‘Your parents left you alone with all those feelings?’ Nyla lets her arms drop, concern reflected in her expression. ‘How old were you back then again?’
‘She was seven, I was ten.’ My God, I should have been there for her more, should have talked with her about all the things my parents couldn’t even name. I should have been a real brother, not one who only worked when it came to joint conspiracies. But I grew up there too; I learned to keep unpleasant things buried in silence as well. ‘Mom and Dad acted as if nothing had happened. As if Milo had never even existed.’
‘That’s awful…’
Lost in thought, I nod. ‘I never knew anything else. That’s just how it was.’
‘And Lilly never knew anything else either,’ Nyla replies. ‘That’s why she went to the doctor so late, downplayed her pain, didn’t want to admit that something was wrong with her.’
Maybe. I don’t know.
Suddenly she’s beside me and lays her hand on my upper arm. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It felt right, and every time something bad happened and no one at home talked about it, it felt even more right. Easier,’ I try to explain. ‘I had a good childhood, I was happy.’
‘And that’s what you wanted to be after Lilly died, too.’ I don’t know if Nyla is talking to me or to herself, but either way, she’s right.
‘We all wanted that.’ Not once did we mourn her together; my parents just wanted to forget, and so did I. ‘On the day of the funeral, Mom took all the photos with Camee down from the walls, hauled the furniture from her old childhood room—which they had kept for years after she moved out—out for bulky waste collection. Where her bed, her wardrobe, and her desk had once stood, a treadmill, a rowing machine, and a weight bench soon filled the emptiness.’
In disbelief, Nyla shakes her head. ‘Just because you don’t want to see something doesn’t mean it isn’t there.’
A few weeks ago I would have denied it; today I nod.
‘On the contrary, the things you don’t want to see are often the ones you feel the deepest.’ Her hand touches my chest.
I know that; I feel it everywhere. Thanks to this woman standing across from me in the overgrown garden, ready to see me through every low and celebrate every high with me. This woman I don’t want to lose for anything in the world.
I look at her. ‘After Camee’s death, nothing made sense anymore.’ My life ended with hers. ‘I distracted myself withparties, was constantly chasing the next kick to drown out the pain. I dropped out of med school, too.’
‘You studied medicine?’ Nyla raises her brows.
The memory of it feels as distant as another life. ‘Yeah, up to the eighth semester, even.’
Thoughtfully, she chews on her lower lip. ‘You’d make a great doctor.’
‘I thought so too. Until I lost Camee and knew it would destroy me to accompany sick people for longer than a few minutes in the ambulance and thereby…’
‘…build a connection that could break,’ Nyla quietly finishes my thought. My words seem to hit her; she’s probably thinking about her risk of getting sick again.
But she shouldn’t be thinking about that, and neither should I.
‘All my life I’ve been taught that it’s better to stay on the sunny side of life,’ I say quickly. ‘My parents are still there.’
‘That’s why your mom can’t come here. She doesn’t want to see Lilly’s legacy, doesn’t want to be confronted with everything it would do to her.’ Sunlight falls through the gaps in the straw hat onto Nyla’s face. ‘One day she’ll be ready,’ she says earnestly. ‘Because you’ll help her.’
Could that be possible? She’s been living in her make-believe world for fifty-five years now, and who knows what’s lurking in her past that I’ve had no idea about so far. How much pain she had to endure, how much suffering she experienced. What made her become the way she is.
‘Possibly.’ I give Nyla a hopeful smile.
The corners of her mouth lift as well. ‘Step by step.’
‘Day by day.’ With a deep breath, I lift the hedge trimmer. ‘And today: branch by branch,’ I say and press the start button.
Nyla turns to one of the smaller bushes, I step up to the huge shrub that has spread over the years to the middle of the gardenand get to work. Minute by minute, the pile of clippings grows higher, and bit by bit more of the actual garden comes into view. I find the stream as well; a partly rotten shrub juts out above it.
I start cutting off its branches one by one and chopping them up. The last branch still seems intact; it’s barely possible to cut through. With all my strength, I lean on my tool, the hedge trimmer lets out a strained hum. When I’m halfway through, it starts to smoke.
I can manage the last few centimeters…