by Amy Andrews
She backed up, her hip sliding along the bench. ‘It’s fine,’ she said quickly, shaking her head. She didn’t want him to touch her, to comfort her.
She just needed a moment.
There’d been other children in the last nine years. Of course there had been. Granted, they weren’t common at the nursing home. But residents’ grandchildren would come to visit and she’d coped. Smiled and agreed they were the most beautiful babies in the whole entire world and got on with her job.
But they were on the other side of the globe—not here.
Not in Fletch’s arms.
Not looking like a carbon copy of Ryan.
She watched as the three adults looked at her, frozen in their positions, lost for words, waiting for her next move, not daring to even breathe in case she cracked into a thousand pieces. Only Christopher seemed oblivious, bouncing up and down in Doug’s arms, making truck noises with his little bow lips.
Just as Ryan had done.
God, she was going to be sick.
‘Excuse me for a moment, please,’ she gasped as she whirled away from them and hurried to the main bathroom.
She lost her lunch and probably her breakfast too as she heaved into the toilet. A knock sounded on the door. ‘Go away,’ she yelled, knowing it would be Fletch.
Tears pricked at her eyes and she pressed her lids shut tight, beating them back. She’d cried her yearly allocation of tears at the cemetery a few weeks ago.
They were the boundaries she’d set herself and they’d worked for her.
And if she started now she might never stop.
After a few minutes Tess pulled herself up to sit on the closed lid, psyching herself up to go back out there. She had to do it, she knew that, but her cheeks warmed at the very thought. She’d completely and utterly embarrassed herself. Trish and Doug were guests in Fletch’s home, not to mention family, and she’d made them feel uncomfortable.
And then, of course, there was Christopher…
Tess stood and looked at herself in the vanity mirror. She looked even whiter than her usual English pallor.
She looked like she’d seen a ghost.
She grimaced at the irony then turned on the tap, brushing her teeth and scrubbing vigorously at her face with cool water to put some colour back into her cheeks.
She dried off then inspected her face again. Marginally better.
‘Go!’ she ordered her reflection.
Thankfully her feet obeyed and Tess found herself walking out to join everyone, the thrum of her heartbeat in her ears. They had all joined Jean in the lounge area and were laughing at Christopher, who was patting Tabby.
Fletch, who wasn’t really tuned in to the conversation, rose immediately when Tess came into his peripheral vision.
‘You okay?’ he asked anxiously.
Tess nodded as she drew closer. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised to Trish and Doug, whose attention was now also firmly on her. Thankfully, Jean was preoccupied with her grandson and Tabby. ‘It was just a bit of a shock.’
Trish nodded. ‘It’s okay,’ she assured gently. ‘It really is quite freaky how similar they are.’
‘No.’ Tess shook her head. ‘It’s not okay. It was rude and I’m sorry.’
‘Well, let’s just agree to disagree on that one.’ Fletch’s sister grinned. ‘Are you going to join us?’ she asked.
Tess wanted to say no. To plead a headache or busy herself in the kitchen. But she’d already been unforgivably rude.
‘It’s fine if you don’t want to,’ Trish murmured.
‘Don’t be silly, Trish,’ Jean said as her wandering attention came to rest on the byplay. She frowned at her daughter.
‘Of course Tess wants to join us.’ She patted the empty lounge next to her. ‘Come and sit here, darling. Trish has brought one of the centre’s little cherubs over for a visit.’
She squeezed Christopher’s cheek and he squealed in delight then she looked at her daughter reproachfully. ‘Trish, you know how much Tess adores children, why wouldn’t she want to join us?’
Nobody said anything for a moment as Tess realised that Jean didn’t have a clue that Christopher was her grandchild. Tess saw the flash of grief in Trish’s eyes and noticed Doug’s hand slide onto his wife’s shoulder and squeeze.
‘Of course I’ll join you.’ Tess smiled at Jean brightly.
Jean smiled back. ‘Come and meet…oh, dear.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘What did you say his name was, Trish?’
Trish gave her mother a wan smile. ‘Christopher, Mum.’
‘Oh, what a gorgeous name.’ Jean clapped her hands a few times. ‘Maybe you can call this one…’ she tapped Trish’s belly ‘…Christopher if it’s a boy? Tess?’ She turned back to Tess. ‘Did you know Trish was pregnant? You girls are so secretive these days!’
There was no need for a reply as Christopher’s giggle distracted them all. Tabby was sniffing the toddler and her whiskers were buzzing the little boy’s neck. He looked at his mother excitedly and said, ‘Doggy!’
Trish laughed. ‘Yes. Tabby. Can you say Tabby?’
Christopher gave another dribbly smile. ‘Yabby, yabby, yabby!’
Everyone laughed then. Even Tess. Even though her heart ached just looking at Fletch’s nephew.
After half an hour that stretched interminably Doug stood and announced it was time for a yawning Trish to go back to bed. Trish protested but Doug was firm. After a noisy round of goodbyes Jean and Fletch saw the trio to the door.
Tess watched them go, a lump rising in her throat as Christopher, who was grinning at her from over Doug’s shoulder, waved madly at her. She’d spent the time they were there scrupulously not looking at him, not touching him, but there was just something about a happy, waving toddler that had her automatically waving back, even if she couldn’t raise a corresponding smile.
Ryan had been such a friendly, easygoing little boy too.
It wasn’t until she heard the door click closed that Tess finally relaxed.
* * *
Fletch crawled into bed just before midnight. It had been an eventful day. He’d tried to engage Tess in some conversation over his sister’s unannounced visit but she’d insisted she was fine and didn’t want to talk about it.
It was a touch too déjà vu for him but he’d learned ten years ago that Tess was hard to sway when her mind was made up. He lifted the sheet carefully and slowly lowered himself onto the mattress. He’d fallen into the habit of immediately turning his back on her but tonight, try as he may, he just couldn’t. He propped himself up on his elbow and watched her for a while.
Her breathing was deep and steady but even in her sleep tonight her eyebrows seemed to be knitted in a frown. He wished he’d had the desire to confront her today about her avoidance issues. To say the things that needed to be said. That should have been said a decade ago.
But this wasn’t a do-over of their marriage. This was her doing him a favour for a couple of months. He couldn’t change what had happened back then in the aftermath of
Ryan’s death. The way grief had pushed them apart. And ultimately what he’d done when he’d been at emotional rock bottom.
There were so many things that had come between them. One heaping on top of the other until neither of them had been able to see the other any more.
And that wasn’t going to be fixed by any enforced intimacy.
Fletch fell back against the pillows as a familiar rush of disgust enveloped him, his actions that September night still haunting him.
But that too couldn’t be changed.
He’d known it the second it had been done. And wishing it was different didn’t make it so.
So he did what he’d done every night since she’d been back in his bed, what he’d done for so many nights after Ryan had died and she’d started shutting him out.
He rolled away from her and shut his eyes.
* * *
Tess woke to a wet feeling on her hand. Her eyes flew open as if they’d been zapped by
a bolt of electricity. She backed up, accidentally nudging a prone Fletch as Tabby’s dear old face filled her entire vision and the low, urgent whine went straight to a place deep and dark inside her.
Her heart beating like a runaway train, Tess’s thoughts were incoherent for a moment or two.
It was Fletch who said, ‘What is it, Tabby? Is Jean okay?’ as he climbed out of bed.
Tess followed on autopilot. To Jean’s room. The bed was empty. The bathroom—also empty. Then quickly out to the lounge. His laptop occupied the coffee table but there was no Jean. Around the dividing wall into the kitchen, where Jean was muttering to herself as she paced up and down.
Fletcher felt a rush of relief like a slug of tequila swamp him. ‘Mum?’
Jean’s hair was wild, like that of a mad scientist, as she looked at both of them with crazy eyes. ‘Where’s Ryan?’ she demanded, her voice high with distress, her tone urgent. ‘Tess? Where’s Ryan? I thought I could hear him crying and I’ve searched the entire house but he’s nowhere.’ She put a hand to her mouth and her eyes grew large. ‘What if he’s been kidnapped?’
Whatever Tess had been expecting, it hadn’t been this. She felt as if Jean had punched her in the stomach and she grabbed for the bench top to steady herself. Fletch had assured her that Jean didn’t remember Ryan.
Just as she hadn’t remembered poor little Christopher.
Tess didn’t know what to say. Not after today. Not with Christopher’s sweet little face such a poignant reminder of her own little boy. She could barely breathe, let alone form a coherent response.
‘He’s at Trish’s,’ Fletch said. ‘Having a sleepover.’
Tess flinched as his hand came to rest on her shoulder, just as Doug’s had done today with Trish.
‘Trish wanted to give us a night off,’ he embellished.
Jean seemed to sag as her agitation settled almost immediately. Tabby licked her hand and the transformation was complete. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’ she accused mildly. ‘I was worried half to death.’
Fletch flicked a glance at Tess. She still hadn’t moved. Her distress wasn’t as palpable as his mother’s had been but he could tell she was rocked to the core. He wanted to go to her but his mother’s needs were more immediate.
And a lot easier to fathom!
Jean patted her chest where the lacy yoke of her nightie met bare neck whilst she absently stroked Tabby with her other hand. ‘That is so like Trish, though, isn’t it?’ She shook her head. ‘I wish those two would stop wasting time and get pregnant. They’ll make such great parents.’
Fletch nodded, his pulse settling. ‘Would you like a warm milk, Mum?’
Jean gave him an indulgent smile, the missing Ryan already forgotten. ‘That would be lovely, dear. Tess?’
Tess blinked. She could see Jean’s lips moving but she couldn’t hear any of the words. There was a pain in her chest, right in the centre of her heart, that was expanding rapidly and she could barely breathe.
‘Tess?’
Fletch’s deep grumbly voice pierced her inertia. She looked at him. What did he want? What had he said?
‘Milk?’ he prompted in response to her blank look.
Tess shook her head as the pain became a pressure that built relentlessly. Pushing against her rib cage, clogging her throat, pressing against the backs of her eyes.
She couldn’t stay here. And drink milk. She couldn’t pretend that her mother-in-law’s state tonight hadn’t affected her. It may have sprung from Jean’s confused condition but to her anything to do with Ryan was absolutely crystal clear.
And sometimes still so very real.
No matter how much she tried to ignore it.
‘Tess?’ Fletch prompted again, laying his palm over hers.
She pulled away. ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Thanks,’ she added. ‘I think I’m just going to go back to bed. It’s late…’
Fletch nodded. ‘Of course.’ He searched her face, her amber eyes looking huge in her thin, haunted face. ‘I’ll be in later,’ he murmured.
But he doubted she’d heard him as he spoke the words to her retreating back.
* * *
Tess lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, while her body waged a war between sleep and grief. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to be able to shut her eyes and let a black tide wash her away into the embrace of a deep, dreamless slumber. And she wanted to be there before Fletch came back to bed.
But memories of Ryan—memories she’d spent a decade suppressing—refused to be quelled and swept her along on another black tide. A rough-and-tumble ride that left her feeling bruised and battered.
The way his hair had smelled. His delighted little giggle. His fat pudgy fingers that had wound into her hair as he’d sucked his thumb. His father’s silver-green eyes that had lit with mischief or wonder. The way every single discovery had been met with complete awe. The way he’d looked up at her as he’d fed at her breast, with such unconditional love and trust.
Trust that she had destroyed completely as she’d slept that morning ten years ago while her son had drowned.
* * *
‘Tess?’ Fletch approached the bed tentatively half an hour later. His mother was settled back in bed with Tabby, blissfully unaware of the emotional carnage she’d left in her wake. ‘Tess?’ he said again.
The room was dark and her back was to the door but he knew she was awake. He could sense her turmoil as if it had flashed out at him like a lighthouse beacon.
‘I’m sorry, Tess. She hasn’t mentioned Ryan in well over a year. It was probably having Christopher here today that triggered latent memories.’
He climbed into bed beside her, sitting up with his back against the headboard. Her shoulder was bare and his fingers itched to touch it. To loan her some comfort.
To seek some comfort.
But he couldn’t bear her to flinch at his touch again.
‘Tess?’
Tess, her eyes squeezed tight, contemplated continuing to ignore him but it was patently obvious he hadn’t bought into her act. She opened her eyes on a huffed-out breath. She rolled onto her back. ‘It’s fine, Fletch. Go to sleep.’
He looked down at her, her amber gaze glimmering with unshed tears and tightly reined emotions. ‘I can’t.’
Her eyes, accustomed to the dark, watched him for a moment or two. He looked like someone had knocked the stuffing out of him and she realised that Jean’s outburst hadn’t been easy for him either. Both the distressing state of her and the subject matter.
She pushed herself up to sit beside him, ensuring there was a decent distance between them, and they sat contemplating the darkness around them for a few moments.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tess murmured. ‘It was… I got a bit of a shock when Jean said… I wasn’t expecting it.’
Fletch nodded. ‘I know.’
They fell quiet again. ‘I miss him,’ he said eventually.
Tess squeezed her eyes shut again as the pressure spiked behind her eyeballs. ‘Don’t, Fletch.’
‘He loved her, though, didn’t he, my mum? Do you remember how he used to call her Ninny?’ He laughed. ‘And she used to call him Rinny?’
Tess drew her knees up and shook her head. She didn’t want to be sucked back into those days. When their lives had been perfect and nothing had been able to touch them. The pressure became unbearable. ‘Fletch.’
Fletch heard the note of warning in her voice underpinned by a tautness that could have strung piano wire. He shoved a hand through his hair. ‘Damn it, Tessa, I’m so sick of not talking about him…of not having anyone to talk about him to. Surely after ten years we can reminisce without it being so…fraught?’
His voice may have been low and husky but to Tess it sounded like a clanging gong in the silence, and the dam holding back her grief started to crack.
Fletch turned to implore her. He just wanted to remember his son for a few minutes with the one person who had loved him with the same intensity and devotio
n.
Couldn’t she give him that at least?
He noticed her hands trembling first against her drawn-up thighs. Then her shoulders shaking. Then a low noise, like a wounded animal. ‘Tessa?’
Tess shut her eyes on a sob that broke free from her throat. A tear squeezed out. Then another.
Fletch felt as if a giant hand had grabbed a big loop of his intestine and twisted—hard. Why hadn’t he just kept his big trap shut? ‘Tess?’
She couldn’t respond. Couldn’t talk. Daren’t open her mouth for fear all her locked-in grief would come spewing out and she’d never survive the fallout.
He turned on his side, reaching out a hand, touching her shoulder, waiting for the flinch, determined this time to push through it and comfort her. But there was only more sobbing.
Not great honking sobs either. Pitiful, muted ones.
Apportioned. Rationed. Kept strictly under control.
But he knew what they’d cost her.
When she’d announced two months after Ryan’s death there’d be no tears, she’d been true to her word.
Still, he hadn’t meant to upset her. He’d just needed…
What? What had he needed?
Connection.
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured, scooting closer. ‘God, Tess don’t…please.’
He pushed his hands into her hair and swiped at her tears with his thumbs. ‘Shh, it’s okay, honey, don’t.’
Even though he knew if anyone needed to cry it was Tess, her pathetic mewing was so heart-wrenching he couldn’t bear it. He leaned in and kissed her forehead. Kissed her eyelids. His lips mingled with her tears. ‘Shh,’ he crooned as he tasted both their salt and their anguish.
His palms moved down to cradle her face as he followed the tracks of her tears, sipping at them as he went. Down the slopes of her prominent cheekbones. Into the dip of the hollows beneath. Past her nose. To the corner of her mouth.
‘Shh,’ he murmured against her lips. ‘Shh.’
And then the soft butterfly presses became something else. Something different.
Something more.
Tess felt her wretchedness ease as something altogether took over. Something unusual yet familiar. Hesitant yet insistent.
Something separate from her grief.