In Too Deep

by Samantha Hayes

  ‘Fine, thank you. I will speak to him and call you back.’ I reach for a pen and take down her number even though I have no intention of calling her back.

  I hang up, sliding down to the floor, knees drawn up under my chin. I sob silently. There are no tears but plenty of self-pity. Hannah is in the house and I have to stay strong for her.

  Cooper bounds on ahead, even though he shouldn’t be off his lead here. Besides, the vet told us his hips only have so many long walks left in them, that we should keep him to heel. But Rick always liked to give him a good run, figured it was better for him to have fun while he still could.

  I wonder if that’s what Rick has done: escaped the shackles of family life to have fun while he still can.

  It’s the first time I’ve dared to come down to the reservoir since last November. With Hannah back home for Easter and the phone call from the hotel, Rick somehow feels closer today. Almost as if he’s trying to get a message through. It goes like that – some days it’s as though he never even existed, while other days I’m convinced he’s watching over my shoulder, guiding me through a life he’s no longer a part of.

  The last time Rick and I walked Cooper together was down here, all gloved and scarfed up, giggling like a pair of high school kids, discussing Christmas, who we should invite, me clinging on to him for warmth as we trudged the muddy path around the man-made expanse of water.

  ‘Can’t it just be the four of us this year?’ Rick said in all seriousness. It took a few moments until either of us realised. We stopped, turned to face one another before falling into the obligatory embrace with my forehead resting on his chest. However hard we tried, however much counselling we attended or bereavement groups we joined, we would never get used to our son not being with us. Four years ago, our family became three.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Rick said, dropping a kiss on to my nose.

  It wasn’t usually him who slipped up. That role was mostly filled by me, followed by an emotional meltdown that Rick would mop up. That’s how we worked – him plate-spinning, trying to hold together the remains of his family after tragedy had bitten us so hard that some days we could hardly get up. Dressing, eating, driving, going to work all now took ten times as much effort, as if we were wading through life with liquid lead flowing through our veins.

  And now I can hardly believe that I’m going through it all again, bearing twice the loss. If I’m honest, I’m fuming mad with Rick for making me suffer a second time, for forcing me to face it alone.

  Where . . . have . . . you . . . gone?

  ‘Cooper,’ I call out, following it with a shrill whistle.

  He ignores me.

  ‘Hey, Coop, come here, boy!’ I pat my thighs. The Lab slows to a trot, craning his neck round. His black coat shines in the spring sunshine, and his doleful eyes stare at me. I swear he understands. Reluctantly he lifts his head and trots to my side.

  ‘Good boy,’ I say, ruffling his fur. ‘No more running.’ I stroke his hips and clip the lead back into his collar. ‘Walk with me now.’

  We set a brisk pace around Farmoor Reservoir. The last of the colourful Laser dinghies flap their way to the other side of the water as the amateur sailors head back to the clubhouse smelling of wetsuits and slightly stagnant water. Pints of beer and hot chips will carry them through tales of the afternoon’s racing, until they drift away back home to their families. I know this because once upon a time it was Rick.

  Even though it’s March and the sun has shone today, the late afternoon brings a chill, so I pull up my collar and drag my beanie down over my ears, hoping that the exercise will bring me some peace tonight. Sleeping for more than three hours at a time is rare.

  Halfway round the five-mile walk, I meet the sailing club secretary coming the other way. Molly, I think she’s called. She’s strolling with a couple of female friends, and stops when she sees me – but she carries on again, then stops again. She looks sheepishly at me, as if she doesn’t know what to say. I haven’t seen many of Rick’s friends since he disappeared.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Hasn’t it been a lovely day?’

  Her face relaxes when she sees that I can still be normal. ‘Beautiful. Quite springlike.’

  She’s about to walk on, but she hesitates, drawing a breath.

  ‘I’m really sorry about what happened. I read it in the paper. How are you doing?’ The two friends turn away.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say easily. I have that bit off pat. ‘I’m doing OK. You know.’ I squint into the setting sun, raising my hand to my brow. ‘The police are doing all they can.’

  I’m about to walk on but she reaches out and touches my arm. The hand of pity. The hand that says: Thank God it wasn’t me.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do, Jean, please let me know.’ She gives an honest smile and the three of them walk on again, resuming their conversation.

  I haven’t got the heart to tell her my name is Gina.

  I come in through the back door, rubbing Cooper down in the utility room with an old towel. He stands there resignedly, his flesh lolling beneath my hands. I always used to tell Rick off for feeding him too much, but he seems to be overweight whatever I give him.

  ‘Cup of tea, Mum?’ Hannah asks.

  I slip off my coat, draping it over the banister rail in the hall. She’s taken all her stuff upstairs. She’s also changed out of the pretty tunic and leggings she was wearing earlier, and put on baggy navy tracksuit bottoms slung low on her hips, and a maroon oversized varsity-logo sweat top with the sleeves pushed up. Thick knitted socks trail off the ends of her feet as she sloshes boiling water into two mugs.

  We sit at the table, staring at each other – me wondering what to say that won’t sound contrived, and her probably wishing she’d stayed at university for the Easter break.

  ‘So you survived the term?’ It’s all I can think of to say to cover everything Hannah must have gone through in the last few months. Although not being here was probably a blessing for her, got her away from the slick of grief that ebbs and flows around me.

  ‘I did,’ she says with a little smile. Her eyes dip down, letting me know she doesn’t really want to talk about anything to do with survival; that she’s fed up of going over and over old ground.

  ‘And you’ve been eating OK?’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ she says with a laugh. ‘I actually ate green vegetables once or twice.’ Her face peels into a Rick-like expression – her full lips bending coyly, her head tilted slightly back and to the side, and her dark eyes narrowed so they look as if they’re smiling.

  ‘Green veggies with all the pre-drinking, right?’ I’m pushing it, but I need to know she’s OK. My subconscious says she won’t be, that something will happen, and then I’ll be alone.

  My punishment – but for what?

  ‘Vodka with a broccoli chaser. All the students are doing it.’ She laughs, her big white teeth exposed. She plays with her thick blonde ponytail as it falls loose from its band. ‘Seriously, Mum, you don’t need to worry. I can take care of myself. I’m eighteen.’

  I give a small smile back, punctuating the conversation with a nod. That’s exactly what I’m worried about.

  ‘And boys? What about boys?’

  ‘God, Mum. No.’

  Rick and I were convinced there was someone last autumn, during her first term, but she’s never been one to talk about that sort of thing. We didn’t push her, but she came home for Christmas early, perhaps because of boy troubles. With hindsight, it was a blessing in disguise that she was home. It was shortly after this that Rick went.

  Vanished.

  Disappeared.

  Left me. Left us.

  Died. Was killed. Killed himself.

  Was murdered. Had an accident. Had enough.

  ‘Mum?’

  I look up, startled and wide-eyed. I grab the biscuit tin off the side and open it, but neither of us takes one.

  ‘There are no boys,’ she repeats more kindly, slipping her hand on top of my
fist, covering my white knuckles. ‘And more to the point, how are you?’

  We didn’t speak much on the journey home from the campus, which is thankfully only an hour’s drive away. A year ago, Rick was trying to persuade Hannah to spread her wings, head up to Edinburgh, Durham, or even study abroad. He felt quite strongly about it, which surprised me. But in the end, Hannah’s stubbornness won over, and she accepted an offer much closer to home.

  Now it’s a comfort that she’s nearby. Sometimes I take her out for lunch under the pretence of having an afternoon off work. Once, when she was too busy to see me, I drove out to her campus anyway. I sat in the car watching the students walking between lectures, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. I needed to know she was OK, that she was still alive.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘We’re busy at work. Steph’s got a new man,’ I say, trying to force a twinkle in my eye. ‘Again. And Mick is thinking of opening a new branch in another part of the city. I’m hoping he’ll consider me for manager.’

  A fresh start would do me good, I think.

  ‘That’s great, Mum,’ Hannah says. ‘Dad would be proud of you.’

  ‘And he’d be so proud of you too,’ I say in return. But Hannah doesn’t reply. Her eyes close, and her face falls parallel to her legs.

  Gina

  ‘A woman phoned earlier,’ I tell Hannah later.

  My mouth is full of chicken. It’s supper on trays, a bottle of wine, and Saturday-night TV blaring out as loud as we can stand it. It goes some way towards a brief respite; to getting through another evening any way I can. ‘It was about the dog.’

  ‘Cooper?’ Hannah says, chewing and frowning. ‘How come?’ She reaches for the remote control and jabs it at the television, sinking the volume.

  I lay down my knife and fork, wiping my mouth. ‘She was calling from a hotel in the Cotswolds and wanted to know if we’re bringing our dog along.’

  ‘You’re not making sense, Mum.’ Hannah is beginning to lose interest. She knocks the volume back up a pip or two. ‘We?’

  But it makes sense to me. I’ve been making sense of it all afternoon. Rick booked five nights in a country hotel. It means he was making plans. He was thinking ahead. He was doing something nice. For me. For us. He wanted to celebrate our wedding anniversary. He wanted to be alive.

  ‘Think about it, Hannah,’ I say, trying to get her full attention again. ‘Dad wouldn’t have been sure of your plans this holiday, so he booked a dog-friendly hotel in case you were busy.’

  Hannah glances at me. ‘What’s Dad got to do with it?’ she says, her eyes narrowing, as if she’s processing the information, trying to make sense of it just as I have been all afternoon. ‘Are you sure you’re not doing that thing again, Mum? Reading something into nothing? What hotel, anyway?’

  I ignore her comment and put my tray on the sofa beside me. I fetch my laptop from the table in the window, gently nudging Cooper away from my food as I sit back down. I log in and go to the website I found earlier.

  ‘This hotel,’ I say, twisting the computer round so she can see the soft gingery stone façade of Fox Court. The main picture shows the building at night, lit up yellow and gold with a crown of snow on the rooftop. Christmas lights adorn a monkey puzzle tree in the foreground. It looks idyllic.

  Hannah studies the pictures as I scroll down, revealing yet more images of the hotel in spring and summer. The internal shots make her eyebrows rise as she forks up her food.

  ‘Very posh,’ she says, making an approving face. ‘But I still don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  The more I think about it, the more important I realise this is. I’ve already decided to tell PC Kath Lane, let her know that Rick wasn’t even close to winding up his affairs, or facing an empty void in his future, or running away, or even planning suicide.

  He was booking a romantic trip for our anniversary.

  I fight back the tears. I mustn’t upset Hannah. The counsellor warned me about the temporary boundaries she’ll have put up to protect herself; made sure I understood how important it is that they stay intact for as long as she needs them.

  But then there’s the flip side of this new discovery. If Rick didn’t plan it, if he intended on coming home that morning after going to the shop, then all I’m left with is that something bad must have happened to him.

  After four months, it’s the not knowing that’s killing me.

  ‘Dad booked a break at this hotel,’ I explain. ‘He found a good deal online. It was going to be a surprise for me. It’s all paid for.’

  Saying it out loud makes me want to call the woman back, get her to tell me absolutely everything about the booking, what she knows, if she spoke to Rick personally, or if he did it all on the internet.

  Hannah still looks blank. I want her to sense my excitement. I want her to know what this means – that Rick still loved me, that he wanted to take me away and celebrate our special day together.

  ‘That was a waste of money then,’ she says flatly. She turns up the volume again, her back rounded against the cushions on the sofa. She puts her tray on the floor, her food virtually untouched. Cooper moves in immediately, but Hannah pushes him away with her foot. For a moment she holds her tummy and pulls a face.

  ‘Didn’t you like it?’ I say, hardly able to believe what she just said.

  ‘It was nice,’ she says, staring at the telly. ‘I just feel a bit sick.’

  I wish I could break down the barriers between us, cross the mile-high fence she’s put up. Whenever I talk about Rick, it seems as if every part of her becomes numb and desensitised. She hears what I’m saying, and I think she recognises my pain. She just refuses to partake of it. The counsellor said this is natural, said that teenagers have a very different way of coping with grief. And it’s true. I remember how she was when we lost Jacob. She was only thirteen at the time.

  ‘Maybe we could still go on the spa break,’ I say on impulse. ‘You and me.’

  I wait a moment, but she doesn’t reply.

  ‘It would be nice to spend some time together. And at least it wouldn’t be a waste of money then and . . .’

  Hannah doesn’t respond. She stares at the television, looking pale and fragile.

  ‘I’ll wash up,’ I say, standing and gathering the dirty plates. I haven’t finished my food either, but I can’t face it now.

  The kitchen is dark and cool, and seems to stay this way even when I switch on the lights. I hear clicking on the tiles behind me. Cooper has followed me out, so I pluck a piece of chicken skin from a plate and drop it into his open mouth. His jaws clap together gratefully, and he watches me through eyes so dark and glassy they could be fake. I crouch down.

  ‘Where’s he gone, boy?’ I ruffle the thick fur on his neck, pressing my face into it, wondering if he knows. I’ve asked him a thousand times.

  I stand up again and snap on rubber gloves, staring down the garden. I was here in this very spot, washing up at the kitchen sink, when the front door banged shut behind Rick for the last time. I lean against the worktop, head bowed, eyes closed, fighting the tears.

  Think, think, think.

  It was nine thirty. Nine thirty-three perhaps. Radio 4 was on quietly and Hannah was still upstairs in her room. Rick and I had eaten toast and marmalade, and we’d made coffee. We sat at the kitchen table for a while, chatting, talking about Hannah, how low she’d seemed since she’d come home early from university. She was missing the last couple of weeks of term and we didn’t know why.

  ‘Give her time,’ Rick said. His voice was soft and velvety, and his grey eyes were calm and reassuring, with fine lines etched underneath whenever he smiled. He was right. Hannah had always been the edgy sort, up for drama more than her friends, usually pulling out of her funk after a few days. But she’d been in her room a week, with no sign of it abating.

  ‘I’m going to have a proper chat with her later,’ I said.

  Rick frowned. I didn’t like it when he did that. It was so un-Rick-l
ike. My man was affable, courteous, considerate and kind. And he always respected my opinion. He ruffled his hair next, I remember that. I thought: You need a haircut, but I didn’t say it. Truth was, I quite liked it a bit long and shaggy. Sandy strands bothering his neck, and a sweep of salt-and-pepper beige falling over his eyes. It was sexy.

  ‘Do you want a magazine?’ Rick then asked. He stood and stretched, swigging the last of his coffee. ‘I’m going to the shop to get a newspaper.’ Then he shoved his right hand inside the back pocket of his jeans and fished out some coins. He looked at them, nodded, and put them back in his pocket. I recall seeing several pounds. Not much more.

  ‘No. I’m fine thanks.’ I had too much to do to be spending time reading a magazine. We had Steph and Pete coming round for supper that night and I needed a trip to the supermarket. And the bathroom had to be cleaned, and the rest of the house wanted a quick vacuuming. Then I had to cook the meal, even though I knew Rick would help with that. He’d help me with anything I asked, in fact, and if I’d said I wanted to spend the day in bed, he would have agreed and taken care of everything. He was like that. Champion.

  I’ve gone over events a thousand times since that day. Nothing new comes up any more. In fact, I’m afraid I’m going to start filling in the gaps with make-believe. The counsellor said that can happen. That for my brain to make sense of everything, to give some kind of meaning to it, I may begin colouring in the outline of what happened. I don’t want to hinder the search with wrong information. As it is, I’m now in two minds whether I should even tell Kath about the phone call from the hotel. What good will it do, apart from confirm that I’m obsessed, constantly reading something into nothing?

  As I pottered about the kitchen that Saturday morning, I remember seeing Rick scuffing on his trainers ready to go out. Then I heard him telling Cooper not to get excited, that he was only nipping to the shop, not going for a long walk. The dog seemed to understand, came back into the kitchen and hung around me, whining. Looking glum.