Traces of Eve

Chapter 1

ALICE | Now

There are always facts and there are lies. 

The fact is, It's the early part of March in the year 2019. The icy wind coming from the windows cuts through me as easily as a knife would. My teacher, Mrs. Andersen, has no clue she's my anchor back to this world. I'm slowly receding into a world of my own, one unlike this one where there are only illusions. A place I call lost at sea.

There are always facts and there are lies. 

I should bear the brunt of it, after all the teacher is always right, and the student is definitely always in the wrong. But here's another fact, everything she says is three sentences condensed into one and I cannot decipher if she's speaking gibberish or plain out English. It's a miracle she isn't my English teacher but my Biology teacher. She talks with the speed of a ticker-tape accelerating along a page, and that's not the only thing hindering my focus.

She is clothes that are too wide, too voluminous for her tissue paper-thin body and the sight of her induces worry in me. She is eyes that are bright and glistening in the afternoon rays. Shoes that are scuffed up and too uncomfortable for the school's grounds. 

She is hands and legs that are too scrawny sticking out of her puffed dress like grasshopper antennae. Her smile is too fake, too wide and rigidly set, and here it is, the lie. Mrs Andersen fakes enthusiasm as easily as Eve did in the past when we lived with Mama. Who is she fooling? There's something definitely eating her up.

But I have my own issues so I banish my concerns, though she's akin to my favourite teacher. I try to ignore the way my hands are shaking even when I clasp them together. They shake vigorously, not from the cold but from something I can't fathom. I wish it was the harmattan weather causing me such distress, but it's not. 

It's those special days I have when I don't quite remember something like whether I laid my bed before leaving the dorm for morning inspection or whether I drank the tea offered to me on tea days.

On and on my thoughts are rampant, however, this day it's irksome—I can't remember what I did last weekend. Did I enjoy it? God, I hope I did, it's one of my free days, surely, I should have. And most importantly, Saturday was Eve's birthday.

Whenever I can't grasp hold of a certain memory, no matter how many times I try and realize it's futile, I think of Mama and her fingers. They were cold, bony and veiny as they dug into my scalp and then there was the banging of my head against the wall. 

It never sounded as loud as the pounding of a piston against the mortar, no it was softer and vaguely silent so Eve never heard. The way she'd whisper into my ear labelling me as a demon child. I will always take comfort in knowing she's gone now. Missing.

And then I recall the way Eve and I trod carefully around her. The lies we told one another—that I was safe. You're safe, Alice. A little more time and you'll be safe. She lied. Sometimes I think she always lies to me.

"Okay, class, clear your desk of every material. I only want to see your pen, pencil, ruler and your eraser," Mrs Andersen says and immediately we all comply.

Disoriented, I place my textbook and notebook on the ground, and look at nothing but my desk because if I continue staring at her I'll see the stack of white A4 sheets making their way around the class. Oh God, I'm ready to puke. I'm not mentally prepared for her Monday morning test. I just can't stomach it, not right now. 

I suddenly wonder if I've learnt for it. The only way I prepare for these kinds of tests is by praying and it's not because I attend a christian school. From birth, it was drilling into us, Eve and I, that it was a necessity to always do so and mine was in ways much horrid than hers. 

Ewura esi, a sweet very short girl thrusts a one-page thin paper in my face.

"Here," she says.

I smile at her fondly and take it from her. I'm relieved that it doesn't tremble in my hand. I chide myself to focus and when we are given permission to start work, my eyes skim through the questions- there are fewer at the back than in the front.

When I'm finally done writing my name my teacher calls me out, jarring the silence plaguing the room and liquifying my insides. Lifting my head, I see Mrs Andersen looking directly at me. Her lovely dark eyes stare intently at me and once again her lips are pursed but this time even thinner to the point of almost vanishing. Is she thinking again? Did I do something wrong? Perhaps she saw me glance sideways, thinking I was cheating. 

"Yes?" I ask.

"Can you come here please?" I'm suddenly grateful that we are writing a test, I don't appreciate eyes on me and whatnot. It's too distracting.

I nod and while I walk up to her, I try to conceal my hands behind my back. She places her small hand on my shoulder and looks down at me.

"Follow me this way." She gestures to the door. I'm glad her hand is on my shoulder even if the pressure is light, it keeps me from falling on my knees and crying from sheer uncontrolled fear.

A man is standing outside. He's an inch shorter than her, with a built body shaped by his tight sleeved shirt and tight trousers. He's very light coloured, unlike me-I'm dark, too dark. I recognise him a fraction of a second later, his name's Kujoe. He's the school's administrator.

I look up at my teacher. "Have I done something wrong?"

It's Kujoe who responds. He chuckles softly at my inquiry even though his expression was as equally grave as Mrs Andersen a second ago.

"The principal just wants to have a word with you."

My teacher rubs my back lightly and looks down at me once more. Her eyes tell me it's okay that I shouldn't be afraid then I notice how motherly she's looking at me with concern, with worry nothing like the usual look of disappointment for wasted potential. And then it hits me, she's pregnant. I wouldn't have known because she always wears those large let-the- wind -blow-me dresses, however, I'd recognise that look anywhere- it's the same one my Aunt Tala gives me every time I hurt myself.

I nod again like an agama lizard because that's all I'm capable of now. The feeling of disdain causes my body to tremble as I follow Kujoe to the principal's office. The walk doesn't take long, my class is a floor above the office—we just take two flight of wide-spaced stairs and Kujoe points to a door at the far end of a corridor.

"She's waiting for you," He says and takes his seat behind his dark wooden desk.

When I enter, I greet, "Good morning, Miss Whitby."

I hate that my voice sounds like the croaking of a toad and that I'm instantly crippling under her intense eyes. She's a short elderly woman, with a silver mass of grey hair shaping a petite face and soft skin I could almost mistaken as silk whenever I touched her but those are rare moments. Her eyes are an open window to hidden wisdom and knowledge. She knows everyone in the school, even me, I hardly come down here-I have no intention to. I can narrow down our encounters to two visits.

"Good morning, Alice. Please have a seat." She doesn't smile and I don't think she even blinks. I sit down almost immediately.

"How was your weekend?" It should be a simple question, however, in my case, it's the most complicated question in this moment.

I really shouldn't lie. "It was good, " I say, and even manage a weak smile. If I had the ability to recall each detail, I would be honest.

She instantly frowns and I feel my face crumble. "Good?"

I nod, "Yes... good," I say as if testing the word. "Why do you ask?'

I can't decipher why she's looking at me wistfully, why her back is ramrod straight, why she looks conflicted.

"Alice, I got a distress phone call from your Aunt Tala this morning. She says your sister has been in an awful accident. She didn't make it. I'm sorry she insisted I inform you."

"Eve?" I choke out.

Then, like a wave of torrents, it hits me literally knocking the air out of me. I howl in pain from the agonizing, tingling migraine. Cold callussed palms rub my back frantically in wide long circles to soothe the pain, but I know nothing will save for sleep. Sleep always helps. I close my eyes, welcoming the wash of pain and then the memory surfaces. I see my sister twirling around in her university room smiling her wide smile with perfect straight whitened teeth peeking out at me, mocking me for having slightly discoloured ones. She's wearing her birthday dress, the one our Aunt had made for her. She's talking slowly, so sluggishly I can't understand her words.

"No...no, Eve's alive!" I pull away from Miss Whitsby and push up on my feet. How I've done this is lost on me. "She has to be. I saw her during the weekend."

My principal looks at me sadly. "When was this?" she asks, holding me at arm's length.

The memory comes rushing to me and to suppress it, I shake my head slightly trying to refocus my attention.

"Saturday. I...I... I had a free day. We had lunch and afterwards, we went to her room at the university."

I'm blabbering and when perplexion contorts her features, I know I'm not making sense. This helps me, talking about what I remember, and sometimes I write it down in my journal.

"I called her Sunday night. She was okay. She can't possibly be gone."

The principal lowers me gently back to my seat and grasps my shaking hands into her delicately wrinkled ones and crouches down in front of me. Her eyes are dispirited and remorseful.

"Alice, I don't know how to say this, but Evelyn died on Sunday night."