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She stands there for a moment, looking at Lisa, at her mother, made so small before her.
The anger has faded now, in its wake a deep, foundational uncertainty.
One that’s been lying dormant for years, finally resurfacing as Becky did.
Because sometimes she says things. Things she doesn’t mean. Though the words aren’t really hers, they’ve been pre-made, prepared with ultimate precision, hand-crafted to hit Lisa where it hurts.
In the years after Becky’s death, she’d forgotten their origin, forgotten who’d taught them. Who’d recited those lines over and over, cementing them in her brain.
Who had told her that her mother was too emotional, irrational and foolish. That she was no fun, that she worried too much, that she didn’t really care about their happiness.
That she wasn’t good enough to be a mother, to be a wife.
In her grief for the idyllic family she felt had been irretrievably lost, she'd forgotten that it had always been a two-person unit, forgotten the way Becky would smile, grab her hand. A look shared between them, their own little bubble, a perfect team. Formed with the knowledge that Lisa would never understand people like them. That it was the two of them against the world — against her.
She had forgotten, perhaps because she’d never really known, not properly anyways. This was all just normal — their normal — and she’d never really had any reason to question it.
Until now. Because she’s still young, maybe still immature. But she’s grown so much in the years Becky’s been gone. Learning how to live with the sudden, gaping hole in her life. To live with the anger, that courses through her, the venom that falls from her mouth as easy as breathing.
Because she’d met someone who lived with that same affliction, who could be hot-headed and impulsive and cruel. But who had the years of experience in tempering it, and the knowledge of the things you can lose if you don’t.
And whilst not directly, (Betsy’s never responded well to a lecture) she’s taught her a lot about the sort of person that Betsy wants to be, one day.
She’s not perfect, she knows that, not by a long shot. But she’s trying. Trying to grow up, to be kinder, be more responsible. Be the sort of person that will make her mums — and Carla — proud.
It had frightened her then, how easily she’d fallen back into their old routine.
At first, it had made sense. She was fuming, furious at Lisa for hiding Becky’s return from her.
Because it’s the same dance every time. Lisa promising she’d change, that she’d be more open and honest, only to lie through her teeth in some desperate attempt to ‘protect’ Betsy from a truth that she’d inevitably come to know anyway. That secrecy only serving to further strain their relationship.
Even in the times where she could understand why Lisa might have thought it would be for the best, it hurt, to feel like she couldn’t be trusted with the truth. To watch her mum try to deal with everything alone, try to shepherd the situation into something entirely within her control, without sparing a thought for what she might want.
But even once the initial anger had faded, slowly, that old pattern had began to emerge. She’d push, shirk responsibility, expecting Becky to cave. Waiting for that knowing smirk, the suggestion that they just do something fun instead, just this once.
And once more, and again.
The way Lisa would yell, exasperated, and they’d stand together, shrugging their shoulders, it’s not that big of a deal. Shunning her and shutting her out.
It felt good, to have someone so unabashedly on her side again. To have her frustrations validated and to feel like someone trusted her to have agency over her own life.
And sometimes she would feel it, this tiny prickling in the back of her head. The sense of regression, the guilt for making an irresponsible decision, for saying things Lisa didn’t deserve.
But she knows that Becky is a good mother, and a good wife, and she’s happy when she’s by her side. She trusts her, trusts that she knows what’s best for both of them, and so she brushes that unease aside.
Perhaps the first thing that struck her as strange was hearing Becky tell her how much she loved Lisa, how much she missed her, to see how much she seemed to want them to be together. But then to hear the way she spoke of her, like she was some helpless animal who couldn’t take care of herself, who needed Becky to keep her right.
How every word seemed to be belittling, demeaning, and sickeningly familiar.
It had never seemed that way before, but now that she’d gotten so used to the way Carla expressed her love — her gross drippy faces when she thought no one was looking, the constant presence of her compliments and gentle encouragement — there was now something so alien, so jarring about Becky’s.
And it shouldn’t have been strange. Because to Betsy, it was normal.
But she was starting to wonder if it was right.
She’d seen Lisa change so much, blossom perhaps, under Carla’s love. As much as she’d once been loathe to admit it. She’d become more open, less flighty, and above all, significantly happier. But now with Becky back, it was like Betsy was watching her mum wither all over again.
Worst of all, with it she could feel the tentative understanding they’d built start to fracture. The once insurmountable rift in their relationship that Carla had helped bridge is growing wider again, and she doesn’t know how to stop it.
And she can't understand it. It doesn’t make sense.
This should be a good thing. Shouldn’t it?
Their family is finally complete again after years of heartache. The person who had loved her and Lisa so fiercely that her absence had torn their lives apart — their missing piece — back in her rightful place.
This was everything they’d ever wanted, the thing that was supposed to make them whole.
So then why, now more than ever, did it felt like her family was falling apart?
She turns, walks up the stairs. Closing the door to her room behind her.
She doesn’t know what to do. She can't bear the idea of losing her mum again. Of there being an ocean between them after how long she's spent wishing she were still by her side.
She can't help but want to latch on to the promise of a new life for them in Spain. A fresh start, for her whole family.
But that something is still there, in the back of her head, eating away at her, asking if this is really such a good idea.
So she sits there, on her bed in the dark, and she remembers.
—
Betsy Swain is 6 years old, stomping her slipper-clad feet against the cool tile of the kitchen floor as she yells. “I don’t want to go! I’m not going!”
Her mum — Lisa — turns from where she's stood at the bench, making Betsy’s packed lunch. Her eyes flicking over the clock, a practiced, instinctual movement that even at her young age, Betsy already understands.
She’s using up her mother’s precious time.
“I know Bets, I know you don’t want to. But it’s important, ok? There’s nothing to be frightened of, he’s just going to check to make sure your teeth are healthy.” She crouches down to Betsy’s level, pinches her little cheek with a stiff, tired smile. “Someone’s got to make sure they’re in prime condition for the tooth fairy!”
But Betsy's frown doesn't crack, tears threatening to break from the corner of her eyes. “Don’t care!” She huffs, crossing her arms.
A weary sigh, Lisa’s eyes dart back to the clock. “Come on Betsy. If you don’t get them checked you’ll end up having to get fillings, and you don’t want that, do you?”
Her expression falters, weighing it up, she’s seen it on tv. Big scary drills and pointy needles. She doesn’t want to go, but it it’s to avoid that—
“Come on Lis, don’t frighten her! Betsy’s teeth are perfectly healthy, the tooth fairy told me herself!”
Betsy grins, turning towards her mother, her fears assuaged. She flashes her with her best pleading look, knows Becky’s always on her side, wouldn't ever make her go somewhere she so desperately fears.
Becky rests her hand on Betsy’s shoulder, gently pulling her away from Lisa’s grasp.
“Shouldn’t you be leaving anyway? Don’t worry about it, I’ll deal with it.”
Lisa springs back up, haphazardly closing Betsy’s lunchbox and gathering her things.
Becky smiles, squeezes her shoulder and winks conspiratorially just for Betsy to see, and instantly the tears dry up.
She knows already that today will be a good day.
Betsy had skipped along the corridor to the office when Becky had come to pick her up during school. She'd said little on the drive into town but Betsy could see her eyes sparkling with mischief.
She practically screeched with delight when they pulled up outside the cinema, and again when Becky bought her a slushie, sweets, and a bucket of popcorn as big as her head. All the things Lisa would never let her get.
At that thought, Lisa's earlier warning catches in her head, and she hesitates.
“Are you sure it’ll be ok? Mum said it was important for me to go to the dentist."
But Becky just laughs. “Darling, your mum worries far too much, you know that. Your teeth are absolutely fine." Takes Betsy's little hand in hers, "we deserve to have a fun afternoon, just me and you. What your mum doesn’t know can’t hurt her, eh?”
So she nods. Because Becky always knew how to make her happy, to turn the scary or miserable things fun. Always knew what was best.
In the end Lisa had found out months later, Betsy wailing, clutching her aching mouth. Looking away in shame when the dentist mentioned her missed appointment.
She doesn't yell, doesn't scold, just holds her hand tight, all the while Betsy cries out for her mum.
It wasn't until later that night, Betsy tucked away in her room with her ‘brave girl’ sticker, when the shouting began.
“I can’t believe this! You can’t even take her to her fucking dentist’s appointment, are you serious?”
“Oh get a grip Lisa. It’s just a filling, all kids get one at some point. You’re making a far bigger deal of this than it needs to be, get over yourself.”
"Becky, she said she'd mentioned to you multiple times that her tooth hurt. She was practically sobbing trying to eat her cereal this morning. Did you not think to do something about it? Or tell me? If I hadn't noticed and taken her today the damage could have been far worse!"
"Maybe instead of yelling at me you should ask yourself why she trusts me and not you. Shit! Maybe if you even bothered to be around for breakfast most days you'd have noticed it sooner!"
And Betsy — mouth still throbbing — pulls her blanket up high, covers her ears, and tries to fall asleep.
—
Betsy Swain is 11 years old, sitting outside on the lawn. It’s Becky’s birthday and they’re celebrating with a garden party despite the season.
It’s boring, she’s bored. Too many adult conversations and fancy snack foods. She feels off, out of place. She’s so used to being Becky’s shadow, her mini-me, her best friend, and it hurts, to be sat here alone, left out of the fun her mum is having.
She watches from afar as Becky finishes a conversation with some unknown family friend, draining her glass and heading back inside.
“What’re you drinking?” She asks Becky as she follows her into the kitchen.
“Rum and coke-“
“You wouldn’t like it.” Lisa finishes, coming through from the living room.
She’s been inside for ages. Betsy doesn’t understand why, but her mum always seems to hide away from this sort of thing. She doesn’t really seem to have friends, or want to spend time with any of Becky's.
She remembers asking about it once, and Becky had laughed. Told her that her mum wasn’t very good with people, but it was ok, because she had her to keep her right.
And Betsy had thought that Lisa must be very lucky, to have someone like Becky on her side.
“It’s a special occasion! She can have a little drink! Hang on-“ Becky roots around in the fridge, pulling out and swiftly opening a bottle of Smirnoff ice, holding it out to the girl.
Lisa wavers, then sighs “just one, I don’t want her getting sick.”
Becky scoffs, taking Lisa’s own glass and refilling it with a generous measure of something Betsy doesn’t recognise. “You need to chill out. She’s with us, she’ll be absolutely fine. Now go on, it’s not fair for you to hide in here all day. It's my birthday, can’t you at least try to make an effort with my friends for once?”
And so Betsy had drunk her ‘just one’ and another, and another. Bottles of sweet smelling liquid in bright colours, just enough until her head started to swim.
She wanders over to where her mother is sat with her friends, one of them offering her a glass of something that burns her nostrils as she breathes in. Her eyes flick to Becky, nervous, but her mum simply nods encouragingly.
She takes a sip, desperately trying not to pull a face, glowing as Becky’s friends titter in approval.
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree huh? In a couple years she’ll be drinking you under the table! You might as well keep that darling, I’m off to the loos anyway.”
Becky laughs, throwing her arms around her daughter and Betsy beams. Because she wants, more than anything, to be just like her mum.
She feels big, and important, and included.
But she looks at the glass in her hand, then up at Becky.
“Is this ok? I feel kinda weird. Plus mum said-“
“You’re alright Bets, I’m here, and I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you now, would I? And as for your mum,” she nods over to where Lisa stands, off in the corner of the garden engaged in a phone call — work, Betsy can safely assume. Just like always. “She’ll not even notice.”
And Betsy smiles, knowing she's safe with her. Back where she belongs, by her mum's side.
Except she wasn’t there at night, when Betsy's leant over the toilet, retching. She’d gone out with her friends, and so it's Lisa that holds her hair, strokes her back as she gags.
Her stomach still aches in the morning, when she wakes to the sound of raised voices.
“How much did you give her Rebecca? She’s just a kid! She was up half the night spewing.”
“Can we not? My head is pounding as it is. She’s fine isn’t she? And she barely had anything, it’s more likely that she just ate too much cake. Not that you’d know, considering you were barely paying attention to either of us all day! But sure, blame me, like always!”
And she runs to the toilet again.
—
Betsy Swain is 13, and she’s on the couch with Becky, another late night when Lisa’s not home.
“Mum,” she begins, though she thinks she’s already confident in the answer. “Chloe’s big sister is having a party at their house on Friday, can I go?”
“Is there going to be alcohol? Boys?”
Betsy fiddles nervously and Becky laughs. “You can tell me! I’m not the police.” She winks, “not to you anyways! And I’m certainly not going to tell your mother, I just want to know.”
“I’m not sure. But probably.” And then, “I told mum it was a sleepover.”
“I trust you Bets, you can handle yourself yeah? You’re a teenager now, you deserve to have some fun.”
Becky shifts, flicking off the tv and turning towards her.
“You know, when I was a kid, my parents were pretty rubbish, and they never let me do anything I wanted to do. So no matter what your mum thinks, I’ll never smother you like that, I don’t want us to end up like I am with them when you’re older.”
She nods, imagining Becky’s parents like Lisa. Distant and harsh and controlling.
That is what Lisa is like, right?
Even so, she thinks she must be so lucky to have a mum like Becky.
And she's excited, for her first house party.
But when Friday rolls around she finds herself feeling. . . nervous.
She had spoken with Chloe's sister and her friends earlier at school, something about the way they talked had made her feel uneasy, a little out of her depth. But she’d said nothing, not wanting to seem weird or childish in front of her new peers.
Plus, it's like Becky said: she's a teenager now, this stuff is normal.
Still, as she's grabbing her things, she almost wishes someone would stop her, tell her not to go. But Becky just grins, flashes a thumbs up, and whispers have fun as she walks out the door.
She doesn't pick up the phone, hours later when Betsy calls.
She's hiding in the bathroom, chest still heaving with the memory of a boy's hand grasping her arm, pulling her in. A boy far older than her, handing her another drink, telling her she was far more mature than the other girls her age.
Chloe's sister told her how lucky she was that he was interested in her, nudged her side and told them they could borrow the spare room if they wanted.
His smile had made her skin crawl.
She needs to get out, but she’s reaching voicemail, again and again.
And so with shaking hands, she phones Lisa.
She’s there within ten minutes.
She doesn’t make a scene — Betsy had begged her not to. She’s clearly angry, but when Betsy rushes out of the house she doesn’t say a word, just wraps her arms around her in a fierce hug.
And for a moment, Betsy feels ok.
Of course the lecture started once they got home. But Betsy's not paying attention. Because her mum is there, on the couch, doesn't even look up when they walk in.
“You didn’t pick up.”
Becky gives a sympathetic sort of smile, barely turned from her laptop.
“Sorry love, I had to nip out for work. Bit of an emergency.”
She’s been doing that a lot more often over the past couple of months. It makes Betsy bristle.
She’s already lost one of her mums to the endless call of her career; she can’t stand to lose the other.
“You knew?” Lisa asks, incredulous.
“Oh come on Lisa, she’s a teenager! Teenagers go to parties—“
“She’s only thirteen! I mean christ! The amount of alcohol in that house — though I’m certain it wasn’t just that — I should have had the whole thing shut down!"
"Oh yeah, bet you'd have loved the opportunity to make a few collars."
"Are you serious? Betsy was terrified! I dread to think what happened— what could have happened to her! She needed you and you were—"
Becky laughs, the sound harsh and hollow.
"Makes a change then, doesn't it love? Maybe if you were there for her a little more often she'd have actually told you where she was going. But you don't care about that, you don't care about her, all you want is another excuse to tell me what a terrible mother I am, don't you?"
And Betsy can't bear to listen anymore. She sits down on the floor and she cries, waiting for it all to stop.
—
She thinks now, of Spain. Of Becky's promises and Lisa's warnings. And for the first time, she hesitates. Feels a sensation she's rarely before associated with her mother: the creeping, insidious feeling of doubt.
Something is wrong, and she knows it.
She sees it in the way Lisa seems to shrink when Becky's in the room, the constant set of her jaw and deep bags beneath her eyes, the look of someone being ripped apart by the pull of past and present.
In the empty wine bottles Carla tries to hide, the long days at the factory, the way she flits about the house, unable to settle, like she's not certain it's still where she belongs.
And worse, she sees it in herself too. In the lies and the anger and the perfect little cruelties.
They're all falling backwards, reverting to type. And no one seems to be able to stop it.
The only one standing still is Becky.
The same as she ever was in life, but so different to how she was remembered in death.
And impossibly, agonizingly, Betsy is beginning to feel that perhaps Becky Swain has always just been a trick of the light.
Of their own grief.
Her casket wasn't empty, but it didn't matter.
Because the mum she'd missed, the parent she’d needed, the woman she’d idolised—
Maybe she'd never lived at all.