river. Dizzy and stumbling, I watch as the wind whips up a little spiral of grey-green vapour, like an arm raised briefly in farewell.
In the morning I wake, expecting to be tired. But I feel light, refreshed. This time, though, I can’t stop myself from opening the wardrobe to check. My trainers, hidden at the back, are damp and pungent.
‘And finally a toast. To my beautiful, brilliant niece. One of a kind. Quite possibly the only girl in the world who, when she becomes a household name and some idiot interviewer complains that bone jewellery is cruelty to animals, can righteously retort, “It’s my bone, so I can do what I like with it!”’
‘Ben!’ Amy complains, her mouth turning down in a disgusted pout.
Paul pats Uncle Ben on the shoulder, laughing. ‘Our one of a kind,’ he echoes, raising his glass. ‘Happy adoption birthday.’
I grin and steal Amy’s glass to clink to his. It’s not actually my official adoption birthday, but we decided that the important date wasn’t when the paperwork came through: that didn’t happen for more than another year ’cos there’s so much rubbish that has to be done to make these things legal. The date that matters is when I came to live with Amy and Paul. All of my time with them counts.
‘Evie dear,’ Amy says awkwardly, ‘I don’t think you should . . .’
‘A few sips won’t hurt,’ I say. ‘Here, I’ll toast with water for you.’
She shakes her head, smiling, as I pass her glass back. ‘I’m so proud of you, Evie. You’ve been so brave,’ she says, because it’s the kind of thing Amy does say semi-regularly, not just once in a lifetime, and without ever blushing. It might just be my favourite thing about her. I can never quite decide between that and the fact that Amy really would do anything for me. I’m sure of it. If a car tried to mow me down, she’d jump in front of it. She and Paul would sell the house and everything they own if I were sick and the money could make me well.
When I first came to live with them, while the adoption was still in its probationary period, I thought I knew what the deal was: I’d live with them, become theirs after a fashion, but it wouldn’t be like they were really my parents. I knew it just didn’t work like that.
Only it did. With Amy and Paul, it really did. It didn’t even take a full year for me to realise that when I made them angry, they didn’t even think about the fact that they didn’t have to put up with it: that they could take me back and be rid of me. They just didn’t think it. I could tell. And that’s when I realised I could tell them about all the things that hadn’t mended right in my ribs: about the way they moved funny, and about the pain.
Of course I didn’t tell them then: it took me months and months – so many months they became years – to work out how to tell them. I knew that the first time I mentioned having an ache in my ribs Amy wouldn’t think anything of it. The plan was to mention it again about a week later and then perhaps a few days after that. I’d let myself brace my hand across my ribs occasionally, then more regularly. Eventually, I’d say something more about it really hurting and then . . .
But the very first time I mentioned the pain – just a passing comment about an ache – Amy whipped around from making dinner, wiping her hands down her clothes, and hurried over to me.
For a minute, I’d been sure she would just lift my shirt and, though I knew Amy wouldn’t do anything more, it went all cold. But even though I hadn’t told her anything then – anything at all – she knew better than that. She just always knew what not to do, right from the very start when we’d met by chance at the local Social Services office. Sometimes I wonder if she sort of knew everything I eventually told her all along. I think she might have. Not what happened exactly, of course. But somehow she knew enough , right from the first day I came
In the morning I wake, expecting to be tired. But I feel light, refreshed. This time, though, I can’t stop myself from opening the wardrobe to check. My trainers, hidden at the back, are damp and pungent.
‘And finally a toast. To my beautiful, brilliant niece. One of a kind. Quite possibly the only girl in the world who, when she becomes a household name and some idiot interviewer complains that bone jewellery is cruelty to animals, can righteously retort, “It’s my bone, so I can do what I like with it!”’
‘Ben!’ Amy complains, her mouth turning down in a disgusted pout.
Paul pats Uncle Ben on the shoulder, laughing. ‘Our one of a kind,’ he echoes, raising his glass. ‘Happy adoption birthday.’
I grin and steal Amy’s glass to clink to his. It’s not actually my official adoption birthday, but we decided that the important date wasn’t when the paperwork came through: that didn’t happen for more than another year ’cos there’s so much rubbish that has to be done to make these things legal. The date that matters is when I came to live with Amy and Paul. All of my time with them counts.
‘Evie dear,’ Amy says awkwardly, ‘I don’t think you should . . .’
‘A few sips won’t hurt,’ I say. ‘Here, I’ll toast with water for you.’
She shakes her head, smiling, as I pass her glass back. ‘I’m so proud of you, Evie. You’ve been so brave,’ she says, because it’s the kind of thing Amy does say semi-regularly, not just once in a lifetime, and without ever blushing. It might just be my favourite thing about her. I can never quite decide between that and the fact that Amy really would do anything for me. I’m sure of it. If a car tried to mow me down, she’d jump in front of it. She and Paul would sell the house and everything they own if I were sick and the money could make me well.
When I first came to live with them, while the adoption was still in its probationary period, I thought I knew what the deal was: I’d live with them, become theirs after a fashion, but it wouldn’t be like they were really my parents. I knew it just didn’t work like that.
Only it did. With Amy and Paul, it really did. It didn’t even take a full year for me to realise that when I made them angry, they didn’t even think about the fact that they didn’t have to put up with it: that they could take me back and be rid of me. They just didn’t think it. I could tell. And that’s when I realised I could tell them about all the things that hadn’t mended right in my ribs: about the way they moved funny, and about the pain.
Of course I didn’t tell them then: it took me months and months – so many months they became years – to work out how to tell them. I knew that the first time I mentioned having an ache in my ribs Amy wouldn’t think anything of it. The plan was to mention it again about a week later and then perhaps a few days after that. I’d let myself brace my hand across my ribs occasionally, then more regularly. Eventually, I’d say something more about it really hurting and then . . .
But the very first time I mentioned the pain – just a passing comment about an ache – Amy whipped around from making dinner, wiping her hands down her clothes, and hurried over to me.
For a minute, I’d been sure she would just lift my shirt and, though I knew Amy wouldn’t do anything more, it went all cold. But even though I hadn’t told her anything then – anything at all – she knew better than that. She just always knew what not to do, right from the very start when we’d met by chance at the local Social Services office. Sometimes I wonder if she sort of knew everything I eventually told her all along. I think she might have. Not what happened exactly, of course. But somehow she knew enough , right from the first day I came