We’re butterflies, Noah. Some of you fly, the rest of us get our wings ripped off. My wings had gone before I knew you. And I’m not sure wingless butterflies have anywhere to go.
But there was something else. Something you deserve to know, that it was wrong of me not to tell you. I was going to, one day, but it was never the right time and the longer I left it, the harder it became. I knew also that if I told you, I’d have to relive what happened, feel how raw my grief was. Still is. Bear yours.
We had a baby, Noah. I called him Theo. He taught me what love is really about—brutal honesty, and putting someone else first; doing what’s best for that person, no matter the consequence to yourself.
I pause for a moment, because I know about this, from Bea. Then I read on, because I want to hear April’s story, too.
He was sick, Noah. Really sick. It was his heart. He needed surgery, but after the first operation, something happened. He wouldn’t feed and then he got an infection. He was too sick for the surgery that would save his life.
He deteriorated quickly. I think that’s when I decided never to tell you, because watching your child suffer is harder than suffering yourself. To not be able to help, even harder. To know whatever you do, whoever you go to for help, there is no hope.
One day, he had several seizures. My doctor didn’t want to know. There was a children’s hospice but it was miles away. I had no money, no car—I couldn’t get there. And all just to prolong the agony. When I knew what was coming, I realized what I had to do.
Imagine for a moment. Your child is dying. What would you have chosen? Drawn-out suffering and pain, because there was never any doubt Theo was suffering. Or oblivion? Which do you give priority? Your baby’s reality, or your own? If you condemn your child to a lifetime of suffering, even a short one, what does that make you? Moral? A torturer? Is there a difference?
I told him how much I loved him. More than anything, more than my life. Wished with all my heart it could have been different for him. I don’t know if he heard me—his eyes stayed closed.
He was unconscious by then. I held a pillow over his face and suffocated him. Out of love, Noah. Will forged the death certificate. I didn’t know who else to turn to.
It wasn’t enough that I carried with me what I’d done, every second of every day. Will’s help came at a price. First it was me. Will was obsessed. He wouldn’t let me be with you. But he didn’t love me, and I couldn’t marry him. When I discovered I was pregnant with his child, I ran, but he found me. Threatened to tell the police I’d killed Theo, then took our daughter. Elodie. But nothing was enough for Will. Even when he didn’t want me himself, he couldn’t bear me being with anyone else.
I’ve tried to escape him. Moved away, changed my name, but it didn’t matter where I went. He always found me. And I learned a long time ago that he’ll use whatever means are at his disposal. You see, Will always gets what he wants. But not this time.
I used to think life was cheap. That we were no more than a raindrop or a dandelion seed, but I was wrong. It was Theo who taught me that life is so very precious; that each day is a gift; that there is pain in loss, but a broken, ragged beauty in what it leaves us.
Life at all costs, Noah . . . That’s what most of us believe, but have you thought what it really means?
That however great the suffering, the pain, the futility, we must cling on for every breath, every second, whatever the cost, blind to the truth: that if life is truly unbearable, death can only be beautiful.
I put the letter down. This was what Lara was talking about. April’s comment, I’d find out. It’s why April never exposed Will, too, because he would have told the world what she’d done, without a thought for the most devastating of consequences—for Ella.
Tired of life, April had chosen death, but there’s no doubt in my head. For Ella, and for me, too, we would choose life. Just as she pulled me back from the hilltop a long time ago, in a sense she’s saved me again—this time from alcoholism and apathy.
All those years, April and Will had kept their secret, until it was discovered by the one person who stood to lose the most. Their daughter.
In the box are a couple of photos, including a heartrending one of April and a baby. He’s smiling. There’s the heart-shaped stone and spotted feather I remember from way back. A few other things, but then I find one of our wedding invitations, which brings a lump to my throat.
As I read the letter a second time, I hear the echo of April’s voice, before it’s lost, among the fields, the hills, and beyond. I sit there holding it, my last gift from her, undecided whether I’ll show it to Ryder. Now she’s gone, what difference will it make to anyone?
If the right questions are asked, the truth may yet come out at the trial. Or if Ryder finds out how Theo died . . . That’ll be the measure of Will’s decency, because there’s Ella to think of. Ella, the person who matters most. And it occurs to me to keep the letter for her to read in the future, at some point, so she will know what kind of woman her mother was.
The breeze finds its way through the open door, fanning the flames that have burst into life. Noticing the slow curl of smoke across the room, I walk over and throw the window open, as I do, disturbing the dozens of moths that have settled while I’ve been away. Forgetting the letter, I watch them, the delicate shading of their wings, the barklike patterns that camouflage them, as they flutter outside, drifting away, a small cloud that blends into the landscape.
As the last of them fade away, I think about April. Much as there are people who’d like to try, chalking up huge legal bills in the process, I’m not sure they’ll ever prove she killed Norton. But the way I see it, it doesn’t matter. However you look at it, Norton’s was a worthless life, just as Will got what was coming to him. You don’t need the police and highly paid lawyers to work that out.
I remember what she said, a long time ago. Maybe she was right. We’d felt too much happiness. Maybe when you live as intensely as she had, feel such extremes of emotion, you burn out before your time. It’s how I’ll remember her. A blazing star that broke the greyness of my ordinary little life.
After carefully folding the letter, I replace it in the box. That afternoon, fueled by a need for change, I run, five miles, hard. Years ago, I used to run, but I’m older, unfit; it’s too far, too soon so that I’m out of breath, damp with sweat, when I reach the point along a wooded lane where the trees open out.
I gaze at the view that lies before me. A cold front has passed through, sweeping away the fog and drizzle, leaving crystal-clear air, so that I can see for miles, across hills and fields, to the sliver of sea on the horizon.
As the sun’s rays break through the clouds, lighting the lane in front of me, I’m thinking of April. Then my thoughts turn to Ella, only instead of my usual angst at what they’ve both been subjected to, I feel an unexpected rush of warmth. And with it, a new perspective. April made her choice. What matters now is Ella. And I have the strangest conviction she’ll be fine.
Suddenly, the chains that for so long have bound me fall away. Stepping out from the shadows, I start to run again, without their weight, faster, lighter; feeling the weak sun’s touch on my skin, the pounding of my heart underneath; leaving a past that has held me back, moving on.
Photo Credit: Henry Wells Photography Ltd
Debbie Howells is the author of The Bones of You, her debut thriller which sold internationally for six-figures in several countries. While in the past she has been a flying instructor, the owner of a flower shop, and a student of psychology, she currently writes full-time. Debbie lives in West Sussex with her family, please visit her online at DebbieHowells.com. Please visit her website at DebbieHowells.com
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The Beauty of the End Page 27