Paper Aeroplanes by Dawn O'Porter Read Free Book Online Page A

Monroe will come and visit us in this old stone bath in Guernsey?’ Nancy snaps.
    ‘She might. My mum says that when you die it doesn’t matter who you are or what you look like any more,’ says Charlotte, confidently.
    ‘Well, we can’t call Marilyn Monroe. Has anyone get any other suggestions?’ Nancy says, losing her patience a little.
    There are a few minutes’ silence. I find myself closing my eyes and screwing my face up as if preparing to be punched. And then Margaret blurts, ‘What about your mum, Renée?’
    I open my eyes. All four of them are looking at me like hungry puppies.
    ‘I’m not bothered,’ are my first words. Shortly followed by, ‘Sure, whatever.’
    I never let on a shred of emotion about Mum at school. I pretend I don’t care if I mention it at all. It’s easier for me that way, because generally as soon as someone shows me sympathy I burst out crying.
    ‘Great!’ says Margaret as she grabs Bethan and Nancy’s hands. Charlotte squints at me and lowers her head to find my eyes. When I look back at her she raises her eyebrows as if to ask ‘Sure?’
    I nod dramatically and reach for their hands. ‘Let’s do it! I don’t believe in this nonsense anyway.’
    ‘Calling the spirits. Spirits, are you there?’ starts Nancy in a weird, breathy voice. ‘Spirits, come to the bath and show us your face.’
    ‘SHOW US YOUR FACE?’ cries Margaret hysterically. ‘What if they died in an accident and their face is mangled?’
    ‘Bloody hell, have some respect, Margaret,’ says Charlotte. ‘Renée’s mum didn’t die in an accident, she died of cancer. Her face will be fine.’
    This isn’t true. The last time I saw my mother’s face it was grey and loose, like an empty plastic bag. Her eyes looked lower than they had before. Her cheekbones stuck out like hard lumps that were hurting her from the inside. Her face wasn’t fine at all. I don’t want to see it again, not like that.
    ‘Oh yes, sorry. I forgot we were calling your mum. Maybe you should ask her to come on her own, Nancy? We might get all sorts turning up if you just say spirits,’ says Charlotte, taking control.
    ‘OK, good idea. What was your mum’s name, Renée?’ asks Nancy, with no sense of awkwardness about using the word
was
.
    ‘Helen,’ I say, my eyes still closed. My head is telling me not to believe in this, but I still find myself imagining her face. What if she comes? What would I say?
    ‘Right then, Helen it is. OK, everyone hold hands again.’ Nancy gets herself back into the zone and tries again. ‘Helen, are you there, Helen?’
    My mind starts to wander – back to when I didn’t even know she was dying. The warmth of Margaret and Bethan’s hands feels so nice in the cold air, the distant sound of the hockey game turns into a low hum. I start to visualise her. I can smell her, the best smell in the world – Chanel No. 5, cigarettes and leather. The perfect smell.
    I go back to when I must have been all of five, still having afternoon naps but old enough to have them on the sofa and not in my room. Was that normal? I’m not sure. I woke up to see her face at the living-room door. Her black hair in loose waves sitting just above her shoulders, her nose red from the outside cold, her long eyelashes bold and upright. They surrounded her massive brown eyes like the over-pronounced sun rays I used to draw that Mum would stick on the fridge. As I woke up from my sleep she came over, took off her fur coat and crawled onto the sofa with me. She scooped me up into her arms and put her cheek on top of mine. ‘How’s my girl?’
    I turned around and buried my face into her neck. We lay there cuddling while I woke up properly. She yawned, and even when I was ready to move I lay there and let her dose. ‘I love you, Mummy,’ I said.
    ‘I love you too, darling.’
    ‘OH MY GOOODDD!’
    Mum vanishes as the sound of Nancy’s voice makes us all jump.
    ‘OH MY GOD, did anyone else see that?’ Nancy