Who We Were Before

by Leah Mercer

  I wince as the pain in my head starts up again, even stronger now as the painkillers wear off. Only two more minutes, I think as I glance up at the arrivals board, and then her train will be here. I lean against a post and close my eyes for a second, then scan the stream of passengers swarming off the train.

  There she is. Her blonde head bobs up, and I start towards her.

  ‘Hello! You finally made it.’ I smile in what I hope is a friends-only way, and she reels me in for a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Christ, what happened to you?’ she asks when she pulls away. I give her full credit for not wrinkling her nose at my alcoholic aftershave.

  I shake my head, taking her case. ‘I know. Don’t ask.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry, I’m here now. I’ll sort you out.’ She throws me a flirtatious grin, and my heart sinks.

  ‘Let’s go grab some coffee,’ I say, then I lead her through the crowd and over to the nearest café. I buy us two cups and a croissant, then grab the last empty table.

  As we settle into our chairs, Fiona reaches out to touch the wound on my head, then pulls me in for a hug. ‘So what did happen?’ she asks, moving back. ‘Are you okay?’

  I close my eyes for a second, the events of the past day running through my head. Where to start? I sigh and force my lids open, and that’s when I see her.

  ‘Zoe!’ The word burst from me, and Fiona turns to follow my stare.

  ‘Zoe? Did you see Zoe?’ she asks, brow furrowed. There’s nothing there but a sea of faces.

  I shake my head, unsure for a second if I really did see her or if that knock on the head is causing hallucinations. But no, I’m certain it was her, although what she’s doing at the station is a mystery. I spin frantically in all directions, trying to catch sight of her again, but the sea of travellers has swallowed her up.

  Shit. I gulp air, trying to keep a grip on the emotions prickling my insides. If she saw me and Fiona together, what the hell must she be thinking right now? I can only imagine.

  ‘I’ve got to get back to the hotel,’ I say to Fiona, my voice tight with urgency, ‘and see if that’s where she’s gone.’ If I wanted to see Zoe before, now every bit of me is vibrating with desperation. I can’t let her think I’m having an affair – although I came close to it, I know now that’s not what I want. And I don’t want her to think I didn’t give a fuck about her being missing, and invited another woman out here to take her place. No one could take her place, even if things have changed, even if things can never be the same again. No one can, and right now, I don’t even want to try.

  Fiona’s staring up at me, her face creased in confusion. ‘What is Zoe doing here?’

  I sigh and put a hand on her arm. Christ, what a mess. What an absolute arse I am. ‘It’s a long story. Look, I’m really sorry. I’ll fill you in on everything, I promise. But right now, I need to find Zoe.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Her voice is tight, and I can tell by the tense set of her shoulders she’s not exactly happy with this turn of events. Not that I can blame her.

  ‘No!’ The word comes out a bit too forcefully, and I clear my throat. ‘I mean, no, thanks. Look, Fiona . . .’

  She puts a hand on my arm. ‘It’s all right, Edward. Well, sort of.’ She stands, then grabs the handle of her case. ‘I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed. This weekend could have been a lot of fun. We could be a lot of fun. I always have a good time when I’m with you. But if that’s not what you’re looking for . . .’ She shrugs. ‘You’re a great bloke, but it’s obvious you and your wife still have some issues to sort out. I don’t fancy getting caught in the middle of all that.’

  Relief courses through me, and I let out my breath. ‘Are you going to be okay? Do you want me to get you a ticket for the next train back?’

  She lifts an eyebrow. ‘After everything I’ve gone through to get here? I’m not going to turn around and head home now! Nope, I’m going to see Paris.’ She waves a hand in the air. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll hop on one of those naff city tour buses and I’ll be fine.’

  I nod, then kiss her quickly on the cheek. ‘All right. I’m sorry, Fiona.’ I am, too. She’s a wonderful woman, but I realise now she’s not what I’ve been looking for.

  ‘It’s okay, Edward,’ she responds, swinging the case around in front of her as if she’s ready to take off. ‘Now, go.’ She gives me a gentle shove. ‘Go find your wife.’

  61

  ZOE, SUNDAY, 10.45 A.M.

  I follow the tide of people down an endless escalator and through a smelly corridor, and then I bump up against a ticket barrier. This must be the metro; I’m in such a daze I didn’t even see the signs. A man crashes into my back as I stop, and I step aside, watching person after person feed their ticket into the slot and the doors slide open and shut, open and shut.

  ‘Madame?’ I blink as a woman with kind eyes and a huge camera looped around her neck holds a ticket out towards me. ‘I’m finished with this ticket and it has some extra journeys on it. Would you like it?’ I struggle to make out the words with her heavy German accent, but I nod my thanks, take the ticket and slide it into the slot. The doors open with a clang and I push through them, trailing along another corridor until I come to a packed platform.

  I stand in a trance as the trains whoosh by, feeling the grimy air smack my face just like those countless times in the days after Milo’s death – like I still do, actually. But nothing, no matter how long I stand here and wish for an alternate reality, will change what happened.

  There was a moment in the ambulance, right after the paramedics gently gathered up my boy and secured him to a rigid board, when it looked like he would pull through. One broken leg, the paramedics said, and a knock on the head, but all his vital signs seemed stable.

  A lucky escape, I imagined Edward and I saying later, when Milo was tucked up home safely in bed, leg encased in plaster. I pictured one hand cradling my stomach and the baby nestling inside, the other entwined with my son’s fingers. A reminder of how much we have, of how much we need to cherish. A reminder that we can’t control life, but we can embrace all that we do have.

  And then Milo crashed. By the time he got to the hospital, his heart had stopped beating. A massive internal bleed, the consultant said, after they’d tried and tried to resuscitate him. I stood beside my son, holding his hand, unable to let go . . . even when they said they needed to transfer him to the morgue. My phone rang and rang, and I knew I should answer, that Edward needed to know, but I couldn’t. I was frozen, locked together with my son, unable to break the grip because I knew that once I did, he really would be gone.

  The hot wind and clatter of another train passing by brings me back to where I am, and I shake my head. Embrace all that we have.

  All I have right now is . . . nothing.

  62

  ZOE, SEPTEMBER 2013

  It’s almost three months since Milo’s accident. Three months, and yet it feels like it was yesterday and also years ago. The only thing keeping me tethered to time, to the passing of minutes and days, is the baby inside me – the baby Edward still doesn’t know about.

  I know it’s crazy that I haven’t told him. I know I need to. It would give him hope, it would lift him up, even though he seems to be doing okay. He’s functioning, and that’s more than you can say about me. He gets up in the morning, he puts on his clothes . . . he even went back to work last week. I stay in bed for hours until hunger and the need to pee get the better of me. I wolf down whatever casserole or endless dish of lasagne is still piled up in the freezer, then crawl back into bed and sink into sleep. Sleep is my saviour right now, blotting out the world and everything in it. Everything except the life growing inside of me, cushioned inside my limp body.

  This baby is my secret, the only part of me that’s truly alive. I suppose that’s why I want to keep her to myself – because for some reason, I know it’s a girl. Once I tell Edward, the baby is out in the world, part of the fabric of our family.
I can’t bear that the fabric of our family no longer includes Milo. I don’t want to give Edward another reason to move us on, either, away from the memory of the one we lost. He seems determined enough to do that already.

  I wince at the thought of Milo’s empty room, of my husband’s blank face as he packed our son’s belongings – moving back and forth, back and forth, robotically filling each box as if the objects meant nothing. I try to imagine placing those boxes on a shelf, then resuming daily life, daily routine, as if nothing has happened . . . like my husband has. God, just yesterday he asked what we needed at the supermarket. How the hell do I know? How the hell can I care? I can barely remember to breathe, let alone focus on loo-roll supplies.

  A sharp pain goes through me and I roll onto my side in the bed, letting out a groan. The house is thankfully silent – Edward’s at work, and my parents have given themselves the morning off from watching over me for once. I draw my knees up as the pain continues, gripping my abdomen and twisting it like someone wringing out a washcloth.

  Ah, shit, that hurts!

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad down the hallway to the toilet for some paracetamol, and that’s when I feel it: wetness between my legs, liquid trickling down the inside of my thigh. In a panic, I tear down my knickers, catching my breath at the blood staining the lining. I sink down on the toilet, feeling the drip drip drip of more blood leaving my womb, as my baby drains away and the very last piece of life inside of me dies.

  63

  EDWARD, SUNDAY, 11 A.M.

  After leaving Fiona, I take yet another cab back to the hotel, my mind toying with thoughts of why Zoe was at the train station. Did she use the money I left to buy another ticket? Does that mean she’s on a train home right now? God, I hope not. I can’t bear to think I’ve hurt her like that . . . if she even cares any more. I suppose I can understand why she might not, given how cold I’ve been. I pop another painkiller, realising how selfish it was to try to force her back to me, force her to move on. You can’t ‘move on’ from your son’s death. I know. I’ve certainly tried.

  I think back through the years and all the ways I’ve chivvied her forward. Marriage, the house, the second baby . . . I was the one to push all those things. Perhaps it hasn’t just been her running the course of this relationship, like I’d believed. I may have resented her holding us hostage over the last couple of years, but we were in this thing together. Are in this thing together.

  Finally, here I am, back at the hotel yet again. She has to be here; this must be the end of the road. After all that has happened, I need to tell her I understand. And that I love her, because I do. Buried underneath all that hurt and resentment – and under my own grief that I never really let myself feel – is a well of emotion for her, and for us.

  ‘Oh, monsieur!’ The receptionist’s head snaps up as I enter, and my heart leaps. I’m sure she’s going to say Zoe is waiting in the room. ‘I am so very sorry, but it is now checkout time. Please pack your things and exit your room as quickly as possible, as we have other guests arriving.’

  Shit. I manage to nod my head. ‘Okay.’ How the hell am I going to track down my wife if I’m booted from the one place she knows where to find me? I gather my things inside the minuscule space, noticing the note is just where I left it and the money beside it is untouched. Zoe obviously hasn’t returned since this morning – the only thing I can think of is she’s camped out at the station, waiting for our train. There’s no reason for her to come back here, is there? Especially if she thinks I’m with another woman.

  God.

  I sink down on the bed and lower my aching head into my hands. Then I take the suitcase, head into the lift once more and give the receptionist the key. A few hours remain until the train home and right now, I need some fresh air before I pass out from either the lack of sleep or the pain.

  I push open the doors and stand on the pavement once again, so very, very tired of moving. A strong urge for a bit of calm, of peace, of relaxation comes over me, and I know where I need to go.

  It’s not a long walk to the Seine, but each step feels like I’m trudging through sludge. Every bone in my body aches to sit down, to lie down, and close my eyes for just one second. The pounding in my head has subsided to a dull throb and my wound stings, but if I can make it to the river – to stare down into the water, like I used to so many times before – maybe the mess of my life will be bearable. Because no matter how I’ve tried in the past few years to make my world something I can cope with, I know now that what I created was just on the surface, an alternate reality that dissolved in front of me.

  I cross the bridge to a small island, then go down some stairs to a pathway by the river. I walk for a bit, breathing in the scent of trees and damp river water, a sense of calm slowly stealing over me. When my legs can’t take me a step further, I sink onto a bench, close my eyes, and let the sound of water lapping concrete lull me to sleep.

  64

  ZOE, SUNDAY, 11.30 A.M.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here as trains screech into the station, but I don’t care. Even though I’m in a foreign city, years from when I lost the baby, this feels exactly like that day: the absolute emptiness, the despair, the finality. After the doctor told me what I already knew – then scraped whatever remained from inside me – I stood in the station for hours, thinking how I could get on one of those trains and disappear. Edward would adjust, like he already did after Milo, and he’d never know I lost another child too.

  No, not lost – killed. Because that’s what it is. I couldn’t keep Milo safe, and I couldn’t keep the baby safe, either, even though I tried to cocoon her from everything, from anything that harmed her. Of course the doctor said it was just one of those things, that miscarriages are common, and that there was nothing I could have done – a brutal echo of people’s words after Milo’s accident.

  The death of that baby was the final nail in the coffin of my motherhood, and so when Edward started up again about having another child, I couldn’t even listen to the words. I had to turn away, before he could see how they scalded me. Another baby my womb would discard? Another life to have taken away? No, not a chance. This baby was a gift, and I’d rejected it.

  Perhaps if I told him about the miscarriage, he’d have understood. But I couldn’t bear to face any more blame, to see it on his face even if he’d never say the words. Those accusations he’d flung at me after Milo had branded my heart, making it bloody and raw. There was no way I could open it up again.

  And so I stood there, that bleak day, watching train after train, unable to move forward or step back. The sky darkened, the trains came less often, and the passengers became less numerous.

  ‘Last train to London!’ the stationmaster called, and the train glided into the station. My legs carried me forward and I sank into the plush seat, my womb still contracting. At Waterloo, I got off and walked across the concourse, then sat on a bench outside until morning – a bench away from the river, a bench on the street. I didn’t call Edward; I didn’t call anyone. I just sat there, numb, until some part of me urged me home. And ever since, every day, I follow that same route: home to Waterloo, Waterloo to home. Insert pub in the middle.

  Someone jolts my arm, and I blink, momentarily surprised at the French babbling around my ears. Home. What is that? Why bother now, anyway? Milo’s gone, Edward will go soon, but it’s not the house I’m really thinking of. It’s the people in my life who made me safe, who made me happy – what could have made me happy. That’s what home is, but it’s all over now, isn’t it?

  I think of the ring in my pocket and of Edward’s promise of forever. I picture him leaning in to kiss Fiona, and resignation sweeps over me. I’ve lost him, lost us. I dig out the wedding band. Its solid band rests heavy on the palm of my hand, glinting in the harsh florescent light of the platform. I feel the vibrations of a train nearing, the hot air stirring as it approaches. I make my way to the edge of the platform and step forwar
d.

  ‘Attention!’ A woman grabs my arm and levers me back from the edge as the train screams into the station.

  ‘I’m okay, I’m all right.’ I shake off her grip, forcing a smile. ‘I was just going to throw this onto the track, that’s all.’ I open my palm to show her Edward’s ring, and my hand is shaking. I was just going to throw the band on the track . . . right? I don’t know. I don’t know. I cover my eyes. The lights and the noise are all too much, as if they’ve been amped up.

  The train doors slide open, and the woman helps me into a carriage, gently pushing me into a seat. ‘You sit here for a second,’ she commands, sitting down beside me.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I insist, although my voice sounds scratchy. My heart is racing, and my mouth is dry. I’m anything but fine.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asks, her eyes holding mine as if she knows I’ve not a clue in the world where I’m headed.

  I shake my head, not trusting myself to give a response that would halfway make sense. The metro rattles into a station, and together we watch the doors open and close as passengers get off and more get on. The rhythm of life, I think absently. One minute the people you love are there, they next they’re gone. And the train relentlessly keeps moving.

  ‘Life can be shit,’ the woman says, and I raise my eyebrows in surprise. The harsh language seems at odds with her elegant appearance. ‘But that’s how it goes.’ She shrugs, and then says something a thousand friends said, but never really sank in. ‘You need to be good to yourself.’ She pats my arm, then gets to her feet. ‘This is my stop.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say in a low voice as she nods and pushes out through the doors, then disappears amid the crowds of people.