“Will it ever come back to me? Exactly what happened, I mean? The truth, not what my brain has invented to join all the dots.” I look into his eyes to be sure that he’s giving me a straight answer, but his face blurs through my tears.
“Perhaps. Time will tell.” He smiles again and I wonder how I will survive without his gentle honesty; I wonder if I will ever see him again after I leave this place. Stash said he’s returning to Spain, and Dom will be back soon, and then I’ll be going home . . .
There’s a knock on the door and my heart jumps, but it’s just Carol, calling the doctor away to another emergency. He doesn’t rush to leave; he doesn’t hurry me as I share one final thought with him.
“I remember the rose bushes, the thorns. I remember Annabel’s hair . . . Something important. There is something important about the rose bushes . . .” I press my knuckles into my eyes again, forcing myself to think, to remember.
“I imagine there is, as your brain has continually returned to the image of them. Something significant has lodged in your unconscious mind. But we cannot know whether that will ever be unlocked. Perhaps it will never come back to you.” He nods curtly at the waiting nurse and then leans towards me, taking both my hands in his, his fingers cool and smooth, his eyes dark with sympathy.
“But my daughter has. Annabel is alive. She has come back to me. And that is enough.”
THIRTY-THREE
I find it curious that in the bright-dark of my unconscious mind, I was forever dreaming. And yet now, when my mind has healed and returned to full consciousness, my sleep is dreamless. Tired after my session with the doctor, I decided to shuffle my way back into bed and rest until Dom returned, not expecting to fall asleep. I awake with the stark awareness that I haven’t dreamed of Annabel, but I lie here in the dimly lit room thinking only of her.
My daughter is alive.
I understand now that my guilt at letting Annabel down became twisted, distorted by my traumatized brain into a conviction that she’d been shot and killed. And I get that Max wanted to punish me and at the same time bury the truth about his interest in Annabel. What I still don’t understand is how it came to be that Annabel lived, and I almost died . . .
I wonder if it means that, in the end, Max was driven more by anger towards me than a need to cover up how he’d been pursuing my daughter. After all, he took his own life; he knew he would never be prosecuted for how he’d been grooming her. It didn’t matter if she lived; it only mattered that I died. Or perhaps he simply couldn’t bring himself to hurt his niece, either through a belated attack of conscience or because he adored her too much. Maybe he pointed the gun at Annabel but changed his mind at the last moment, misfiring it and missing his target: me.
Or perhaps it means I didn’t choose Annabel after all . . .
I have no way of knowing. As Dom said: dead men tell no tales. And now the police have closed the case because as far as they are concerned, the victim survived and the perpetrator is dead. They can’t arrest Max; there can be no murder trial. Only it was never Max’s guilt that tormented me: it was mine. When I was forced at gunpoint to choose between my children, whose name did I speak?
No favorites; I love my children equally.
Dom has always maintained that I love Aidan best. Ever since the nightmare in Cornwall, it’s like he’s been obsessed with me having a favorite child. And even though Annabel is alive—perhaps because she’s alive and waiting for me at home—it feels more important than ever to know how I answered, what I said. I still have no clear memory of what actually happened on the morning of the twins’ birthday, and Dom can’t help me. Nor can the police.
There were only two witnesses.
I know that my last hope of finding peace again lies with my children: holding them, loving them—and asking them the question that still burns in my mind: What did Mummy do?
THIRTY-FOUR
“Grab your coat, we’re going home!”
I can’t stop smiling as Dom hands me my jacket, carefully helping me slip my arms into the sleeves and then supporting me as I make a clumsy lunge into the wheelchair. I take one last look at my room, whispering goodbye in my head to the platoon of machines still standing to attention in readiness for a new patient, followed by a proper thank-you and goodbye spoken aloud to Carol and everyone gathered at the nurses’ station.
“I forgot my wind chimes—and I wanted to say goodbye to Stash, too,” I say, looking over my shoulder, but Dom is already wheeling me off down the long corridor, out of the hospital and into the real world for the first time in what feels like an eternity.
It’s an amazing place; confined by my fragility to the immediate vicinity of my room, I hadn’t realized. I look wonderingly around me and blink back tears as I take in trees, a beautiful garden and a huge blue sky lit up with autumn sunshine. I gasp deep breaths of crisp, fresh air, drawing it greedily into my lungs, closing my eyes and allowing the sense of freedom to soak into me: it feels so good to be alive. To know that my children are alive and waiting for me at home, safe and being cared for by Lucy.
My best friend. I feel a pang of regret for the suspicions I harbored about her. All this time she’s been living in my home, Dom told me, caring for my children. Despite knowing the difficulties I’d had with Dom, despite how anxious and uncomfortable that must have made her, she put her own feelings aside to look after the twins. Keeping them safe for me until I came home. She’d given up her flat, which would account for the disconnected phone line. It still doesn’t explain why I haven’t been able to get hold of Lucy on her mobile, though; I make a mental note to ask her when I see her.
I can’t wait to see my friend again, but above all I’m fizzing with desperation to see the twins, longing to hold them and reassure them that I’m fine, that we’re all going to be fine. They must have been in pieces witnessing their mother being shot; I squeeze my eyes tightly shut against the painful thought, hoping and praying they didn’t also see their uncle turn the gun on himself. Dom said they’ve refused to say anything at all about that day, and that he’s just giving them time and space and, hopefully, when I’m home, we can talk things through as a family. That moment is all I can think of now.
Home.
This hospital has been my home for more than three months, and while I’m not sad to leave, there is one person I will genuinely miss. I didn’t get to see Professor Hernandez before Dom collected me. Carol told me the doctor hadn’t yet returned after being called away urgently to see another patient, but he was expected back later. I wanted to wait for him, only Dom was fidgeting restlessly for us to leave. He’d driven like a maniac to get back to me as fast as possible, and he said he just wanted to get me out of there and home where I belonged.
He didn’t stop pacing and pointedly checking his watch while another consultant examined me and somewhat reluctantly pronounced me fit for discharge on condition that I see my regular GP in the morning. Dom barely glanced at the advisory leaflets on how to keep up my exercises and the importance of good nutrition before shoving them in his jacket pocket. I could sense his bristling impatience as the consultant meticulously completed all my paperwork, before explaining that he would make contact right away with my GP to book an out-of-hours check-up first thing tomorrow. The consultant was doing his best not to be pressured into rushing, but eventually Dom simply brushed him off.
“That’s all fine, then. You’ve got our details. Now if you don’t mind, we need to hit the road.”
I was taken aback by his abruptness. Usually so charming, even smooth-talking, his rudeness seemed uncharacteristic. These doctors had brought me back to life; I owed them everything, and I had expected a little more gratitude from Dom, too. I saw the startled look on the consultant’s face and smiled apologetically, putting Dom’s brusqueness down to anxiety about getting back to the children. I was just as eager and only wished it had been Professor Hernandez seeing us off. It didn’t feel right to leave without thanking him in person.
; “Please, tell Professor Hernandez I’ll email him as soon as I’m home. Just to, you know, say thank you. And to let him know how I’m doing.” No, that sounded presumptuous, I thought; perhaps the doctor wouldn’t have the slightest interest in how I got on once I was no longer under his care. “If he’d like to know, that is,” I added. “But mainly I just want to thank him, really. He’s done so much for me. I couldn’t be more grateful. For everything. I want him to know that. You won’t forget, will you?”
“I’ll see he gets the message,” the consultant reassured me, shaking my hand. “I know Sebastián has been particularly concerned about you, and he’ll want to speak to your GP after you see her tomorrow. It is rather premature for you to be leaving hospital, by normal standards, and you will need to pursue the physiotherapy program the GP will put in place. But I appreciate you’d prefer to continue your rehabilitation from the comfort of your own home. I must stress, however, that your treatment will need to continue as an out-patient, and—”
“And we’re off!” Dom said, tipping my wheelchair back like I was doing wheelies, pushing me out of the examination room and back to my own room to collect my jacket and get ready to leave.
I laughed. There was really no reason to delay any longer, and in any case I was buzzing to get home myself. I waved and called out one last thank-you and then gripped the arms of the wheelchair, worried I was going to spill out of it at the speed Dom was pushing me. I smiled at his eagerness, feeling a wave of hope and happiness sweep me along in the wake of his high spirits.
* * *
His car is parked on the drive right outside the front doors, in readiness for a quick exit, and while he opens the trunk ready to stow the fold-up wheelchair inside, I swivel myself round to look up in awe at the impressive red-brick building, seeing it for the first time from the outside, thinking of the day I was carried up those steps on a stretcher. There would have been no flashing emergency lights, no screaming sirens; I had already been operated on and they’d brought me here to recuperate after my surgery at the West Mid. I must try to find out the name of that doctor, I think, wanting to thank whoever had saved my life in the first instance.
It’s so strange to think of all that frantic activity happening while I was unconscious, oblivious to everything, already locked deep inside my mind, plummeting back into the past and spiraling through memories. And Aidan, my darling boy, working through every recorder tune he knew, trying his best to wake me up. And it had worked: I did hear it.
I wonder if I might have woken sooner if Annabel had visited me. She never came alive to me in my dreams; my brain had well and truly absorbed the fact of her death and made it a reality. I don’t blame her for not wanting to see me in that terrible state, but I’m also proud of my son who, for once, had been brave enough to be one step ahead of his sister rather than linger two steps behind. I’m proud of both my children and feel so lucky to have them. To be going home to them. My beautiful twins. I can’t stop thinking of them.
As Dom helps me into the car and we cruise slowly down the drive, I twist around to take one last look at the hospital and then turn back to stare eagerly at the road ahead, praying for a smooth, trouble-free journey so I can get home quickly to Annabel and Aidan; I am aching to see them. Dom mentioned our wedding anniversary, but first we need to celebrate the twins’ tenth birthday, I think happily. We never even got to taste the birthday cake I went to so much trouble to make . . .
Lulled by daydreams and the motion of the car, I nod off, but not before vowing to myself that I will never take a second of my life—or my children’s lives—for granted ever again. I know Dom and I still have a lot to talk about, and there will need to be some significant changes, but from now on I am going to stop looking back to the past and keep my eyes firmly fixed on the future.
THIRTY-FIVE
“You’ve turned off too early,” I say sleepily, waking up in time to see that we’ve come off the A4 and are heading down Syon Lane. “Better to stay on a bit longer, isn’t it, and go direct to Hampton? Twickenham will be solid at this time on a Friday afternoon.” I rub my eyes; they feel gritty and tired, and my legs and back are stiffening up from sitting in the car for so long. I slowly rotate my head to ease out the knots of tension.
“I just need to stop off somewhere first,” Dom tells me, resting a reassuring hand on my knee. “Go back to sleep for a bit.”
He’s got his Ray-Bans on and I smile, remembering how Lucy always used to tease him for wearing them even when it’s not sunny. I lean my head against the window and peer out, noticing that as afternoon gives way to evening, it’s clouding over, the sky darkening to an oppressive leaden storminess that reflects against the seemingly endless rows of terraced houses, making it feel like we’re driving through a dull gray tunnel. We’re a long way from the green openness of the Buckinghamshire countryside.
“I think it might thunder,” I say, pulling my jacket more tightly around me. I shiver but it’s partly through sudden apprehension: I know Dom and I have some serious talking to do when we’re home, and the closer we get, the more I can’t help but worry about the conversations to come. I try really hard to put those thoughts aside for now, telling myself to focus on one thing at a time. I need to concentrate first on getting home and enjoying hot chocolate and lots and lots of cuddles with the twins. My eyes mist over at the thought of it; I rub my hands up and down my arms to comfort myself.
“Cold? Don’t worry. Not long now.”
“Great. I hope Lucy will keep the twins up for me. What did they say when you told them I’m coming home? I bet Annabel was dancing round the room and Aidan just sat there grinning. But they’re happy and excited, right?”
“You know the twins,” Dom says, eyes fixed on the road in concentration.
“I just can’t wait to see them,” I say, smiling until I catch sight of the signs for the West Middlesex Hospital. Goosebumps prickle up the back of my neck as we drive past it, and I crane my neck to look at the line of ambulances backing up outside A&E.
“Hope I don’t ever have to set foot in that place again,” Dom says grimly.
“Me too. Not that I can actually remember being there. It’s straight on, here, isn’t it?” I add as he turns right into Mogden Lane. It’s not like him to get his directions mixed up. On any car journey, long or short, Aidan always tries to out-smart his dad by knowing the fastest, most direct route, but Dom is never wrong. He has a brain like a spreadsheet.
“Nope,” he says shortly.
“But this is the way to—” I break off as I’m suddenly overcome by queasiness. Quickly I lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees, dipping my head to stem the sudden hot, sickening rush of anxiety flooding through me.
“Sit back, sweetheart, I can’t see the wing mirror.”
“Why are we going into the Ivybridge estate?” I ask weakly, obediently leaning back but still feeling sick. I try to keep my voice steady, not wanting to admit that my legs are trembling at the thought of going anywhere near the estate where he and his brother grew up.
“Just need to check on something. Sorry, yes, it’s at Max’s,” he says, glancing apologetically at me before turning back to watch the road. “But hear me out before you start panicking.”
“But I am panicking. Surely you don’t expect me to go inside your brother’s—”
“It’ll only take a second.”
He indicates left and turns sharply into Summerwood Road, the steering wheel making a slithery rasping noise as it slips through his hands when he straightens up and slowly steers the car along the winding road, weaving through the imposing gray tower blocks. I look up anxiously at them as we head deeper into the estate, deeper into Dom’s past. This is where he was born; this is the place he was so desperate to escape. He made it, and I know he’s always avoided coming back here, and I can’t believe he’s brought me here after what Max did.
I’m shocked into silence, staring mutely out of the windscreen, wondering if I’ll actually
recognize Max’s house, wondering if we’ll find it cordoned off by blue-and-white police tape, identifying it as the home of a killer, advertising it as an unoccupied building ripe for looting. I notice a group of seven or eight boys not much older than Aidan loitering under a lamp-post at the junction, smoking and eyeballing Dom’s car as we crawl past, pointing at us and jostling with each other. I glance nervously in the wing mirror, watching them disappear into the distance behind us. One of the boys flicks a V sign for no apparent reason, but I don’t pay him serious attention: my eyes are fixed on the bend in the road. I’m trying to remember the way in—just in case Dom forgets the way out.
When he pulls up at the curb in front of a dark-bricked, flat-fronted 1970s-style terraced townhouse, I see that there is no police tape but the windows of the house are boarded up with wooden slats.
“I’ll wait for you here.” I can hear the breathlessness in my voice.
“Ah.”
“What?” I say impatiently.
“Well, the truth is, there’s something I want to show you. Need to.” He takes off his Ray-Bans and turns to look at me, his eyes piercing.
“Show me?” Adrenaline is still pumping through me and I feel upset that Dom wouldn’t realize how awful it is for me to come here.
“Photos. Family ones. I’ve only just discovered Max had them and, well, I thought somehow they might help bring us both some closure on what he’s done. They belonged to . . .” He breaks off, rubbing his hands over his face.
“OK,” I say slowly, watching him struggle to get his emotions under control. “But I’d still rather wait here. If you could maybe bring them—”
The Perfect Family Page 19