Free Forget Me Not by Luana Lewis

uncomfortable, or embarrassed, but I can’t be sure because Cleo often looks this way. She has never been comfortable in her own skin. She runs her fingertips along her forehead, back and forth along her hairline.
    ‘You were so kind to me, Rose,’ she says. ‘I’ll never forget how many meals I ate at your place, how many hours I spent at your flat. You were so strong and you worked so hard. You were my role model growing up. I used to pretend that you and Vivien were my real family.’
    ‘That’s generous of you, Cleo. But I’m sure I could have done more for you. You were always such a timid little thing. You didn’t talk much, but whenever you did say something it was always very thoughtful and very grown up. And you were so often wandering around the estate or up and down the high street, with no one watching over you. Maybe I should have contacted someone – the school or social services. But I didn’t know if it would end up making things worse for you, getting them involved.’
    ‘No, you shouldn’t have,’ Cleo says. ‘And I wasn’t the only one with no one to watch over me. You had to work such long hours. Viv and I looked out for each other.’
    In that moment, I wonder if she’s merely insensitive, or if she’s deliberately trying to rub salt in my wounds. Then I realize she’s simply being honest. It’s not Cleo I’m angry with so much as myself.
    ‘I’ve never met anyone like Vivien,’ Cleo says. ‘You never knew what she’d do or say next. Did you ever find out what she’d been doing with the money you gave her to buy food, on the days when you were working late?’
    Again the sense of unease returns. It hurts, to be confronted with the reality that Cleo knew my daughter better than I did.
    ‘No, I had no idea she was doing anything other than buying food.’ My tone is sharp, but Cleo doesn’t notice.
    ‘You always gave Vivien more than she needed. She’d give me half and I’d buy myself a pizza. I always used to order the same thing, Margherita with extra chicken. I can still remember the smell of the melted cheese and the wood-fired stove. I was so starving after school, and she must have been too. But Vivien never ate a thing. Even in the pizza place, with that smell, she’d never change her mind. And then I’d offer her half of whatever I had, and she’d refuse to take it.’
    I don’t look her in the eyes. I stare out of the window at the failing light. The colours in the park are muted, everything blends into one grey palette.
    ‘So what did she do with the money?’ I say.
    ‘She’d save up and then buy herself something she knew you wouldn’t let her have. I remember one time she bought this leopard-print jumper.’ Cleo laughs. ‘She was very secretive when she was a teenager. I don’t think you had any idea what she got up to.’
    I don’t want to hear about the way Vivien deprived herself, about her loneliness, or her propensity for deception. There are things I don’t want to know, knowledge I would prefer to be spared. But this is no less than I deserve.
    ‘I got you a piece of lemon drizzle cake,’ Cleo says, pointing at my plate. ‘Or do you have Vivien’s iron will when it comes to boycotting white flour and sugar?’
    Again, this feels like a dig. I don’t respond. I break off a small corner of the cake with my teaspoon and taste it. It’s bland and dry. I cut off a few more small pieces but I end up leaving them scattered around the paper plate. Cleo has nearly finished hers, but I have no appetite.
    ‘Do you remember how Vivien let me tag along with her to the eisteddfods? I was her personal valet.’
    I smile now, an easier smile. ‘Yes, I do.’
    Cleo and I share many of my daughter’s childhood memories and this one brings with it a rush of pride. I see Vivien, standing on stage, smiling from ear to ear, her hair scraped back into a bun, with a winner’s sash draped across her leotard and flowers in her arms. And poor Cleo, in her