Page 2 of The Tapes

TWO

I can’t stop shivering, even though the day is warm. When I stop the tape and press rewind, the machine squeals. The mechanism swirls until there’s a harsh click when the cassette reaches the beginning.

The second listen makes slightly more sense than the first, though not by a lot.

Mum must’ve recorded me as a child. My babbling, chirpy voice is there as she tries to teach me to count.

I must’ve been two or three at the time.

Except, at some point, she tried to record over our little lesson.

Perhaps because of the quality of the tape, or any number of other technical reasons I don’t understand, her attempt was only partially successful.

There was some sort of cross-contamination between timelines.

That’s not all, of course.

‘I think I’m going to be murdered… I don’t think I’m a good person. I did something. I’ve done lots of things… if they say I’m missing, I’m not. I’ve been killed.’

She disappeared thirteen years ago. Except… was she actually murdered? Was she predicting the future? When did she record this?

And what does she mean when she says she did something?

I listen a third time as Mum’s voice intertwines with the infant me. It’s been such a long time since cassettes were part of my life that I can’t fully remember how they work. There was definitely a thing where you could sometimes hear what was on the other side if the tape itself got damaged.

‘…I need you to know that I love you.’

I should be focusing on the other stuff, I know, yet I rewind the tape a few seconds, and then press play to hear it again, then again. Five times in a row. Ten.

It’s been so long since I heard her voice.

Instinctively, I want to ask Dad about the tape. About Mum being murdered or missing, about not thinking she’s a good person. Did she really think that?

I always knew she was… different .

I want to ask Dad about it. But a moment after thinking it, the memory dawns that he’s no longer around to answer.

It hasn’t sunk in yet. Dad and I would talk a couple of times a week and he was always there for the little pieces of handyman stuff. When I needed shelving for the spare room, Dad put them in.

‘…I need you to know that I love you.’

I try to remember the last time Mum actually said that to me but it’s blank.

As I rewind and listen to the first part again, I wonder whether Dad ever listened to these. Chances are he simply piled the box in among the rest of his stuff he wouldn’t throw out.

There’s no date on the tape, though a clear difference in Mum’s voice between the two timelines.

When I’m a toddler, she’d have been in her early to mid-twenties; though it’s hard to know about the second.

There’s a slight croak, and her tone is definitely deeper.

If it was recorded at around the time she disappeared, she’d have been close to fifty.

‘…I need you to know that I love you.’

There’s an ache in my side that wasn’t there before. I rewind to listen again, knowing I need to get on with what I was supposed to be doing. There’s nobody to ask about any of this, so what am I supposed to do with it?

Except, before I can press play, my phone begins to ring. ‘Faith’ is on the screen. I almost hang up by accident because my daughter never calls. I’m lucky if she replies to texts.

‘Hello?’ I say, somehow still expecting it to be someone else.

‘Mum?’ There’s a quiver of worry in her voice.

‘I’m here.’

‘Can you come? I need you.’