She has been speaking with passion, her face hotly lit by these memories, and I’m sitting as still as I can, not wanting to jolt her out of it, especially when she mentions his name. I don’t think she has realized that she let it slip. I’m expecting her to continue, but she stays silent, lost in her thoughts. “And it ended badly?” I prompt softly.
She dips her head, a quick instinctive moment. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell, isn’t it,” she says, “where the line is between intention and action. Whether things happen because you want them to, or whether they just happen, and whatever you want is incidental.”
I try to wring out some meaning from this, but I’m not sure what she’s driving at. It’s so unlike the woman I know to talk in this convoluted, sideways way.
I fall back on a simpler question. “Why did you change your name?”
She shrugs. “I needed a fresh start. Sometimes it’s the best way to move on.” Her expression is guarded, evasive. She brings her hand up to her mouth, pressing briefly against her lips as if she wants to keep anything else she might say inside.
She’s not telling me the truth, I think, or at any rate not all of it. I don’t think I’ve ever looked at my wife before and known that she’s lying to me. It gives me a nauseous sense of disconnection. Like I’m losing my moorings on our life together.
“I suppose so,” I say carefully, conscious that it’s all I’m going to get for now. She’s told me almost nothing, but I can sense that for her, even letting these bread crumbs of information slip is more than she thought she would do.
She stands up abruptly, brushing her skirt down from the sandy rocks and reaching for me. “Let’s go back.”
* * *
• • •
I’VE BEEN AWAKE for most of the night, lying in the hotel room and listening to the faint splash of the sea beyond the window, crashing softly against the rocks. Several times I’ve tried to switch off, but I can’t get beyond the strangeness of watching my wife sleep. She lies with her arms stretched above her head, completely still except for the minute movements of her eyes behind closed lids, flickering back and forth in dreams. I’ve always liked the hint of mystery she carries about her—it was one of the things that first drew me to her, this sense that there was more to her than she would tell me. In light of what she’s revealed now, it doesn’t feel so seductive. Watching those tiny traces of movement, I find myself wanting to shake her awake and make her tell me what is going through her head, before any sense of self-protection kicks in. Whatever you were thinking of, tell me, tell me right now.
At around three a.m. she stirs, turns her head toward me, and opens her eyes. There is none of the slight disorientation she often shows when she wakes; she’s instantly watchful, expectant.
“How much of this is real?” I ask, without preamble.
She blinks slowly, reaching out a hand and running it lightly across my shoulder. “All of it.” Her eyes flicker a little, as if she’s trying to calculate something immeasurable. “It’s the past that isn’t real,” she says, “not this.”
I hear those words again and again, in the dead time after she falls back to sleep. Does it really matter what she did—who she was, even—before she met me, as long as it doesn’t undermine what we’ve built together? But as the hours roll on and the faint purplish light of dawn starts to seep through the thin curtains, the less consoling those words feel. I don’t like the idea that I’ve fallen in love with someone without really knowing them. People don’t come to us as blank slates for us to project our love onto—they’re complex, packed full of experience and emotion. It’s their past that makes them who they are.
I think of everything she’s told me about her life. I hate the fact that I can’t tell anymore how much of it was true. And that I lapped it up readily, and that I’ve felt secretly smug ever since at having so easily got under her skin and figured her out.
I must have fallen asleep in the end, however briefly, because my alarm wakes me and I roll over to see that Natalie is gone. Her jacket is missing from the back of the chair. I heave myself out of bed, and as I do so I see the note, which she has left neatly folded on the dressing table. It’s written in the distinctive violet-colored ballpoint pen she uses. Even now, the color sets off a little Pavlovian reaction in me that dates back to the first days of our relationship, when she used to write me notes that she left around “just because”—veering from dirty to romantic depending on her mood. But this note is neither of those things.
I’ve gone out for a walk—I need to be alone for a bit and I didn’t want to wake you. I’ll be back later today so don’t worry. I’m sorry about everything. Natalie.
I read it a couple of times before scrunching it up and shoving it angrily into my coat pocket. There’s something disingenuous in “I didn’t want to wake you”—as if I’d rather wake alone to find my wife has effectively thrown a grenade into our lives and then left without clearing up the wreckage. My daughter is still in the hospital. Natalie dropping this on me now is almost more than I can cope with, at a time when my defenses are so low and I need to focus on Jade.
I have enough self-awareness to realize that this anger is partly a throwback, bred of guilt. I love Jade more than anyone, but I haven’t always put her first. After Heather died, grief made me selfish, all the more so because this sadness was complex—a cocktail of regret, desolation, and a small, poisonous seam of relief. We had been headed for divorce, long before the cancer, although I suppose I’ll never know how much the strain of her illness stood in the way of our fixing things. At any rate, there was a secret part of me that couldn’t help but feel a burden lifted at the knowledge that I would never have to share my daughter. I’ve never really thought before about the fact that since Natalie has come along, Jade is the one who has had to share. Now, of all times, she deserves to take center stage.
I shower and dress quickly, then call a taxi to the hospital. By the time I get there the morning visiting hour will have almost started. There’s more traffic than usual on the roads and progress is slow. I find myself staring vacantly out of the window, watching the slow cycle of movement: the passersby trudging along the seafront, shoulders braced against the wind, and the cars crawling past them.
When the squat gray building looms into view I pay the taxi driver hastily and duck inside, hurrying along the gleaming white corridors toward the ward. Jade is half sitting, propped up in bed and staring at the small TV screen next to her, and I’m surprised by how much more alive it makes her look. I step forward, pulling her mobile from my pocket and brandishing the soft toy rabbit I found at the shops yesterday—it isn’t quite the same as Sidney, the toy I rescued from the house, but it’s close. I hold them out one in each hand, like a conjurer presenting his spoils. “Morning darling,” I say. “I got you these last night, from the house.”
Jade’s eyes light up and she instantly snatches the mobile from my hand, bending her head over the screen as she taps in the pin code and waits for a tense second before she smiles in triumph. “It’s still working,” she says. “Thanks, Dad.”
“That’s all right. Thought you’d want it.” I’m still holding the rabbit. She doesn’t seem to have noticed it, and her gaze doesn’t stray from her screen as I place it down on the bed beside her. It was stupid of me, perhaps, to think she’d care about such things now. I remember the way she used to clutch the original to her chest, unable to sleep without it pressed against her, and my heart clenches with what feels like something close to grief.
“Sorry,” Jade says, not looking at me. “I’m just . . .” She trails off, her thumb skimming back and forth across the screen in the swift messaging motion I still haven’t totally mastered. “Sorry,” she says again, and places the phone down beside her on the pillow.
“Don’t worry,” I say, “I’m just glad you’re feeling better.” But it feels like an effort, sorrow still weighing on my chest as I wa
tch my daughter, so close to the child she was and yet so far away.
Jade clasps her hands in front of her. “I am, a bit,” she says, “but my head aches all the time. The doctor said it happens sometimes, when you’ve breathed in a lot of chemicals like I probably did. And I’m worried about the burns. I don’t want scars. Do you think I’ll have them?”
“I’m not sure.” I know from my conversations with Dr. Rai that it’s unlikely that any scars Jade has will ever heal completely. I’ve already been thinking about the livid red line across her temple, thinking about how she might grow bangs to conceal it if she wanted. But of course she’ll still know it’s there.
I try to think of something else to say, but I soon see that she’s mentally moved on. She’s staring at me with what looks like expectation, and with a flash of intuition I divine that she’s thinking about our last conversation, and that maybe she wants it to continue.
“What you told me yesterday, about the man in the house . . .” I begin tentatively, and am rewarded by her lack of surprise. “Can you tell me any more about what happened?”
She presses her lips together briefly, remembering. “I was up late because I realized I’d forgotten to do my homework, so I was up doing it in my room and I saw a shadow moving outside the door—you know when you can just tell there’s someone there? It was open a crack and I bent back to look through . . . I thought it was Natalie, come to check up on me or something. But it wasn’t. I only saw him for a second, because he moved straight past, but it was a man.”
The words have poured out of her fast and softly, and she breaks off to draw in a breath. “I got up and went over to my wardrobe and opened it and I got inside and shut the door,” she says. “Maybe it was a stupid idea but I didn’t know what else to do. I thought I should hide. I don’t know how long I stayed there, it seemed like ages. And then I realized there was something else wrong—the noise, like something crackling, and I could smell the smoke, and then I was even less sure what I should do, I didn’t know if I ought to try to get out or stay where I was and I didn’t know where the man was and . . .” She stops again, pressing her fingertips swiftly to her eyes.
“It’s OK,” I say quickly. “It’s over.” I reach out and squeeze her knee gently.
“But that’s not all, Dad,” she says, her voice muffled. “The man—it’s not the first time I’ve seen him.”
“What?” I say sharply.
“I’ve seen him several times,” she whispers. “On the street. Outside school. Never for long.”
“You’re sure it’s the same man?” I ask. I can hear the desperation in my voice, the need for her to be wrong.
Jade nods slowly. “I wasn’t at first,” she says. “When I saw him in the house, it was the first time I’d ever really seen him up close. But the more I think about it, the surer I am. I can’t explain exactly how I know. I just . . .” She blinks, screwing up her eyes with the effort of finding the right words. “I just feel it,” she says at last, the words barely audible. It’s the kind of pronouncement that from most people I’d find laughable. I want facts, evidence. But even so, there’s a cold, subtle chill of unease working its way beneath my collar and bristling the hairs on the back of my neck.
My hand goes reflexively to my pocket. I don’t have time to consider what I’m doing—I just pull out the photograph I’ve been keeping there, unfold it, and turn it toward Jade, gesturing at the man. “Is this him?”
She only has to look at it for the briefest of seconds before she shakes her head. “No.”
“You’re sure?”
Jade nods vehemently. “Yes. This man looks nothing like that. He’s got blond hair, almost white, like maybe he dyes it or something. He’s . . . big, not fat, you know, but just”—she gestures vaguely in the air around her shoulders, sketching out muscle—“big. He’s not that tall. Not short, but not as tall as you. And he’s—I don’t know, he’s got a funny sort of face. It’s hard to describe.” She hesitates. “A bit like it’s made out of clay or something like that.”
“Okay . . .” I say, trying to commit all these details to memory. I’m searching my mind for anyone I know who might match this description, but nothing comes. In any case, the essential facts are the same. If there has been a man in our house on the night of the fire, then we need to track him down. “You know,” I say to Jade, “you will have to tell the police about this.”
She looks shocked at that, leaning her head back against the pillows, and I can see that our conversation has tired her. “I hadn’t thought about that.” Her eyes are uncertain, a little unfocused. “Do I have to do it now?”
“No,” I say quickly. “But maybe in a day or two, when you’re feeling stronger.” Logically, my head is telling me that it would be best to report this as soon as possible, but I don’t want to push my daughter too hard too fast. In any case, the police will take her more seriously when she’s stronger. I know that short-term memory loss and confusion is a common side effect of the kind of trauma Jade has been through, and even though I don’t doubt her, I can’t help feeling that they might.
“Dad,” she says. She’s lain down again, rolling onto her side, and her left arm is reaching out, her fingers grazing the edge of the blue rabbit, moving back and forth against the cotton in what could be unconscious comfort. Her voice is half muffled by the pillow, her head averted from me as if she’s embarrassed to say what’s on her mind. “Am I safe now?”
* * *
• • •
I’M STILL THINKING about that question as I walk back to the hotel. When your child asks you that, there’s only one answer you want to give, and I gave it instantly, with the conviction I knew she needed. Turning it over in my head, I think it was true. Right now, in the hospital, protected and guarded by doctors and nurses day and night, I believe she’s safe. But after that? When she’s back at home—wherever that will be—going to school, tracing her own path through the world, when it’s impossible for me to shadow her every minute of every day? I’m not so sure.
Dimly I register that my phone is ringing, and I dig it out and answer it without first glancing at the screen. “Hello?”
“Alex?” It’s James, my fellow manager at the office. It’s a shock to hear his voice, clipped and professional, coming from another world. A surreal realization dawns: it’s Monday morning. Work has barely entered my head since the night of the fire. “Where are you, man? I thought you were in all day?” He barely pauses for a second before pressing on. “Look, we’ve got a bit of a situation with the Cooler Cola campaign. The client’s come back wanting to change the ads at the eleventh hour and they’re looking to have a call to talk it through at one fifteen. I don’t really want Gav and Carly to handle it on their own. I could sit in but you’re a lot closer to the project than I am. So are you coming in?”
I should just tell him, of course. James lives and breathes our work but if I told him that my house has burned down and my daughter is in the hospital, he’d be left with no choice but to tell me to stick on my Out of Office and take all the time I needed. And yet there’s something about the way he’s talking to me . . . there’s no awkward sympathy, no embarrassed attempt to offer solutions, and I’m surprised at how much I need this right now. “Yeah,” I say before I have a chance to consider further. “I’ll be in in twenty.”
Fifteen minutes later I’m at the office, tapping my key card at the entry button and climbing the two flights of stairs. It’s an automatic ritual, but today its familiarity feels poignant, as if I’ve just returned from years away—a traveler uncovering long-forgotten, dust-laden possessions, and finding some unexpected stab of emotion in what he might once have thought mundane.
“All right, Alex,” James mutters as I come into the office and make for my desk. “Late one last night then, was it?” He barely lifts his eyes from his screen.
“You could say that, yes.” I sit down at my
desk and then freeze, realizing I don’t have my laptop. It must be in the house still, though I have no idea what state it’s in. I can’t understand how I didn’t think to check, but the past couple of days have thrown everything up in the air, and some of the things that have slipped through my fingers have been the ones I wouldn’t expect. I stare at the desk in front of me, wondering what to do.
“Oi oi,” Gavin shouts jovially across the office, “not with it this morning, Alex? Do some fucking work!” This kind of banter is common in most ad agencies—we take a stupid sort of pride in smashing down the hierarchy barriers, and the fact that Gav is probably paid thirty grand less than I am is no reason in our world for him to treat me like his boss—but right now it feels totally alien. I make myself smile, raising my hands in surrender.
“Come in without my laptop,” I say, “what a prick.”
“Sure you haven’t left it out on the piss again?” Gavin fires back. I lost my last office laptop a year or two ago, and have never heard the end of it. It had been stolen from a coffee shop in broad daylight, actually, not abandoned on a piss-up, but I can’t be bothered to argue the toss.
“It’s all right, Alex,” Carly says, trotting up to my desk, brandishing the spare computer. “You can use this one.” She smiles brightly, tossing her high blond ponytail. She’s had her roots dyed over the weekend, a strange light pink color. She lingers by my desk briefly, clearly expecting a comment, but I just thank her and take the computer, forcing another smile, and she spins on her high heels and prances away again, her hips moving briskly in her tight tan leather skirt.
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