When I neared Em and Henry’s house, I slowed to a stop and watched my mother and little Faye walk on ahead. My eyes stung and I felt that sense of loss that walks hand in hand with beautiful moments, with knowing that something is over even before it’s begun. Knowing that one day all good things will be looked back on like dusty photographs, crackling videotape, and stones in jars. How could they be together now, when for me it was already over, already gone? How could I stand here and watch them walk away from me? I thought of how lonely Esther would feel if she saw me walking away from her when I didn’t even know she was there. And for superstition’s sake, I glanced over my shoulder to check she wasn’t there.
As I focused on Em and Henry’s shiny red front door, my breath shuddered and I felt like crying with relief at the thought of seeing them, because I knew how these people treated strangers, and it was good.
I knocked and heard the muffled sounds of voices asking each other who could be knocking this early in the morning. Then the chain and a lock, a busyness of security behind a door that I could have smashed in with one hard kick.
“Hello?” Em said, and I saw Henry in the hallway behind her with a piece of toast in his hand. The comfort of kitchen smells enveloped me, and I wanted to just kiss Em on her soft powdered cheek and walk in as I had done a million times in my life. But this time she was blocking me, and her face, though friendly, was wary.
“Sorry to call so early, but I’m here from the… uh… Sporting Gazette. I understand you bowl, and I’m writing an article about… uh… recreation for adults in the area.” Em and Henry looked confused, and I worried that maybe they hadn’t got into bowling yet. I knew they played it when I went to live with them, but this would have been about two years earlier.
“You do bowl, don’t you?” I wished I had a notebook to help play my part, where I could pretend to check details that had been passed on to me. But I had nothing. How convincing could I be without a notebook and pen?
“Yes, we do,” said Henry. “Em, let her in, what are you doing leaving her on the doorstep?” He wiped crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Of course, come in,” said Em, opening the door wide and pressing her hands against her front as if to dry them.
The entranceway was welcoming, with thick carpet underfoot. The wallpaper was so familiar: pale-pink and cream stripes, but more notably, the walls were bare. They had always been covered with framed photos of me as I grew up there. I hadn’t realized that, before me, there was nothing there.
I had always thought of them as old. But although they must have been in their midfifties, at least, they didn’t really look old to me now. I would have just turned eight when they took me in, and anyone over thirty looked ancient to me back then. I knew Em’s face like a wrinkled apple, Henry’s saggy cheeks like familiar old battered cushions. But before me now their faces were quite smooth, and Henry had lots of hair; they were young to me now because I had seen them grow so very, very old. The only thing that seemed old about them now was their clothes: Henry with his baggy buttoned cardigan and leather slippers, and Em with her padded housecoat.
It would usually be my habit to simply walk into Henry’s arms and get a big, strong hug, press my cheek against his chest and breathe in the scent of Brut and something else, vaguely smoky. But all I could do was stand and wait, feeling fraudulent and lost.
Em sprang into hostess mode and ushered me into the living room, where the lack of photos struck me again. I had always thought they had loads, but clearly, not until I came along. Crocheted doilies clung to the backs of recliners, and their familiarity drew me to them; I touched one lightly.
“Tea?” asked Em.
“Please,” I said, wanting a cup of tea more than ever before in my life.
“Sit down,” said Henry, and I did. Looking down beside the chair I saw a small pile of hardback Beano comics collections and smiled. They were Henry’s guilty pleasure, and I had loved them too. I reached down and picked one up.
“Minnie the Minx is my favorite,” I said, opening it up.
“I love the Bash Street Kids,” he said, and we both chuckled.
“How did you get our names? Did you speak to Susan at the bowling center?”
“Uh, no,” I said, quickly thinking that if they spoke to Susan they would be left wondering who on earth I really was. “I just, uh, got in touch with the club and got a few names and addresses of players.”
Em bustled back in with a milk pitcher and teapot and flumped down into a chair. I really felt terribly conscious about not having anything to write on, or with.
“I have a few questions, but I seem to have left my bag somewhere. Maybe at the office. I don’t have any of my things.”
“Do you want to come back later?” Em asked. “We’re here all day.”
“I just need my notepad, but if you have some paper? I’m sorry, so unprofessional.”
“Don’t worry,” Henry said, and he opened a drawer, handing me something to write on and a pencil. “You can rest it on that.” He pointed at the Beano.
“Are you all right, dear, you seem a bit flustered, and you seem to have a few scratches.” Em looked at my forehead and touched her own to indicate where she meant. I felt above my right eyebrow and could feel some abrasions. There was no hiding them. I turned over my hand, and bruises were forming on my wrist.
“I had a bit of a tumble this morning, missed a step, landed on my hand, and… I didn’t realize how much I’d scratched my head.” Em looked at Henry with concern in her eyes, but whether it was concern for my fall or concern about whether they should have let me into their home, I wasn’t sure. I was hurting, but the main thing was to keep the weirdness out of this situation; I wanted Em and Henry to keep me here, wanted to stay safe in their homey world, which transcended time and space, and even time travel. They were a port in a storm, a candle in the night when all others have blown out. And here they were, not knowing me, and I teetered on the edge of their welcome, needed them to pull me closer.
With the paper and pencil to anchor me and occupy my hands, I decided to get on with the interview, hoping to put them at ease. I asked them questions and made notes and somehow did all that while watching the faces of two dear people, younger than I could possibly remember them. All their old habits and quirks were like stitches that held the essence of them together, and it felt comical, as though I were watching someone do a very good impression of someone I knew really well. And Em, sweet Em, who had died ten years ago. The way she fussed over Henry, and touched his hand, and ended each sentence of her own with a “Didn’t we, Henry?” or “Isn’t that right, Henry?” as though he were an integral part of her truth; things weren’t real unless they were confirmed by Henry. I knew how she felt, I still sometimes felt that way myself; his presence such a sturdy, reassuring comfort, now as then.
My piece of paper was full of quotes and information about bowling that I had barely any recollection of writing down. Em went to make more tea, and I asked if I could use the bathroom. I walked up the stairs on legs made of lead, trailing my hand over the bare wallpaper that only needed to wait two years before becoming a gallery of memories of me, a map of my progress from age eight onward. I flicked the old hook-and-eye latch of the bathroom door and sat on the closed toilet lid. The doll that covered the extra toilet roll made me smile and shake my head: basically a Barbie doll’s upper body atop a big knitted dress that kept the toilet roll dust-free. I held her on my lap and tried to absorb the facts. The attic, the box, the past, my mother, myself, and now Em and Henry, me drinking their tea, using their toilet. I was just doing normal stuff now. But I did not belong. I was a visitor in a place not open to visitors. I had walked through the STAFF ONLY door, the NO ADMISSION door, the LOCAL ACCESS ONLY. And I wasn’t staff. In a minute, someone was going to find me out and… do what? Kick me out of the seventies? Again I tried to keep my thoughts contained, like a bag full of kittens. The thoughts that urgently whispered: Are you sure that box can get you back to Eddie and the girls? I gripped the top of that bag tightly and urged the kittens to keep still.