by Beth O'Leary
Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe if it’s true I can just forgive him and we can go back to how we were before. I’ve had a crush on Jackson, haven’t I? It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean I have to stop being Ethan’s Leena.
But even as I think it, I know I’m wrong. If Ethan’s — if he’s—with Ceci—
“Jeez, Leena honey, stop, if you keep crying like this you’ll run out of water,” Fitz says, pulling me in tighter against him. “Talk to me. What’s happened?”
“I can’t talk about it,” I manage. “I can’t. Please. Distract me.”
Fitz sighs. “No, Leena, don’t do that. Let’s talk about it, come on. Has Ethan done something bad?”
“I can’t,” I tell him, more firmly this time, pulling away. I wipe my face on my sleeve; my breath is coming in quiet gasps even now the tears are stopping, and I try to steady my breathing as best I can. “Is that my laptop?” I say, spotting it on the coffee table under a heap of Martha’s old interior design magazines.
“Yeah,” Fitz says, in a tone that says, I’m humoring your need to change the subject, but don’t think I’m done. “How does it feel to be reunited? I could not live two months without mine. Or a smartphone.”
Shit, my phone. I never got to swap back with Grandma. I shake my head—I don’t have the energy to worry about that right now. I pull the laptop onto my knees, the weight of it reassuring and familiar.
“How about I make you a smoothie?” Fitz says, stroking my hair.
I sniff, scrubbing my cheeks dry. “Will it be brown?”
“Invariably, yes. I have not cracked that in your absence. They still always come out brown. Even when everything I put in is green.”
That’s somehow quite reassuring. At least something hasn’t changed. “Then no thanks. Just a tea.”
I know it’s a bad idea, but I need to look at Ethan’s Facebook. He’s coming over, but not for an hour, and I just need to reassure myself that … that … I don’t know, that he’s still my Ethan. And maybe that there aren’t any pictures of him with Ceci.
I open the laptop. The chat page on Grandma’s dating site is open on the screen.
OldCountryBoy says: Hi, Eileen. I just wanted to check whether you have had a chance to send me the money? I’m raring to go on the website! xxxxx
“Shit,” I mutter. The page has timed out; I log in again after a few false starts, trying to remember the username and password I set up for Grandma.
“Isn’t that like … identity fraud?” Fitz says as he places a cup of tea beside me.
“I’m Eileen Cotton, aren’t I?” I tell him, scrolling back through her messages, skim-reading as I go. Shit. I should have warned Grandma about catfishing, I should never have just let her loose on this website—what was I thinking?
I reach for my phone; I only notice it’s already ringing when it buzzes as my hand closes around it. It’s Grandma calling.
“Grandma, did you transfer money to a man you met on the Internet?” I say as I pick up. My heart is beating fast.
“What? Leena, Leena—you need to get back here. Get back to Hamleigh.”
“What’s going on? Grandma, slow down.” I scrabble to my feet, pushing my laptop onto the floor. I haven’t heard that tone in my grandmother’s voice since Carla was ill, and it makes me feel instantly sick.
“It’s Marian. She’s nowhere.”
“She’s what?”
“She’s not answering the door, and she’s not anywhere in the village and nobody has seen her. It’s just like the last time, Leena, she must be in there but she’s not letting me in, and I can’t find my key or the spare anywhere to get in and check she’s … what if she hurts herself in there all alone?”
Right, step one: keep Grandma calm.
“Grandma, slow down. Mum’s not going to hurt herself.”
I drag my laptop back onto my knees again.
Step two: check trains. Because I have just remembered I have both sets of keys to Mum’s house in my purse.
“OK, I’ll be there by seven, with the keys,” I say. “I’m so sorry for taking them with me. Are you sure Mum’s not just gone for a swim in Daredale or something?”
“I rang the pool,” Grandma says. She sounds on the edge of tears. “They said she’d not been since last week.”
Step three: keep myself calm. Mum was doing really, really well when I left her, the antidepressants were helping, we did so much talking about Carla, it all felt so much healthier. I’m sure there’s a totally reasonable explanation for all this.
But … the doubt’s creeping in. After all, I underestimated how bad she was last time around, didn’t I? I didn’t even know about these depressive episodes until Grandma told me.
What if she really is in there, alone? Did I say something awful at May Day, when she walked me home drunk? Should I have done more to support her these last two months, like Grandma said from the start? I wish I was still there, I wish I’d left at least one bloody key, if she really is locked in that house having some kind of breakdown and there’s nothing I can do, and not enough time and—
No, come on. Step four: recognize how much time you have, and how much you can do in that time. I remember a change-management seminar where the speaker told us that the doctors who handle real, every-second-counts emergencies move more slowly than doctors in any other department. They know the true capacity of a minute, just how much you can fit into it, and how much more fits in when you’re calm.
“It’s all right, Grandma. We’ll talk it all through when I get there. Just stay at the house and keep knocking in case she is in there. And if you hear anything that makes you think she might be in danger, you go and get Dr. Piotr, OK?”
“OK,” Grandma says, voice quivering.
I swallow. “Right. Grandma, this man, did you send him a bank transfer?”
“A check. Why are you asking all this, Leena? Did you—why does this matter, did you not hear what I said? Marian’s not coping again, she’s gone, or she’s hiding, she won’t let me in, she—”
“I know. But I have twenty minutes in which I can do nothing about that. And I can use that time to stop you from getting scammed. You concentrate on Mum, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“What do you mean ‘scammed’?”
“I’ll explain later,” I say shortly, and hang up. Grandma’s bank’s phone number is up on my laptop screen.
“Hello, there,” I say, when someone answers. “My name is Eileen Cotton, account number 4599871. I’d like to cancel a check.”
“That’s fine. I just need to go through a few security questions first before we can authorize that. What’s your date of birth, please?”
“Eighteenth of October, 1939,” I say, with as much confidence as I can muster.
Fitz walks back in with our drinks. “Now that is definitely identity fraud,” he says.
* * *
I am traveling north, at last. Across the aisle of the train a young family is playing Scrabble—I feel a bitter pang of nostalgia for the time when my family looked like that, happy in the ignorance of everything to come.
My legs jitter; I’m itching to run, but I’m trapped here on this train, crawling my way up to Yorkshire a hundred times more slowly than I want to be.
Breathe in, slow. Out, slow. OK. Yes, I’m stuck on this train, but that means I have two hours to get my head around this. Let’s aim to reach calmness by Grantham. Mum is OK. Mum is OK. Mum is OK.
A new email appears in my inbox; my laptop is open in front of me, more out of habit than the need to do anything with it. Rebecca wants me to come in for a coffee on Friday to talk about my return to work. Ceci is copied in on the email, and I flinch when I see her name, even though I don’t believe Grandma, of course I don’t.
Shit, hang on. Ethan. I haven’t told him I’ve left London.
I send him a quick message.
I’ve left—back to Hamleigh again—I’ll tell you everything later xx
His reply comes almost instantly.
Leena? What’s going on? Are you back on this phone?
And then, a moment later:
Can’t we talk?
I respond straight away.
I can’t talk now, I’m on the train, I have to go back to Hamleigh, I’m sorry. I can’t go into it now—it’s about my mum. xx
He replies.
Why did you text Ceci like that? I thought you said you believed me.
I go cold.
I didn’t tex …
I delete the words and pause. My heart suddenly feels very high in my chest, as though it’s sitting at the bottom of my throat and the air can’t get past; my breathing is shallow.
I open my message thread to Grandma. We haven’t texted much at all these last few weeks. I hadn’t even realized how little we’d spoken.
Grandma, did you text Ceci from my phone?
I wait. The train pulls in to Wakefield; the family next to me gets off and is replaced by an elderly couple who read their newspapers in amicable silence. Everyone moves perfectly normally, turning sideways to pass down the aisle, lifting their arms to take their suitcases from the overhead rack, but I feel as if I’m on a film set. All these people are extras, and someone is about to yell Cut.
A reply from Grandma.
I’m sorry, Leena. I wanted you to see proof. I know it will hurt, but it will hurt more later, if you don’t find out now.
I gulp in air, a rasping ragged noise that makes everyone in the carriage stare my way. I stumble out from behind the table and into the vestibule, then look down at my phone again through blurry eyes, and type as best I can.
Send me what she said to you—I need to see.
The reply takes forever to come. I can imagine Grandma trying to work out how to forward a text on my phone, and I’m seconds away from sending her instructions before she finally responds with Ceci’s message typed out.
Leena, I’m so sorry. I never planned for this to happen. All I can say is that it’s been like a kind of madness. I can’t stop myself when it comes to Ethan.
Another of those ragged gasps. It takes me a moment to realize it came from my mouth.
I know you must be heartbroken. After the first time I told him never again, but—well, I don’t want to make excuses. Cx
That’s all she’s doing, of course. Ugh, that Cx at the end of the message, as if we’re discussing weekend plans—God, I hate her, I hate hate hate her, I can taste the hate in my mouth, I can feel it clutching in my gut. I suddenly understand why men in films punch walls when they’re angry. It’s only cowardice and fear of pain that stops me. Instead I press the old brick of a phone into the palm of my left hand until it hurts—not as much as a split knuckle, but enough. My breathing finally starts to slow.
When I turn the phone over again my palm is almost purple-red, and there’s a new message from Ethan.
Leena? Talk to me.
I sink down to sit on the floor, the carpet scratching my ankles. I wait for the emotion to hit again, a fresh wave, but it doesn’t come. Instead there is a strange sort of stillness, a distance, as if I’m watching someone else find out the man they love has hurt them in the very worst way.
I gave him so much. I showed my rawest, weakest self to that man. I trusted him like I have never trusted anyone but family.
I just can’t believe … I can’t think of Ethan as … I gulp in air, my hands and feet beginning to tingle. I was so sure of him. I was so sure.
I don’t hate Ceci—that wasn’t hate. This is hate.
34
Eileen
I know as soon as I see her that Leena knows the truth about Ethan. She looks exhausted, bowed-down under the weight of it.
I can’t help but think of the day when Wade left me. He was a good-for-nothing waste of space and I’d have kicked him out years ago if I’d had any sense, but when he left, just at first, the humiliation had hurt so keenly. That’s what I’d felt: not anger, but shame.
“Leena, I’m so sorry.”
She leans in to kiss me on the cheek, but her eyes are on Marian’s front door behind me, and the key is in her hand. We both pause for a moment, just a second or two, bracing ourselves. My heart’s going like the clappers, has been all afternoon—I keep pressing my hand to my chest as if to slow it down. I feel nauseous, so much so the bile rises in my throat.
Leena unlocks the door. The house is dark and quiet, and I know right away that Marian isn’t here.
I stand there and try to absorb it while Leena moves through the rooms, flicking on lights, her face drawn and serious.
Marian isn’t here, I think, with a peculiar sort of detachment. I was so sure she would be, I hadn’t even thought of alternatives. But she’s not here. She’s …
“She’s not here.” Leena comes to a stop in the middle of the hall. “Is that good, or bad? Both, maybe? Where is she?”
I lean back against the wall, then jump as both my phone and Leena’s phone let out a succession of beeps. She’s quicker at pulling hers out of her pocket.
Dearest Mum, and my darling Leena,
Sorry it’s taken me a little time to compose this message. I’m at Heathrow airport, now, with three hours until my flight and plenty of time to think.
Something Leena told me last night stayed with me when I woke up this morning. Leena, you said, “I couldn’t have figured myself out if I’d not been someone else.”
These last few weeks have been some of the happiest in recent memory. I have loved having you back, Leena, more than I can express—it’s been wonderful for me to be able to look after my daughter again. And Mum, I’ve missed you, but I think perhaps I needed you to leave me for a little while, so I could realize I can stand on my own, without you holding my hand. Your absence has made me appreciate you all the more. I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for me.
But I’m ready for something new, now. I don’t know who I am when I’m not grieving for Carla. I can’t be the woman I was before my daughter died. I couldn’t, and I wouldn’t want to be. So I need to find the new me.
My yoga mat and I are going to Bali. I want quiet, and sand between my toes. I want an adventure, like you’ve each had, but one that’s mine.
Please look after one another while I’m away, and remember that I love you both very much xxx
“Bali,” I say, after a long, shocked silence.
Leena looks blankly at the picture on the hall wall and doesn’t answer me.
“I don’t understand,” I say, fretfully scrolling to the top of the message again. “She’s far too fragile to be going off on her own in some foreign country, and…”
“She’s not, Grandma,” Leena says, turning to look at me at last. She breathes out slowly. “I should have kept you in the loop more, then you’d realize. She really isn’t fragile. She’s been doing great, this last month or so.”
I can’t quite believe that, but I want to.
“Honestly, Grandma. I know you think I didn’t see how bad things were for Mum, and…” She swallows. “You’re right, for a long while I didn’t, because I wasn’t here, and that’s on me. I should have listened to you when you said she was struggling instead of just thinking I knew best. But I can tell you that while I have been here I’ve seen her make so much progress. She’s been doing so well.”
“I don’t … But … Bali?” I say weakly. “On her own?”
Leena smiles and tilts her head toward that picture on the wall. “She’s going to her happy place,” she says.
I stare at the image. It’s a photo of a lady doing yoga in front of some sort of temple. I’ve never really noticed it before though I vaguely remember it hanging in their old house in Leeds too.
“Do you really think it’s a good idea for her to go away all on her own?”
“I think we should have told her to do it a long time ago.” Leena steps forward and rubs my arms. “This is a good thing, Grandma, just like your time in London and my time in Hamleigh. She ne
eds a change.”
I read the message again. “I couldn’t have figured myself out if I’d not been someone else.”
Leena looks embarrassed. “I have no recollection of saying that. I was a bit drunk, if I’m honest.”
“You said something like that, though, when you thought I’d lied about Ethan.” I hold up my hand to stop her protesting. “No, it’s all right, love. It was a shock—you just needed time. But you said you weren’t being his Leena.”
“Did I?” She’s looking down at her feet.
“I want you to be your Leena, love.” I reach for her hands. “You deserve to be with somebody who makes you feel more yourself, not less.”
She starts to cry, then, and my heart twists for her. I wish I could have protected her from this, that there’d been another way.
“I thought that person was Ethan,” she says, leaning her forehead on my shoulder. “But—these last two months—I’ve felt—everything’s been different.” Her shoulders shake as she sobs.
“I know, love.” I stroke her hair. “I think we all got a bit lost this last year, didn’t we, without Carla, and we needed a change to see it.”
Bali, I think, still reeling, as Leena cries in my arms. I’m not quite sure where that is, precisely, but I know it’s a long way away. Marian has never been further afield than the north of France. It’s so …
It’s so brave of her.
There’s a knock at the door. Leena and I both pause. We’re sitting here in Marian’s house with every single light switched on, both blubbering, makeup down our faces. Goodness knows what whoever’s at the door will think.
“I’ll get it,” I say, wiping my cheeks.
It’s Betsy.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she says, reaching to take my hands. “I came as soon as I heard Marian was in trouble.”
“Betsy?” comes Leena’s voice from behind me. “Wait, how … how did you hear?”
I just hold my dearest friend’s hands between my own. She looks wonderful. Her usual neckerchief is nowhere to be seen, and she’s wearing a loose, polka-dotted blouse that makes her look like the Betsy Harris I knew twenty years ago. There’s too much to say, and I falter for a moment, unsure, until she squeezes my hands and says, “Oh, I’ve missed you, Eileen Cotton.”