, not now, not over this.

  But later, she did cry, after several beers and even more cigarettes; when the whole room stank of smoke and alcohol and she couldn't sleep, she cried. It had been a long time since she'd last cried, and the force of emotion shocked her, that she could cry so much and for so long. It would fade, and she expected that to be it, but it was like an ocean with only a small lull before the next wave hit the shore. She felt broken and in pieces, and she didn't know how she would fit herself back together again in the morning, only that she would have to.

  Nine

  Three Weeks Later

  Sian sat cross-legged on the bed, Tilly's purple duvet bunched up around her. Tilly sat in the desk chair, her chin resting on her knees, her laptop on the desk behind her with the speakers turned up to the max, which, admittedly, wasn't very high. Franz Ferdinand's Paper Cages was playing, and the lyrics drifted in and out of Sian's head.

  Sian couldn't think clearly, couldn't focus, either on the music or the revision she'd come round to do for her business exam tomorrow. She cradled a mug of hot chocolate, made by Tilly's mum, and stared at the mini marshmallows melting on the surface.

  "So how's your dad?" Tilly asked. She kept her voice casual, but Sian understood her well enough to realise that she genuinely wanted to know.

  The night of her father's heart attack, she had stayed at Tilly's house while her mother slept in a hospital chair. She had cried in Tilly's arms for most of the night, and they'd slept curled around each other, the way she imagined she would sleep with her sister if Bethan had lived. And Tilly had held her again after the break-up, told her it would be okay, had given her hope and a rock to lean on.

  "He's good," she said. "He hates the food Mum makes now and he keeps going on about bacon sandwiches and steak, but he's okay. He's starting back at work next week, so he's pretty happy about that. He wanted to go back earlier, but Mum wouldn't let him."

  Tilly laughed. "Wow, no offense, Sian, but your dad's a freak. Who would actually be happy about going to work?"

  "Yeah, I don't get it either, but he likes it."

  "That's good, I guess. So are we going to revise, or what?"

  Sian sighed. "Do we have to?" she moaned, looking at all the papers and flashcards strewn over Tilly's desk.

  "Yes, we do. Come on, usually you're the one being all productive and shit. I'm supposed to be copying off you here. Don't let me down."

  With another sigh, Sian pulled her books from her bag and spread them out across the bed. Flipping through them, she caught a name scrawled in the top left margin, all careful, looping letters. Alisha Hart. She quickly turned the page again, her heart thudding an unsteady beat in her chest.

  "You alright?" Tilly asked, frowning. "You look like you're about to throw up. I know business sucks, but…" She waved a hand towards the door. "Seriously, if you are, use the bathroom and not my bed, yeah?"

  "I'm fine," Sian said, settling herself onto her front and pulling the cap from a pen with her teeth. "Are we going to do this or what?"

  *~*~*

  "So you gonna give me a discount on this Gibson, or what?" Mac said, running his hands over the smooth, polished wood of the guitar he'd already spent the last twenty minutes admiring.

  "Hmm." Alisha pretended to think about it. "For you, two thousand."

  "Oh, gee, thanks." Mac rolled his eyes at her. "That's double the regular price."

  "It's the going rate for discount enthusiasts." Alisha shrugged and turned the page of her magazine.

  "'Lish?" Mac asked, sounding way too casual.

  "What?" She didn't look up from her magazine.

  "Are you okay? I mean, like, really."

  She still didn't look up. "I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

  "Oh, you know, that little thing about having your heart broken?"

  "I didn't have my heart broken," she said, injecting a hint of surprise into her voice. "It wasn't like I loved her or anything. Can we talk about something else now, please?"

  Mac chuckled. "Fine, whatever, man. But if Johnny asks, tell him we had a real heart to heart, okay?"

  "And why does Johnny care if we talk or not?" Alisha said, glancing up from her magazine.

  Mac grimaced and gave a small half-shrug. "He doesn't." He paused. "It's just… you know."

  "No," she said. "I don't know."

  "He thinks—we think you haven't really been playing at your best lately. And it's cool, man, we're not like, mad or anything, we're just... worried."

  "Well, don't be. I'll play better tomorrow."

  He turned back to the Gibson, tilting his head to admire its classic shape from another angle. "Yeah, okay."

  "I swear," she said, forcing a grin he couldn't see. "I'll rock your fucking socks off."

  "You know what'd be even better than that?" he said, a grin spreading over his face. She knew what he was going to say before he said it, and rolled her eyes at him. "A discount."

  She pointed toward the door. "Out." When he didn't move, she raised one eyebrow and pointed again. "Now," she growled, smirking at his retreating back.

  He turned in the doorway. "I'll come back for that discount, then, shall I?" he called and ducked as she threw a till roll at him.

  With Mac gone, Alisha was alone in the shop. She closed her eyes, revelling in the quiet, breathing in the scent of polished wood and leather.

  The bell above the door rang, and she opened her eyes.

  The first thing she saw was a mass of pale blonde curls, and her stomach tightened, twisting itself into a knot. Her heartbeat quickened, and then sank back to its usual pace as the girl turned and Alisha realised it wasn't who she'd thought it was. Looking at her now, Alisha had no idea how she'd mistaken her for Sian. Her hair was darker, less frizzy, and she was about half a foot taller than Sian was.

  "Idiot," Alisha muttered to herself. It had been almost a month since she'd last seen Sian. Really, she should be over this by now. If she counted, she could probably add
up all their dates on one hand. She shouldn't still feel like this, freezing up every time she saw someone with blonde hair or wide, blue eyes. She didn't need this.

  "Excuse me?" the girl asked, hovering by the Steinway Essex. "How much would something like this be?"

  "Three thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine for that one."

  The girl winced.

  "Yeah, they're a lot." Alisha agreed. "You might be able to find that or something similar for about two and a half grand used. Or we have this sort of thing—" she gestured to a smaller, more modest looking piano "—for a thousand."

  "Yeah, I already have something similar," the girl said. "I really wanted to upgrade, but I think I'm going to have to save a little more."

  Alisha felt kind of bad for the girl. She couldn't have been any older than eighteen, and she looked so sad that she couldn't afford it. "Well, if you wait six months, it'll probably go down by a few hundred," she said.

  "Yeah," the girl said, already heading towards the door. Alisha found she didn't want her to go. "Thanks."

  "Any time." Alisha sighed as the girl disappeared. She really needed to get a hold of her feelings.

  Ten

  Tilly let out a whoop of joy, pulling her hair out of its band and letting it cascade down her back. "Thank fuck it's over. Milkshake to celebrate?"

  Sian nodded, and they began to walk down the corridor, heading for the exit. It would be the last time they walked through those doors until they came to collect their results.

  "How do you think you did?" Tilly asked as they shoved the doors open, making what she usually referred to as a grand exit, throwing both doors open at the same time and striding out into the sunlight.

  "Not too bad," Sian admitted. "Maybe a B at least. I hope so, anyway."

  "I failed." Tilly didn't look in the least bit unhappy about that. "I'm pretty sure I did anyway. 'Discuss the theme of madness in Hamlet.' Uhm... They're all fucking nuts? Not much more to say, really, is there?"

  Sian laughed, and Tilly looked almost surprised. It had been a while since she'd really laughed, she supposed.