“Dom, was I leaving you?” I say quietly.
“Were you . . . what? What are you talking about?”
He’s out of his seat again, sitting down abruptly on the edge of the bed. Automatically I lie back, my shoulders pressing into the pillows, my hands folded protectively across my chest. Dom rests one big hand on top of them, bearing down so firmly that I can feel my own heart pounding.
“It’s just that I remembered something. While I was sleeping.” I clench my fists, digging my fingernails into my palms to help me hold my nerve.
“You weren’t sleeping. You were at death’s door. I’m not a doctor and I’m sure a million things ran through your head, but I bet most of it was a load of jumbled rubbish. I mean, you took a bullet to the head. You can’t possibly—”
“I remembered that I’d packed a case, Dom. And hidden my photo inside it,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I know that I don’t need to explain which photo, or its significance; Dom will know.
His hand is pressing down harder on mine now. I try not to show any reaction but I can feel the weight of it beginning to constrict my chest, and I wonder if he’s aware that he’s hurting me again.
“So? We’d been talking about taking the kids away for a weekend. I guess you got a bit ahead of yourself, that’s all.”
“When do you ever take time off? Apart from our summer holiday? And we’re practically broke, you said so yourself. I do remember that much. I remember us having a massive fight about it on the twins’ birthday.” I grit my teeth against the pain of that memory.
“OK, no need to remind me. To be frank, I’m not sure this is the time or the place to be dragging up old rows.” He releases my hands and turns away from me sharply, leaning forward so that his elbows rest on his knees.
“Sorry, I just . . .” I realize immediately that I’ve made a mistake. I’ve said the wrong thing; I shouldn’t have brought up the subjects of work and money; they were such bones of contention between us.
“In any case, we’re out of the woods now. I’ve taken on a major new client, and I had a good chat with the bank manager yesterday. It’s been a hell of a slog, and I won’t deny things got close to the bone. But I’ve pulled through. We’re not going to lose the house. I’m not going bust. It’s all going to be absolutely fine.”
He stands up and begins pacing up and down the small room, and the scrape of his shoes on the wood floor makes me think of Professor Hernandez’s pen scribbling on the whiteboard. I glance towards it and see that it’s been wiped clean. Does that mean I’m about to be discharged and sent home now that Dom’s here? The thought makes butterflies dive-bomb in my stomach.
“That’s good,” I say, falling into old habits with surprising ease: I know I need to placate him before the short fuse of his temper catches light. But Dom remains unexpectedly calm.
“Yeah, it is. So let’s stop raking up the past, hey? We’ve got to think of the future now. We’ve lost enough. Haven’t we?” He stops pacing and turns to look at me, and his blue eyes are clouded with grief; it hurts to look at them.
He’s right: we have lost far too much. I’m not sure it’s humanly possible to survive more. But we can’t move forward with lies between us, I think resolutely. If there is any chance at all of us salvaging our marriage and getting through this together, I have to tell Dom the truth, and I have to know the truth from him.
“I found train tickets in my suitcase,” I say, more firmly this time. “But only three—for two children . . . and just one adult.”
“Ah. Yeah. Fuck.” He sinks back into the armchair as if his legs have suddenly given way, and I’m astonished to see his eyes fill with tears.
“You knew? You did know I was leaving you?” I say, watching him, hardly able to believe what I’m seeing. Dom never cries. He really has changed.
“I knew,” he admits. “But it was all my fault—you have nothing to feel bad about. I was having such a shitty run of bad luck. I knew I was turning into a complete stress-head. I lost perspective, I can see that now. I just wanted to give you all the best of everything. Honestly, I don’t blame you for finding another guy’s shoulder to cry on.” He rubs his palms across his face as he spills out his apology, and then lets his head sink into his big hands.
“A shoulder to . . . What?” A pulse throbs heavily at my temple in shock. I clutch the neckline of my pajamas, pulling the soft material up to my chin as I slide down into the bed. I want to bury myself beneath the sheets as the implication of Dom’s words sinks in. I can’t believe it. In all the hours, days, weeks and months of imagining and reimagining our life together, I have never—not one single time—conjured up the thought of another man. I’ve remembered my early crush on Shay, but apart from my old university lecturer no other man has ever entered my thoughts.
Dom doesn’t look up but starts sobbing in earnest now, his broad shoulders shaking. Michelle’s words come back to me about my husband being a broken man.
“Please, talk to me. I’m sorry—I’m so sorry I’ve hurt you so much. I don’t remember any of it—packing the bag, buying the tickets . . . I don’t remember turning to anyone. I don’t remember any other man . . .”
Shame cascades through me, chipping away more and more pieces of my self-respect. I know I was unhappy with Dom—I can’t, won’t deny that. I know now that I wanted to leave him, but I’m shocked to the core to hear him suggest that I was being unfaithful. Can things get any worse?
“Not just any man, Maddie. You were seeing Max.”
THIRTY
His low, anguished voice is like a punch to my stomach, and my heart starts beating so fast I feel like it’s going to burst. I hear a shrill alarm and feel another flash of recognition. I’d thought that harsh sound was our front doorbell, but it’s vibrating from the machine at my side. I stare at the buzzing monitor, one more reminder of how the sounds and smells around me infiltrated the bright-dark, subliminal underworld of my coma.
My panic attack has obviously set my pulse soaring: I’d forgotten Carol hooks me up to this machine for a few minutes each day, to monitor any daily change in my heart rate; she must have connected the wire while I slept. The thin line feels like the only thing tethering me to this life, stopping me from giving up entirely on this painful earthly existence and floating up into the clouds. If only, I think, feeling my last hope of redemption evaporate beneath the heat of Dom’s scorn.
I watch as my husband retreats to the corner of the room like a wounded dog, but before I can appeal to him, Professor Hernandez is at my bedside.
“Try to stay calm, Maddie. Don’t want you tripping up this close to the finishing tape.” He smiles reassuringly, but I’ve learned that the doctor has a remarkable ability to look serene while his brain is working at a hundred miles per hour. Even as he looks so utterly calm, I know he’s assessing every flicker of response in my physical and mental capacities. “Am I going to win the race, then?” I ask him wearily.
“You’re already a winner. You are alive,” he tells me quietly, his face close to mine as he straightens my pillows and makes me comfortable.
“I’m not sure I deserve any medals, though,” I say sadly. “In fact, I think I’m due to be disqualified in disgrace.” I can see Dom craning his head, trying to hear our murmured words.
“Your wife needs to remain as calm as possible, Mr. Castle,” the doctor instructs as he turns to look at Dom.
“Professor Hernandez? You’re needed.” Carol pushes the door ajar and pops her head round it with an anxious frown.
“I’ll be there in a moment.” He doesn’t move.
“I think it’s urgent,” she persists. “I’ve got the psych team on the phone.”
“Very well. Remember: peace and rest. No stress.” He looks steadfastly at Dom, still making no move towards the door, and I wonder why the doctor, always so confident, is hesitating.
“Of course,” Dom says smoothly, reaching out to shake Professor Hernandez’s hand, and I see the doctor
glance over his shoulder as he closes the door behind him.
Immediately, Dom comes to sit on the bed and takes hold of my hand. I don’t resist. We’ve been through so much during our ten years of marriage. Maybe there have been as many lows as highs, but I don’t have the heart for any more battles. Annabel’s death was hard enough to bear in the depths of my unconscious mind; in the cold, harsh light of day, it’s like the pain is stripping the flesh from my bones. All I really have left of her is Aidan. Her twin. I want to hold him close and never let him go—as I should never have let my daughter go. But I can’t do it alone. I have to get better, get out of this hospital and home to my son. Whatever doubts I had about Dom, I need to trust him now—and pray that he will give me a second chance this time.
“I don’t remember wanting to be with Max. I don’t remember so much of what’s happened. But if you tell me that’s the case, I believe you. And I’m sorry.” I squeeze his fingers, feeling tears prick my eyes, and I don’t flinch when he closes his big hands around mine.
“I forgive you. Thousands wouldn’t,” he adds with a quirk of a smile.
“I’ll make it up to you. Somehow.”
“I’m sure you will.” He gives my hand another squeeze, and I notice that his wedding band is missing.
“Your ring?”
“Just being cleaned. Don’t panic.”
“I seem to have lost mine.” I glance towards my bedside table as if expecting it to suddenly materialize there.
“Being cleaned too.”
“It is? But how—”
“And maybe this year we’ll celebrate our wedding anniversary properly. When you’re better, of course. All the painkillers you’re on, not sure champagne is such a good idea right now.”
He offers a lopsided smile but I feel sick as the mention of champagne reminds me of the conversation with Max that evening in our kitchen, and of yet another row after Dom did indeed meet Lucy and Jasper at the champagne bar the following morning, as I’d worried might happen. I swallow hard as I suddenly remember, though, that the scene I replayed in my unconscious mind was, in fact, only half the story: Lucy brought a bottle of Cristal to our Sunday lunch that weekend, handing it to me with a big grin and saying it was a surprise late birthday gift. She’d already given me a present but felt I deserved an extra treat; she’d just needed help picking out the best vintage and knew Dom was the man for the job. I recall this now; I just can’t decide whether or not it was the truth. And I’m not certain whether Dom had simply been keeping a secret for my friend, or if he’d wanted to needle me with the paranoia he knew I’d feel.
As more pieces of my memory return, I wonder what other truths I’ll unearth—how many more tricks I’ll discover that my brain has played on me.
Dad’s usually the one who plays tricks.
I remember Annabel saying that to me on our day trip to Brighton. I still have no idea what we were doing there, why I’d bought those train tickets. Perhaps it doesn’t matter any more. As soon as I’m better, I’ll be going home. To my son. And I’m going to bathe him in all the love I know I felt for his sister too. I won’t ever forget that; I won’t ever forget her.
“I’m sure half a glass won’t hurt,” I say, trying to smile.
“And I’m sure I can lay my hands on a basket of fresh strawberries somewhere.” Dom grins. “I’ll even give you a back rub, if you like.”
“With a cuppa afterwards.” I force myself to get into the spirit of the moment. Dom looks happy; I’ve woken up; Aidan is safe at home.
Annabel, my darling girl. I miss you so.
“But of course. Whatever you want.”
“Thank you. For standing by me when I really don’t deserve. . .” I turn my face into the pillow, but I can’t hide the sob that wracks through my chest.
“Hey, come on now. What’s all this? Everything’s going to be OK. I’m here,” Dom says, slipping a hand beneath my cheek and turning my face to look at him. His eyes are so bright I almost expect to see sparks shooting from them.
“I’m just so sorry. About Max. About . . . everything.”
I need to tell him; I just can’t find the words, can’t catch my breath . . .
“Forget about Max. You’re all mine, Maddie, and I’ll never, ever let you go.”
“Oh, Dom. You said that to me once before, remember?” I say.
He loves me; he’ll forgive me for choosing our daughter . . .
“Course I do. I never forget anything. Not one single little thing.” He punctuates each word with a tiny kiss on the tip of each finger of my left hand in turn.
“Just me that has trouble remembering, then,” I say, reaching up hesitantly to stroke his cheek with my other hand. “I really can’t remember . . . I can’t believe I ever thought of Max in that way. I mean, he was your brother.” I close my eyes in shame.
“Sure. Well, he demonstrated exactly what little value he placed on family. I mean, for God’s sake, he got me to clean and repair that gun!” He shakes his head in disbelief.
“No . . . He did?” The idea is so horrendous I can hardly believe it.
“I got a few bits and pieces from Mum after she died, her jewelry and things, but that gun was the only personal possession Max inherited from our dad. That and his old army stuff.”
“The fatigues he wore that morning,” I say, pressing a hand to my quivering mouth as I remember his bulky form silhouetted in our front door.
“Quite. Anyway, Dad always talked a lot about his soldier days. The gun had a kind of bizarre sentimentality for Max, I guess. But if I’d thought for just one second that he would ever dream of firing it . . .” He rubs his hands tiredly over his face. “I thought he just wanted to polish up a family memento. More fool me.”
“You’re not a fool. He was the—” I can’t bring myself to say what I think of Max. “He obviously wasn’t the man I thought he was,” I say hoarsely, almost choking on the understatement. “I can’t believe I ever considered . . .”
“We really don’t have to talk about this now,” Dom says, smoothing my too-long fringe back from my face, his fingertips trailing down my hollowed cheeks, stroking my neck.
“Did you tell DCI Watkins? About me and . . . Max?” I ask, wondering if that’s why the detective seemed to be expecting something from me. Perhaps he was waiting for me to confess my infidelity—it would certainly have provided some kind of clue as to Max’s motives for wanting to punish me. Perhaps things had turned sour between us and I’d jilted him . . .
“No. Course not.” His big hands circle my collarbone, pressing down lightly. I feel uncomfortable but tell myself I need to let my husband get close to me again. I can’t flinch at every touch.
“I think we should tell him. And there are other things I need to—”
“Shh. Don’t talk. Just rest some more.”
“But why didn’t I go through with it?” I say, still puzzling over the very idea that I could have planned to run away with my blunt, quirky brother-in-law.
He pushes a finger against my lips. “I guess you just loved me more than you realized.”
“Yes,” I say, and it seems to make sense. Maybe, too, I’d realized I couldn’t take the twins away from their father, no matter how unhappy I was. Perhaps, despite everything, I’d decided to give our marriage another go, especially after reading Annabel’s diary. Maybe the shock of her words made me scared to leave our home. Maybe I just wanted to keep her safe. The dreadful irony of it makes my head swim.
“No doubt about it. We’re a team. We’ve always been a team. Max couldn’t compete with that. He never stood a chance of stealing you from me.”
“And do you think that’s why he . . . ?” A penny suddenly drops. “Do you think he was angry with me for backing out?” I say faintly.
“Yeah. I do. I saw him the night before the twins’ birthday. Poured whiskey down him in The Bell Inn. Listened to all his crap. He wasn’t happy, that’s for sure. In fact, he was furious.”
I try
to picture Max furious, his big body fired up with jealous rage. But whenever I think of him, I only see his clever, bright-eyed, almost mischievous expression as he lay stretched out on our living-room floor playing video games with the kids. I can’t picture him as my lover; I can’t picture him with a balaclava over his head and a gun in his hand.
“And you were angry with him,” he continues.
“Me? Angry with Max?”
“Oh, you know, he’d been coming round to our house so much. Every time I put my key in the door, he was there. I guess that accounts for how you came to cry on his shoulder in the first place. I was always working, and Max played on that. But then it got too much. He got too close, too intense.”
“I wanted him to back off a bit and he refused. And I was angry with him for that,” I say, thinking out loud, trying to reconnect with that feeling—turning my thoughts inwards, wondering why still nothing is falling into place. I don’t remember turning to Max; I don’t remember turning against him.
“Exactly. You never seriously wanted to leave me. Certainly not for Max.” He all but spits out his name. “You just wanted to make a point. I should have paid you more attention. I get that. It’s unfortunate you chose my brother, but that’s life. I can deal with it. I’ve got broad enough shoulders.”
So did Max, I think. Tall, broad-shouldered, a giant blotting out the summer’s day as he came to our home on the morning of the twins’ birthday, determined to get revenge, to punish me for changing my mind about leaving Dom to be with him . . .
It might be Uncle Max. He said he had an extra-special surprise for us . . .
I’d invited him to help us set up garden games for after the pool party, but Annabel was already half expecting him, I remember. Had Max hinted at something? Had he been sitting at home, his anger and frustration building, ready to be released on the day I’d planned to run away with him? The tickets were for that date—but I’d changed my mind, and he snapped.
The Perfect Family Page 17