My Second Life by Faye Bird

crossed the road in front of the houses and walked onto the Green. I sat down on the tree roots of the old oak and took a sip from my water bottle. I knew I’d tripped over these roots before. I remembered a deep graze on my knee like a burn that wouldn’t bleed. It wept yellow liquid before it eventually turned red and scabbed over, leaving a scar.
    Instinctively I reached down and rubbed my knee with my hands, for comfort. I had no scar. Because that had been Emma’s scar. I am Ana now, I said to myself. I am Ana.
    I looked up at the house again — 42. I remembered it so well. But what use was this? What use was it coming here — seeing and remembering this house?
    I began to feel sick. I shook my head and stretched my arms up above it so I could take a bigger breath, make the sickness go away.
    I could hear ducks, stroller wheels, the sniff and snuffle of the odd dog padding around the trees behind me. The river. The noise of the path too. Runners. Cyclists. It was busy. I didn’t remember these sounds before. It had felt like Catherine and I were the only ones there, on the Green, that evening. My memories were all silent. Except for me, and what I said:
    â€œWe’re going to the river, Catherine. We’ll play hide-and-seek by the river.”
    Those words just wouldn’t go away.
    â€œIf you don’t play I’ll tell on you. You have to come or that’s what I’ll do.”
    I’d said that because I had to make her come. It was the only way to make her come.
    And then I saw it. An ambulance. It was driving slowly along The Avenue right in front of me. I looked around to reassure myself that I was still here, where I thought I was, that this was actually happening, that it wasn’t some new and crooked memory. I took another sip of water and swallowed hard. Yes, I was still here. The water was cold as it slipped down my throat.
    The ambulance doors swung open and the ramp hit the road. The noise shot a jolt through my bones that made me judder, and I folded my arms around myself instinctively for protection. There she was. Frances Wells. Old, but strong. She was being pushed in a wheelchair down the ambulance ramp and along the street. She was holding her front-door key in her hand and her bag sat high on her lap. I couldn’t move. I was transfixed. This was an almost-regal parade — Frances shrouded in a red blanket, the ambulance men processing beside her — and as I watched them, I walked across the Green, toward number 42, my feet utterly in time with theirs.
    I stopped.
    I waited so I could watch them go inside. But they didn’t.
    They kept on walking.
    Farther up the street, beyond 42 … I started to run back toward the trees on the Green, away from the houses, like a wild animal shunned. I looked back. Where were they going? She lived at 42. Frances Wells, 42 The Avenue. It had always been that way … hadn’t it? That’s what I had in my head after I saw her, 42 The Avenue. I had been so sure.
    And then I saw it — the wall — as they walked up the pathway of 38 The Avenue. Rough brown stones. Blocks with symmetrical holes cut out of each brick, each hole shaped like a petal, each brick as rough and ugly as the next. I’d crouched down behind this wall. I’d hidden here. I’d traced the pebble dash with my fingers and I’d grazed my knuckles while I’d waited. But what was I waiting for? Catherine was at the river. It was too late for her to find me now. I knew that. I knew she’d never find me now. Because I’d left her at the river.

 
    10
    I WENT HOME, WASHED, changed my clothes. I must have checked my phone at least ten times, hoping for a message from Jamie. I owed him a call or a text, but still, I hoped that there might be something from him. There was nothing.
    I went downstairs.
    â€œYou look better,” Rachel said as I walked into the kitchen.
    â€œYeah — I feel