“They’ve told me I might be suspended from work,” he says, not looking away from the window. “That’s why I was drinking.”
“What?”
“The mistake. They’re calling it negligence, David’s calling it negligence. Fucking David.”
“Oh, God, Patrick, I’m…” Sorry? Am I? Does that excuse what he did? Stress. Worry. Out-of-character drinking. A slip. A lapse. But it’s Mia. Mia.
“How is she?” he asks.
“Tired. Upset. Patrick—”
“Don’t. Don’t say anything. I know what I did.” He looks down at his hands as if they don’t belong to him. “I lost it, I totally lost it, and I don’t know why.”
I don’t know what to say to him. I can’t tell him it’s okay and it’ll be fine and that we’ll all forget about it and sweep it under the carpet because I keep seeing him going toward her with his hands curling into fists. I keep imagining what might have happened if I hadn’t been there, and hearing the rage in his voice (shut your dirty mouth) and thinking, That’s Mia he’s saying it to, Mia, his little princess, Mia, our baby girl. Bad things happen, Tom said. Oh, God, oh, God.
I don’t recognize him, this raging Patrick. He’s not the man I married, the laughing man who once danced me around the room and promised me the world.
He looks at me, his eyes bloodshot, his hair a mess. “I’ll never do it again, lose my temper like that. You know that, don’t you? I’ll never do it again.”
My heart pounds and I feel faint as I think of Anna telling me about her own abusive boyfriend. It’s an echo. His words are an echo. I feel as if I’m standing on the edge of a cliff and the only way is down.
CHAPTER 24
“Mia? Can we talk?”
She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, reading a book, school uniform on with the tie loose around her neck. She doesn’t answer, but I step into the room anyway, pulling the door shut behind me. The sun is shining and she’s opened her window. I can hear the seagulls and a dog barking in the distance. I walk over and look out: no families on the beach yet, it’s too early, but lots of people walking their dogs.
A day like today makes me almost able to picture it, the life Patrick said we could have here. It’s hard to equate this with last night, Patrick’s white-knuckled anger, the fear and panic, but when I look at Mia, I can see the shadow of it in her face, the way she’s hunched over, defeated.
She puts down her book and I see she’s rereading Little Women, taking comfort in her childhood favorite. Bunny’s on the floor, but I bet he was on the bed with her last night. I feel a sudden longing to do the same, to go to Vanity Fair with Meg, travel to Europe with Amy, fall in love with Laurie, anything but face what our life has become.
“Dad’s already been in,” she says. “He came in last night to say sorry.”
Last night? We went to bed at the same time, so he must have waited until I’d fallen asleep before coming in to see Mia.
Mia looks at me. “What’s going on with him, Mum? First he goes after at Joe, then me. It’s not… it’s not like him. He’s not the same.”
I take her hand. “Don’t worry. This will get sorted. He’s under a lot of pressure at work and with the stress of the move…” I’m making excuses to my own daughter now. “Maybe you and Joe should have some time away.”
She pulls her hand out of mine. “No—don’t send me away. I shouldn’t have sneaked out. God, it’s not like he hit me or anything, is it?”
“Mia, I just think—”
“I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Dad said sorry and we’re fine now, so we don’t need to talk about it anymore.”
She’s got that frown, the one that’s all him. She’s had it since she was a toddler, when it would herald the start of an epic tantrum. I don’t want to fight today: she may say she’s fine, but I see fragile, not just in the hunched shoulders and pale cheeks but in the book, the stuffed toy, the comfort blankets of childhood she’s tucked in around her.
“Okay,” I say, putting my hand over hers. “No more talk of last night. Not now. Unless…”
“What?” Wary eyes to go with the frown.
“Unless you want to talk about who you were out with.” I make it light, a mum-and-daughter gossip, not an interrogation.
She opens her mouth and closes it again. She doesn’t pull her hand away, but she’s tensed it, scrunching up the quilt in her fist.
“I remember, when I was your age, sneaking out to meet a boyfriend,” I say. “His name was Daniel and he was beautiful. He was the year above me, already learning to drive.”
Mia pulls her hand away. “It’s not a stupid playground romance.”
“I know—that wasn’t what I meant. I only wanted you to know I understand.”
She shakes her head. “No, you don’t. This is different.”
“How?”
“He’s not just some boy from school. He’s older.”
My turn to frown. “How old?”
“God, I don’t know. I haven’t asked for his bloody date of birth. Seven, eight years older?”
“That’s too old.” I was assuming he was from her school. I was thinking… What was I thinking? That he could come around for tea in his school uniform and we’d play happy family and this would all go away?
“Doesn’t matter anyway. I got it wrong,” she says. “He was so different—older and working and wearing a suit. He asked me to dance and I thought…”
I freeze, forgetting to breathe. I’m not seeing Mia dancing with a man in a suit, I’m seeing a younger me and Patrick.
“I thought he would love me,” Mia says. “I thought he would love me if I said yes. I wanted him to be my boyfriend. I wanted him to be our fucking hero—to save us. He kept asking and I thought he’d dump me if I didn’t,” she says, tears soaking my sweater as she buries her face in my shoulder. “So I had sex with him and he just walked away after. He didn’t even wait while I got dressed again.”
“Oh, Mia,” I say. “I’m so sorry.” I am. I’m so, so sorry for her, but is it better or worse that he was such a bastard? That he walked away, that he wasn’t another Patrick, sweeping her off her feet into a future life like mine? “I’m sorry we’ve been so distracted that we’ve missed all this. Your father, and the house…”
Mia pulls away, losing strands of hair that tangle in my fingers. “It’s not Dad’s fault—it’s yours. All your bloody fault. None of this would have happened if we hadn’t moved to this shithole.”
I wince at the loathing and disgust in her voice.
“I tried, Joe tried, we all bloody tried to talk to you, but you’re always asleep. Even when your eyes are open, you’re not really awake. And Dad… Dad’s got no time for anybody else anymore.”
I shift along the bed—the moment for mother-daughter closeness is over: I can tell by the hunch of her shoulders, the way she wraps her arms around her body. I thought I’d be better now that I’ve stopped taking the pills, but how much has changed? I’ve been here to listen, I have, but somewhere along the line, I think my children have gotten too used to me being half-present. They’ve lost faith in my ability to be there for them.
Her head flies up as we hear the creak of footsteps on the stairs. “Don’t tell Dad,” she says, her face full of panic. “Please don’t tell him, Mum—he’d go mental.”
I jump up as the door opens, standing in front of Mia as she wipes her eyes and smooths her hair.
“What’s going on?” Patrick asks, looking past me at Mia.
I glance back as well. Mia’s shaking, looking at me.
“Nothing,” I say. “It’s me. It’s my fault. I was nagging Mia to tidy her room and we had a fight. That’s all. It’s nothing.”
“You’re pale,” Patrick says to Mia, ignoring me.
“I have a headache,” she mutters.
“Come on,” I say, touching Patrick’s arm. “Let’s leave her to get ready for school.”
“Sarah?” Patrick says, at the top of the s
tairs. He looks at me for a moment, then shakes his head. “It’s fine. It’s nothing.”
I can’t find any Tylenol in the cupboard above the bathroom sink, but I don’t think Mia really has a headache anyway. I have my own ache, a lump in my throat as I mourn with her—not in a wanting-my-daughter-to-remain-a-little-girl-forever way, but in wishing her first time was about love, not drunken sex because she wanted to be liked. But my first time had been about love, hadn’t it? I swallow the lump in my throat and think again: Is it better or worse this way?
My hand brushes against a bottle shoved right at the back of the cupboard and I pull it out, sinking to the floor as I look at it. It’s the sleeping pills from the old house. When I took the pills, the bottle was at least three-quarters full. There are now only four left.
I lean back against the tub, staring at the bottle. I can taste the pills on my tongue. And I remember my dream, the hand pushing pills into my mouth… And after the hospital, I’ve been so tired. All the time. I’ve had days since we got here I barely remember. I drifted along, oblivious to so many things, and I thought it was the pills I buried.
But what if it wasn’t? Since I buried them, have I really felt that much better? You’re always asleep, Mia said. Even when your eyes are open, you’re not really awake.
I return the bottle to the cupboard, pushing it right to the back.
Getting up, I stamp away pins and needles and go across to Mia’s room. She’s sitting at her dressing table, reapplying makeup, her hair smooth again, all traces of tears gone.
“Thanks,” she says, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “For not telling Dad.”
I open my mouth to answer, but she shakes her head. “Don’t, Mum, please. Forget what I said, forget it all. I don’t want some awkward mum-and-daughter chat about the bloody birds and bees. It’s a bit late for that.” She smudges more eyeliner under her eyes. “Go back to normal zombie-Mum mode and we’ll all just pretend this didn’t happen. That it’s just a bad bloody dream.”
“She’s gone to school?”
I spin around at the sound of Joe’s voice. He’s standing in his doorway, the room behind him dark, curtains drawn over the sun.
“I think some normality is a good idea.”
“A good idea to get out of the house—get away from Dad, you mean. You can’t seriously think they’ll both come home and it’ll be like nothing happened?”
Is that what I’m hoping? No. We’ve gone past that.
“All Mia ever wants is to be adored. That’s what the boyfriend’s about.”
“I love her—I love both of you. She knows that,” I say.
“Sorry, Mum, but Mia’s never chasing you for approval. It’s not your neglect sending her off the rails.” Joe sighs and retreats a step back into his room. “It’s not just Mia who’s changed since we moved here.”
“Joe, please tell me what’s going on with her.”
He gives me that half-smile. “Mia thinks there are ghosts here,” he says.
I don’t believe in ghosts, but here… I think of the shadow stains on the walls, the creaking floorboards, the writing scribbled on the cellar walls. “She’s looking for someone to save her from the ghosts?”
His smile fades. “I don’t think it’s the ghosts that are scaring her.”
“What can I do, Joe? For Mia—for you?”
“You could take us away.”
“Move again? The house will never sell. And I’ve tried talking to your dad, but he won’t—”
“I didn’t mean all of us. I meant you, me, and Mia.” He says it so quietly, but his words land like a shout. I remember Patrick’s clenched fists, the look on his face, and I think that’s what Joe’s seeing too.
He goes into his room and comes back with a sketchbook. “I have sketchbooks for all of you,” he says. “This one is Dad’s. Look,” he says, opening it to the first page.
It’s Patrick, outside the old house, dressed for work. He’s all lines and angles, from the razor-sharp crease in his pinstriped leg to the angle of his jaw. Hair combed back, hand on his briefcase, face unsmiling, he’s remote but calm.
Joe flicks through the pages, faster and faster so it’s like one of those flip books, pencil-drawn Patrick coming to life, about to jump out of the book. But I don’t want this Patrick to come alive, because the way Joe’s drawn him… As the pages flick past, as time passes, Patrick’s angles blur, his shoulders hunch, his hair rumples, and his face changes from calm to smudged and snarling. Still all angles, but thick drawn, sharp enough to cut. The Patrick in the last drawing is a storm unleashed. It’s Patrick last night, a maelstrom of swirling rage, broken apart so you can only just see a figure in the lines and swirls, lines drawn so heavily the pencil has actually broken through the paper, as if he really is trying to break out.
Talk to me, I used to say to Joe, handing him a pencil and paper. Talk to me. I step back, away from the book, my hands shaking. This isn’t talking; this is a roar.
“Do you see?” Joe says, holding the book toward me. “Do you see now?”
I take another step back. This house… He told me it was his dream house, his childhood Paradise. This is where everything was going to be right and perfect. This is where everything has gone so wrong. The decision isn’t really a decision anymore. We have to leave.
Joe goes back into his room and pulls the curtains open. It seems brighter, and when I go to the window I see the tree is gone.
“He did it last night,” Joe says. “I woke up—I don’t know what time it was, but I heard a noise. He was out there in his fucking pajamas sawing the tree down.”
There are branches all over the scrubby grass and littered among the weeds. Up close, I see the tree isn’t completely gone, just the branches that reached up to Joe’s window. It looks lopsided now, lightning-blasted. I glance down at Joe’s sketchbook, open at the page where Patrick is the storm.
Last night, after everything that happened, I slept. I didn’t hear him get up to go to Mia; I didn’t even hear him sawing a bloody tree down in the garden. Patrick brought me a cup of tea, made so strong it was bitter, and sat with me while I drank it, apologizing over and over again. That was what I’d gone to sleep on, a lullaby of I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again…
“You have to get us out of here, Mum,” Joe says again as I go back toward my room. I pick up my mug from last night and stare down into it. All those cups of tea he’s been making me… It’s not my future in tea leaves I’m looking for, though; it’s white residue from crushed sleeping pills.
CHAPTER 25
When Patrick comes home, I can see the evidence of his nighttime activities. His eyes are bloodshot, black shadows underneath. His hair is rumpled and he’s wearing yesterday’s suit and shirt. His hands are scratched and bruised, black under the nails. I can’t stop thinking about Joe’s drawings.
“Have you been at work? Have they said anything more about…”
He dumps a shopping bag on the table and pushes his hands through his hair. “I’ve been shopping. I had some things I needed to get. I’m officially suspended from work. David called this morning.”
He shakes his head at the look on my face.
“Don’t worry, Sarah. The suspension is with full pay. We’ll only be in trouble if they decide to fire me.”
But aren’t we already in trouble? It isn’t the thought of Patrick losing his job that’s making me panic; it’s the thought of what it’ll do to him if he loses the house. And if I leave, he loses us as well. His family and his house.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it, checking that Patrick hasn’t heard. It’s going to be Tom Evans again. He’s called five times today and I’ve declined all the calls, trying to stem the rising panic at what I’ve let—what I’ve invited—into our lives. I know it’s childish to avoid the calls. I have to face it, stop hiding. I shake my head. I always do this—eyes tight shut, hands over my ears, hoping it will all go away if I just pretend it isn’t happ
ening. I can’t do that anymore.
I hunch over the stove, stirring a pot of pasta. “Are you hungry?” I ask. “I can do dinner early.”
I sense him standing behind me and have to force myself not to tense. I can’t help but jump when he puts his hands on my shoulders and the wooden spoon drops into the pot, splashing me with drops of boiling water.
“No rush,” he says. “I have things to do first.” He steps away and starts rummaging through a drawer. “Have you seen the spirit level? And my drill?”
I pick up the spoon again, wipe my stinging hand on my jeans. “I think they’re in your toolbox.”
“And where’s that?”
“Didn’t you put it down in the cellar?”
He stops rummaging and goes still. He closes the drawer softly and glances at me. “I’m not hungry,” he says, picking up the bag, which clinks as if there are bottles in it. “I have things to do. Don’t wait for me.”
Mia refuses to come down, so Joe and I sit in silence at the table, not eating our pasta. I don’t know what Patrick’s doing, but I can hear the drill going. I grit my teeth as the noise bites into my skull and settles as a throbbing headache. I’ve been sluggish all day, my eyes gritty. I feel hungover, even though I didn’t drink last night.
I was going to joke about it, say it lightly when Patrick got home. I even rehearsed it, practiced my smile in the mirror, Hey, what did you put in my tea last night? I slept like a log… But the Patrick I smiled at in the mirror was calm, buttoned-up Patrick, not the Patrick caught in the storm who came home looking for a toolkit in the cellar. If I said it to that Patrick, it would be an accusation, not a half-joke, a casual comment.
Joe gets up and puts his plate in the sink, most of the pasta scraped into the bin. He stops on his way back to the table, staring at something in the hall.
“Have you seen this?” he says.
I get up to join him and go cold. Patrick has fitted a new lock to the cellar door, a big silver one with a padlock. We jump as something crashes to the floor upstairs and the light starts swinging.
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