Page 18 of Good Bad Girl

A piano has eighty-eight keys. Fifty-two white keys. Thirty-six black keys.

Three steps to the end of the boat.

There is definitely a storm on the way. Maybe she imagined the sound.

Two steps to her daughter’s bedroom.

She hears the piano once more. Louder this time.

One step to the bedroom door.

It is open.

Frankie thought she had closed it.

It’s too dark to see inside the room, so she stands perfectly still in the doorway, listening to the imperfect silence as the sound of river water laps against the hull. Shemusthave imagined it. Her daughter used to play the piano and Frankie has scared herself into hearing the ghosts of her own memories.

She turns and starts to walk away, keen to get back to that unopened bottle.

The sound of the piano starts again.

Loud but not clear.

There is no discernible melody, just noise, like someone hitting all of the piano keys at once. The sound gets louder as Frankie turns back toward the bedroom, her trembling fingers reaching for the light switch.

Clio

Clio resents having to leave the house again, twice in one day is two times too many. But given the phone call she received it would seem strange, suspicious even, if she didn’t return to the Windsor Care Home. She is happiest in her own home, where she feels in control, queen of her own—albeit lonely—castle. Not that she’d ever share that information with anyone. The person she presents to the world no longer has much in common with the person she has become.

When they finally arrive she pays the taxi driver—the exact amount, no tip—and heads back inside the care home. The cab ride here was painfully slow, thanks to London’s all-day rush hour and the cabbie’s tedious attempts at small talk. It gave Clio too much time to think unwelcome thoughts. As she walks into the building, every step she takes feels heavy, as though she can’t remember how to walk forward. Or as if something deep inside her is warning her to keep out, turn back, stay away.

Inside, the place is almost too quiet and calm. Not at all whatshe was expecting. There is nobody in the hallway or the lounge, just the sound of muffled voices down the corridor and out of sight. Clio doesn’t waste her time looking for the care home manager, or any member of staff, instead she quietly heads up to the top floor, taking the steps two at a time. She’s almost certain the elevator will be out of use, it normally is. Clio is keen to get back to her mother’s room and preferably alone. After all, thatiswhat you’re supposed to do when you lose something—retrace your steps.

There have been so many false alarms from the care home before today. Too many. Clio remembers them all:

“Your mother seems confused.”

Nothing new there.

“Your mother is refusing to eat.”

She refused to eat when Clio tried to cook for her too.

Your mother had a fall.

Probably doing something she shouldn’t have been doing.

Clio has been a therapist for too long not to recognize classic cries for attention. That’s often all they were. Butthisfeels different.

“I’m so sorry, she’s gone. We did everything that we could.”

Clio used to visit once a week when her mother first moved into the Windsor Care Home. Until she made a friend named May, a few months in, Edith refused to come downstairs like the other residents. Clio would sit in her mother’s bedroom for an hour every Tuesday, but Edith wouldn’t speak to her and made it clear that she didn’t want to see her daughter anymore. So Clio stopped visiting. When her mother kept refusing to speak on the phone, Clio stopped calling. It wasn’t the first time they had deliberately lost touch. Their relationship has had more downs than ups, and there have been multiple occasions over the years when they haven’t spoken to each other for months. Ever since Clio was a teenager, things between them have been delicate and difficult.

Edith wanted to live with Clio in the pink house, not move into a care home. But living under the same roof wasn’t a good idea: thehouse is too small (a lie), the stairs are too steep and narrow (the truth), it is where Clio works and she doesn’t have time to keep checking up on/caring for her mother (a lie and the truth). Clio just didn’t want to (the whole truth). Her home is also her office—she sees clients most days—she doesn’t have the time, patience, or energy to take care of her elderly mother on top of all that. Or her flea-ridden dog. A residential care home was the only option, but Edith used the situation to paint her daughter as a villain to anyone who would listen.

They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other for months again until today. And now this.

Clio navigates her way through the maze of corridors and guilt until she finds herself outside room thirteen. She gently pushes the unlocked door open, and feels a strange sense of relief when she sees that the room—and bed—are empty. Unsure of how long she has to do this before someone else comes along, Clio starts looking for clues. Anything that someone who didn’t know what to look for might have missed. There is a pot of her mother’s favorite moisturizer on the dressing table, the same brand she has been using for thirty years. Not all of the memories it stirs are unwelcome—she had a happy childhood until she didn’t—and Clio slips the cream into her pocket.

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