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Sophie

I leave a bucket in the loft in case the temporary fix to the roof tiles doesn’t hold during the predicted rain next week, and bring down Mum’s boxes.

There are fewer than I thought. Mum must have had a big clear-out before she left.

I’m sorting through everything in her bedroom, helped by an expensive-looking bottle of red wine that a guest left; doing this sober is impossible.

Using a penknife, I slit open one of the dusty cardboard containers and find books, ornaments, clothes and a scraggy hairbrush.

Old photos of Mum at resorts around the world are stuffed into an envelope.

She’s smiling serenely in an array of yoga poses in front of amazing views and sunsets.

I find a few pics of us next to the sea tractor on Bigbury beach when I was about fourteen or fifteen.

I’m glaring at the camera, and there’s a gap between us. Neither of us attempted to bridge it.

If she’d lived longer, could I have worked harder to make her love me?

Been a better daughter? Been enough? I chug from the bottle, trying to blot out my guilt, the lost opportunities to bond.

It’s too late. I keep all the photos and quickly sort the remainder of her belongings into piles to chuck or take to charity before opening the remaining boxes.

Emptying them on to the carpet, I fall back on my heels as clothes, books and cards spill out.

They all belong to me. I only took what I could carry when I said goodbye to Mum and moved to Plymouth.

I pick up a bunch of envelopes and knock back more wine before opening one.

A festive robin stares back from a card, perched on a snow-covered log.

Oh God! This is from Lily’s parents. They sent it that first Christmas after the accident when I was severely depressed and had crippling headaches from seeing so many numbers. I stayed in bed and refused to see or talk to anyone for weeks.

Dearest Sophie

We’re thinking of you at this difficult time of year. We hope you’re recovering, and the migraines are becoming less frequent. Please come and visit us when you’re well enough. We both miss seeing you.

Love, Betty and Roger.

They sent a birthday card the following March with a similar message, but it must have arrived late; I’d already moved to Plymouth.

We hope you manage to find happiness today, Sophie. We would love to see you and talk about our memories of Lily together.

Much love from Betty and Roger.

I find ‘get well’ cards from Tom and former classmates, and dozens of notelets and letters from Adam. I flick through, skimming over his words, and catch a few pleading sentences:

I’m so sorry.

Please forgive me. Can I see you before I leave for Stanford?

Then:

Am back for Xmas. Please, please, please can we meet?

More cards from Adam arrived throughout spring and early summer.

I still miss you, Sophie. Are you around for a drink? I’m sorry for everything that happened last year. Please forgive me.

Adam hadn’t realised I’d moved out months earlier. The cleaning company had collected all the post before I eventually redirected everything.

He drew a Mobius strip at the end of every single note.

I put them to one side, knowing they’ll break me.

I’ll study his messages properly after I’ve extended his countdown.

Focusing on my old clothes is safer territory, and I begin to sift through.

My breath hitches as I pick up a familiar cornflower-blue blouse.

It slips through my fingers and lands next to a pink cotton sundress.

Both belonged to Lily, along with the denim miniskirt and a turquoise maxi dress.

She regularly borrowed from my wardrobe or Tom’s and left things here.

This is Tom’s green T-shirt – Lily wore it when she slept over.

She said she liked the smell of his Adidas aftershave next to her bare skin.

Waves of nausea wash over me as I discover the shocking-pink evening dress Lily bought in a charity shop.

She was planning to wear it to the prom but changed her mind last minute and chose the strapless black number.

I stuff it beneath the mound, uncovering a pale-blue T-shirt that belonged to Adam. I also kept his favourite grey hoodie.

A sob escapes from my lips as I press it to my face, smelling the scent of that summer: coconut suntan lotion, Lily’s perfume and strawberry bubble gum, and Tom’s and Adam’s aftershave.

They all mix into one devastating formula that resulted in multiple deaths.