11 Missed Calls

by Elisabeth Carpenter

  She stops at the kitchen sink and turns, leaning against it, folding her arms. The letters and papers are still on the table, alongside the RSVPs for Robert’s birthday party. Nathan’s picture is no longer at the top of the pile; the most recent letter is.

  ‘Can I read it?’ I say.

  She shrugs. ‘Go ahead.’

  I grab it before she changes her mind.

  I study the envelope. The postmark is dated yesterday, and the writing is in the same small capital letters as the others.

  I take out the letter and open it quickly.

  Stop asking questions, or there will be consequences. I’m watching all of you. I know where each and every one of you live.

  ‘What the hell?’

  Monica’s looking at the floor. When she looks up, her eyes are glistening.

  ‘You have to stop looking, Anna.’

  ‘But you got that email … that’s what started all of this, not me. I’m just following up on it … trying to find answers. It’s for everyone, not just for me.’

  ‘Can’t you see? Since your dad saw that email, we’ve been coming apart at the seams. Robert’s barely been round – he’s distracting himself with his work. I doubt he even remembers it’s his party tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘His party …? That’s not all you’re worried about, is it? Some stupid party?’

  ‘It’s not stupid to me! I’ve spent months organising it. I’ve got all his friends from school, from uni. I’ve made him a cake.’

  She gestures to the kitchen counter. Under a glass cloche, is a massive chocolate cake, decorated with tiny books.

  ‘But he hardly has any friends …’ I say. ‘This isn’t the point. Stop detracting from the important stuff—’

  ‘Important stuff? You mean Debbie?’ She lifts her arms and drops them as though deflated. ‘She’s always been the important one to you, hasn’t she? You need to grow up, Anna. You have people all around you who love you … not some woman who abandoned everyone. It’s been over thirty years, love. It was only a few years ago that Peter took her photo off the wall. I feel as though she’s been looking over me for all of these years – taunting me for taking over her life.’

  ‘But what if something bad happened to her that night, Monica?’ I say, quietly. ‘Don’t you want to know what happened?’

  ‘She left a note, Anna. It says everything in there.’

  ‘How can you be sure it was her handwriting?’

  ‘Because I recognise it, that’s why.’

  There are tears in her eyes. Why won’t she just tell me the truth? She must know more than she’s saying.

  ‘Why did the police give up looking for her?’ I say.

  ‘Robert said he told you what happened when we got back from Tenerife.’

  ‘But he was just a child. Grandad said Dad was questioned.’

  She turns her back to me.

  ‘We – or rather your grandfather – reported her missing a few weeks after we got back from the holiday. They came round, asking why Peter hadn’t been to them, wasn’t he worried something bad had happened to her? He showed them the note. Your gran and grandad confirmed it was her handwriting, but the police still searched the house … asked for her passport … it was like they were trying to trick us.’

  Who would think like that? She’s talking about her and Dad as we and us. Did she label them as a couple even then, or has it morphed into that?

  ‘But she left the note and had taken her clothes and passport,’ she says. ‘What else were we to think?’ She turns around, still not meeting my eye, tears streaming down her face. ‘We all lost someone that night, Anna.’

  It’s only eight o’clock on a Saturday night, but Jack and I have already closed the bedroom curtains on today. For the first time in days, my husband is lying next to me. I can tell he’s not asleep; he keeps sighing and changing positions.

  He’d only worked in the morning, but had been drinking whiskey since three in the afternoon – he was drunk and silent when I got home with Sophie at tea time. He went to bed as I cooked Sophie’s dinner, probably forgetting, in his drunken state, that he’d been sleeping in his office in the loft for the past few days. Perhaps because he confessed, he feels his conscience is clear – that he can share the burden of his problems.

  It’s Robert’s party tomorrow night, yet my thoughts drift between Debbie and Jack. What if Debbie were alive? What if she were dead? Does Jack have a son?

  I wish I had a sleeping pill or something to make my mind go blank, because I don’t have the answers.

  My mobile vibrates with a text on the bedside cabinet. I’m tempted to ignore it. Whatever it is, it’s bound to keep me from sleep, and sleep is what I need. Sophie is fine, Jack is fine. It can’t be anything important.

  After ten minutes, I can’t sleep for thinking about it. I grab the phone. It’s a message from Sally Munroe.

  En route to Tenerife after a development. Will contact you when I know more. S.

  Tenerife.

  It’s going to cost a fortune, but it’s the most obvious country to search – the place Debbie was last seen alive. I text my reply.

  What have you found out? Would rather know ASAP x

  She replies seconds later.

  I’d rather tell you when I know more. Don’t want to cause unnecessary alarm. S.

  I sit up. My heart is banging in my chest. I stand and walk quietly out of the room, clutching the phone in my hand. I glance back at Jack and he’s on his side, facing the window. I open Sophie’s door and she’s fast asleep, star-shaped across her bed. I pick up her quilt from the floor and gently drape it across her.

  I pull the door slightly ajar and tiptoe downstairs.

  The kitchen floor is cold under my feet. It might be July, but it’s been cold today. Though that’s not the reason I’m shivering.

  The possibilities are running through my mind: Sally’s found Debbie, living abroad; she’s found someone who knows her; she’s found her grave.

  I hold up the phone and dial Sally’s number.

  She answers after three rings.

  ‘Hey, Anna. Sorry. I shouldn’t have texted you. I just didn’t want you wondering where I was.’

  ‘What have you found?’

  She sighs. ‘I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. But I contacted the Spanish Consulate to ask if they have any …’

  She stops talking.

  ‘Unclaimed bodies,’ I say, finishing her sentence.

  ‘Yes,’ she says quietly.

  ‘And they do.’

  ‘Yes. There were hundreds across mainland Spain, but there aren’t as many in Tenerife. There are three that were found in 1987 and four in 1988. They’ve already been buried, but the person I spoke to said they’ve kept various personal items that were found with the bodies. Sorry … I know I’m talking in a blunt way about something so close to you. I might find nothing that’s connected to your mother, but we must close this line of enquiry. It’s where she was last seen alive.’

  I pull my dressing gown around me – I’m still shaking. I sit on the nearest dining chair.

  ‘Let me know as soon as you hear anything.’

  ‘Of course. Try not to think about it too much until you hear back from me.’

  ‘I think we both know that’s impossible.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. Take care, Anna. Speak soon.’

  I end the call and throw the phone onto the table.

  It’s still light outside and the sun is low in the sky. It should be raining now; it should always rain with bad news.

  I take a deep breath.

  So, this is how it ends.

  She died the night she disappeared.

  I should’ve known that all these years, shouldn’t I?

  I stand and reach for my memory box and place it on the table, taking out my favourite picture of my mother. I hold it in my shaking hands just inches from my face. Her young face beaming into the camera, before I was born, before her troubles be
gan.

  Her twenty-seven-year-old face that’s now decomposed, buried in an unmarked grave in a Spanish cemetery. My stomach churns as I picture it. I place the photo face down onto the table. I can’t do this to myself.

  I’m going to find out what happened to her. Has my father been covering up something for all of these years?

  I jump. Jack’s standing in the doorway.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he says.

  ‘Sally’s on her way to Tenerife. She says there are unidentified bodies – they’ve been buried, but they kept the belongings they had on them.’ My words flow out too fast. I look up at him. ‘I should be crying, shouldn’t I? I just can’t believe it. Why hadn’t anyone checked before?’

  He walks towards me and grabs me in a hug. This is all it takes for me to break down.

  ‘Oh, Anna.’ He strokes my hair. ‘Try not to think too much about it until you hear anything concrete.’

  ‘That’s what Sally said,’ I say between sobs. ‘But it’ll be all I think about until she calls back.’

  He kisses the top of my head, and goes to the cupboard above the kettle, taking out a bottle of whiskey. He pours large measures into two tumblers, adding ice from the freezer. He hands me a glass.

  ‘It’ll help you sleep.’

  I take a sip. I’ve never liked whiskey. It burns my throat as I swallow, but the warmth is comforting. Jack pulls out the chair next to me and sits, taking a large gulp of whiskey. He winces as he swallows, leaning back against the chair.

  ‘Oh God,’ I say. ‘It’s going to cost your firm a fortune for Sally to travel abroad.’

  ‘Jesus, Anna! Don’t think about that. The amount of times Gerard has paid to have his mistress followed … don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Really?’

  Jack raises his palms. ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘What if one of those bodies is Debbie’s?’

  ‘Then I’ll help you get through it. I know it sounds crass, but then at least you’ll have closure. You’ve been living under a cloud for most of your life – you need answers.’ He reaches over and takes my hand in his. ‘I can’t imagine what it’s like, wondering where your own mother is. I guess I’ve tried not to make a big deal about it over the years, but it’s only because talking about it makes you so sad. I don’t want you to feel sad. You’re the most important person in my life. Apart from the little one upstairs, of course.’

  He smiles.

  ‘I feel as though I’ve neglected her over these past few weeks,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t feel like that. She’s her usual happy self. And you’re a great mother.’ He gently squeezes my hand.

  ‘Shall I phone Dad, tell him what Sally said?’

  He shakes his head. ‘God, no. Think about how you feel, then times that by a hundred. They were married.’ He looks up at me. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be so frank.’

  ‘It’s okay. I know what you mean. You don’t still think my dad did something to her, do you?’

  He opens his mouth, but closes it. He leans back in his chair again.

  ‘I’ve known your dad for nearly ten years … he’s a decent man, I know that. When I say those things, I’m just speculating – it doesn’t mean I think them.’

  ‘You’re just saying that.’

  ‘I’m not. Shall I be truthful with you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Over these past years, I can see that your dad still mourns Debbie. It’s Monica who’s always been slightly strange about it all. Don’t you think?’

  I look up to the ceiling.

  ‘I suppose,’ I say. ‘I can’t go on thinking about what might have happened. But I do think Monica is – or she and Dad are – hiding something. I thought whatever it is, was kept from me so I wouldn’t get hurt.’ I look into Jack’s eyes. ‘As usual,’ – I give a hollow laugh – ‘I’m thinking everything’s about me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Anna. You see things from your own point of view – most people are the same. Don’t think you’re any different. And, anyway, Sally Munroe might find nothing. It might be a wild-goose chase.’

  He sips his drink.

  There’s a few minutes’ silence before rain starts to patter on the kitchen window.

  ‘What a strange few weeks,’ he says. ‘Why does everything have to come at once?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking that. I’m glad I’ve got you back.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘I never left. I just didn’t know how to deal with everything.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘I hadn’t thought about Fran for years. It was always just you, you know. I haven’t been pining after her for years. She was a girl I dated for a few months when I was seventeen.’

  I nod and take another sip.

  ‘I’ve a confession,’ I say. ‘That night, on my birthday, I was really pissed off with you – you came home late and had been out for a meal on your own. I went through your wallet.’

  He takes his hand from mine and holds the tumbler with both hands.

  ‘I know,’ he says.

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘I found the letter years ago. It was in with my old GCSE certificates, but I never thought to get rid of it – it was a harmless teenage love letter. The day I heard about her accident – the day before your birthday – I dug it out – I don’t know why. I guess I wanted to see her last words to me. Then I heard you coming up the stairs and I panicked, put it in my wallet. When I looked at the photo of you and Sophie a few days later, I could see something behind it – I knew I wouldn’t have put it next to your picture. I felt such a shit, forgetting your birthday. I had so much on my mind, and then when I saw the letter had moved – I felt so guilty, I couldn’t look you in the eye. I couldn’t talk to you without feeling bad.’

  ‘I thought you were having an affair.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I should’ve just said what was going on. But you got that email, and everything changed. I didn’t want to burden you with what was going on with me.’

  I lift up my glass to take a sip, but I don’t think I can stomach it. Jack takes the glass from me and places it on the kitchen counter. I watch as he pours milk into a mug and puts it in the microwave. When it beeps, he pours the whiskey into it and stirs in a teaspoon of sugar. He places the hot mug in front of me.

  ‘That should do it. I saw my mum make it for my dad when I was a kid.’

  I take a sip and it’s delicious.

  ‘Does it help?’ he says.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Are you still up for Robert’s party tomorrow?’

  ‘I have to be. I can’t let him down – even though it’s the last thing he wants. You’re still coming, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ He stands up and picks up both our drinks. ‘Come on. Let’s take these upstairs.’

  We’re walking up the stairs when Jack’s phone pings with an email. We go into the bedroom and he places the drinks on my bedside table. I watch as he opens his mail.

  He looks up after reading it.

  ‘It’s from Fran’s brother,’ he says. ‘The other man has had his DNA result back.’

  I sink onto the bed.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s asked if I want to know from him or to wait for my own result.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘I’ve prepared myself to hear by post.’ He sits down next to me. ‘But this will affect us both. I’ve kept you out of this, as you were going through enough shit, but this is about a child who’s just lost his mother.’

  I put my arm across his back.

  ‘You know I’ll support you whatever the outcome, don’t you?’

  ‘I’d hoped that. I didn’t take it for granted.’

  He leans back on the bed and takes out his phone, and scrolls to a picture.

  ‘This is Matthew, when he was ten. Simon, Fran’s brother, sent it to me. He said we looked alike. I can’t see it though, can you?’

  I take the mobile from his hands
and look at the lovely little boy staring back at me.

  ‘It’s hard to tell, Jack. I look nothing like my dad.’

  I bring the picture closer and see a nose that looks the same as Jack’s, the tilt of the head and the closing of one eye in the sun. I’ve known what it’s like for my biological mother to be absent, but Monica has been an amazing parent.

  I look into the little boy’s eyes: he knew his mother. The pain he must be going through must be unbearable. He must feel so lost. I just hope his family haven’t told him about the uncertainty of his paternity. That shouldn’t get in the way of the boy’s grief.

  I hand the picture back to Jack.

  ‘Whatever he needs, we’ll be there for him.’

  Jack takes the phone, holds it against his stomach. He wipes away the single tear that rolls down his face.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Sunday, 27 July 1986

  Debbie

  Peter’s letting me get ready in peace, as he’s reserved a barbecue in the gardens at six and he doesn’t want me to be late. In peace. He means I should sober up, and now I’m soaking in a bath of salty water with bubbles.

  I’m an embarrassment to him. Why can’t I just be normal? I almost killed our child, for God’s sake. I don’t want to think what would’ve happened if Monica hadn’t been watching over us. She’s our guardian angel, I suppose.

  But Annie’s fine. That’s what I tell myself again and again.

  I feel homesick. And I am drunk, I think. It’s only the afternoon, but people get away with drinking earlier on holiday. Or rather, everyone else does. I shouldn’t be allowed near water again. Perhaps that’s what he wants now: me to fall asleep in this bath, into an oblivion of salt water and Mister Matey.

  Before the swimming-pool incident, Nathan and I drank four cocktails at the bar. He must be able to take his drink, because he’s fine. I can hear them all laughing at something he’s said in the living area.

  There’s only a small mirror in this bathroom, above the sink. It doesn’t even have condensation it’s so hot here. It’s almost unbearable. I keep saying that: unbearable. It rolls too easily in my thoughts. I must say it all the time.