Countless

by Karen Gregory

  Maybe some part of it was me.

  And then, I think of Rose.

  Rose who is still here. I might not be able to look after her right now, but I have contact. I’ll get her back. If I can. I think about all the things I’ve counted over the years and realise I can’t put a number on the love I have for Rose. It’s bigger than infinity. Countless. Perhaps if I have that much love for her inside me, I can find a way to love myself too.

  The saying comes back to me then, the one Robin’s grammy said about life being a precious gift, and making it flower. I weigh it, try and find its size in the darkness. I don’t know whether my life counts too.

  The Nia train is near. I can feel her in the room behind me. I look down, at the ground that seems so close.

  And slowly, I pull myself back.

  I go to the kitchen. In the back of the cupboard is a packet of noodles. I leave them there. Instead, I take out the chicken Robin left me and heat it on the stove, watch it bubble.

  I sit down at the table with the plate in front of me.

  Nia chatters, but I know now. It’s my choice to hold on to her or not. But if I let her go, it has to be for me, not Rose.

  I look up at the ceiling, where Nia’s watched for so long, and then at the darkness beyond the open window. I think about my daughter, my beautiful girl, who picked a mother like me, one she could trust to choose right. Then I gather Nia to me, and whisper in her ear.

  ‘It’s time for you to go now.’

  I watch my hands release thin air.

  And I begin to eat.

  Epilogue

  ‘Hello, Hedda. Come in. The birthday girl’s in the garden.’

  I follow Rod through the house and into the toy-strewn garden. Balloons and streamers hang from apple trees. At the bottom of the garden Rose is crouching over a sandpit, digging with a spade. I watch her for a while.

  She looks up and smiles, then takes a few uncertain steps towards me. ‘Heddy,’ she says.

  I force myself to walk, not run, towards her and pick her up. She’s so heavy now, but she still smells the same. I feel her warm fingers at the back of my neck. I wonder for the millionth time how much she understands.

  After a while, she wriggles down and I turn to Vi, who’s carrying out a glass of lemonade. I drink half of it, carefully, and set it down.

  ‘Ba-a,’ Rose says, which is her word for ‘balloon’.

  Vi untangles one from a tree and hands it to her.

  She totters over and passes it to me. ‘Heddy.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, and bend down to kiss her again. ‘I’ll tell you what, shall we let it go? See how far it goes on the wind?’

  Rose gazes up at me, her little face serious. I reach up and open my fingers, and we both watch as the balloon floats into the sky. Rose squeals. I pick her up so she can see and do my best not to hold her too tight. When it’s a tiny dot in the distance, I put Rose down gently and turn to Vi.

  ‘I’m not going to stay for the party. I’m due at work.’

  Vi nods.

  ‘I’ll pop her present inside,’ I say. ‘She can open it later.’

  ‘Or you could give it to her on Saturday?’ Vi says.

  Saturday is Rose’s first home visit with me in my new flat. If it goes well, then eventually she’ll come to live with me again.

  Vi squeezes my shoulder. ‘One step at a time. You can be a good mum to her, Hedda. You already are.’

  I don’t know about that.

  Mum and Tammy will be here for the party soon. I see them twice a week and they visit Rose in between too. Tammy and me have a laugh actually and I think we’ve rubbed off on Mum because she’s started to develop a sense of humour. She told us this joke the other week that had an actual swear word in it, and we were so shocked it took us a good minute to start laughing. Who would’ve thought Mum would tell sweary jokes? I wish I’d realised sooner. I think she’s happier now Dad’s finally gone and she can stop waiting for it to happen and get on with life. She’s applying for jobs, inspired by me working for Lois, I think. I’ve been doing my A level maths in the evenings, alongside an accountancy qualification and I’m going to finish it this time.

  The other day after work, I went to see Mum and Tammy. Mum was in the garden pulling up weeds with her bare hands. I went over to her, put my own fingers into the warm earth. Mum rocked back on her heels and looked at me for a while. Just a look taking me in, straightforward.

  Then she said, ‘You seem well.’

  And I didn’t flinch, or grimace. Instead, I smiled.

  I was about to go inside, when she lifted up one muddy hand and said, ‘Hedda, I’ve been meaning to talk to you … I wanted to say … to say …’ And she stopped. Two tears dropped down her cheeks.

  I held her eyes, and in them I read a thousand apologies.

  Then she reached out.

  And I let her hug me.

  After a while, I brought my hands up and hugged her back, and neither of us was bothered that we were getting covered in all that earth.

  ‘What you’ve been through …’ Mum started.

  ‘It’s OK, Mum. I know.’

  Later on that day, Tammy and I watched The Force Awakens again. I loved the bit where Rey got hold of a lightsabre. It made me think of Rose growing up strong, and of Robin. We’ve been emailing, but I haven’t seen him. It didn’t work out with him and Jade, but he’s staying in Leeds to be near Ellis. Sometimes I have this dream, where I hear his heart beating strong and slow and I feel calm. Warm. I’m still working out what that might mean, or if it means anything at all. I don’t know if it should. Robin will always be the boy who was there when my own heart woke up. But maybe he belongs to that time, not the future.

  Laurel writes occasional letters from hospital, but she lives in monochrome now. I tried to write back at first, but it didn’t do any good. I don’t answer any more, but sometimes I look up at the sky and think about her. I hope she makes it.

  As for me? I guess part of me will always be left in that world. But I also have my new flat, my job, my books. I’ve stopped swinging by the to-be-shelved section. Instead, I’m working out the things I like. Turns out I love fantasy.

  I still go to therapy, twice a week, with a different counsellor now I’m under Adult Services, though I send Felicity the occasional message to let her know I’m OK. I stay away from scales. Sometimes I feel like I’m on a bike that’s just had the stabilisers off and the smallest wobble is going to slam me straight back down. But maybe life’s like that for everyone.

  I don’t feel Molly or Nia on my shoulders the way I did before, and it’s so lonely sometimes, without them there. A few weeks ago, I visited Molly’s grave one more time, to give her back the lists and the poncho. I sat in front of her headstone and watched them burn and thought about how little I ever really had of her. She could have had a beautiful life, but I’m not the one to live it for her.

  I’ve got enough to do working out how to live my own.

  ‘Saturday’s still OK, isn’t it? You’re ready?’ Vi says.

  I look over, to Rose reaching her fingers up to the leaves. She sits down hard on her bottom and giggles. She’s so happy here. Whatever happens, whether she lives with me or not, the fact that she’s in the world still seems like the strangest miracle.

  I realise Vi is waiting for my reply. I could count the seconds, wide as raptor wings, but I don’t. Not this time.

  ‘Saturday,’ I say. ‘I’ll be ready.’

  The things that matter the most can’t be counted anyway.

  Acknowledgements

  I am incredibly grateful to all the people whose input and encouragement have helped shape Countless. In particular, a huge thank you to:

  My agent, Claire Wilson, who has believed in my writing from the beginning. Thank you for your patience, calmness and always knowing exactly the right thing to say. This book would not have been written without you. Thank you, too, to Rosie Price and everyone at RCW for all your hard work. />
  Rebecca McNally for giving Hedda a home. Hannah Sandford, my fantastic editor, for bringing such care and insight to Hedda’s story. You have made the editing process brilliant – thank you. Helen Vick for steering Countless through the final stages, Madeleine Stevens whose suggestions for amendments have been invaluable, and to all the team at Bloomsbury. I feel so lucky to be working with you.

  My thanks and love to my family and friends, especially Mum for all those library trips and hours of babysitting, and Emily for reading multiple drafts and cheering me on with grace at every stage. You will always be the first person I call. Thank you to Tom, Suki and the girls for your enthusiastic support.

  The Coven, for your support and welcome, especially Lexi for fielding the panicky emails and for all that rhubarb!

  I promised a shout-out to the PMO crew for putting up with all the book talk – sorry and thanks. Thank you, Vic, for talking me through maternity procedures for vulnerable young adults. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

  Countless is fiction and Hedda is not me, however as I’m writing this, it’s almost exactly twenty years since I began my own ‘unit’ journey. To the brave, wonderful people I knew during that time, I still think of you and hope we all made it. And for anyone who is currently there, please know you’re not forgotten and that things can get better.

  Finally, to Naomi and William, who picked a mother like me. Thank you for sharing me with the laptop and making me smile every day.

  About the author

  Karen Gregory has been a confirmed bookhead since early childhood. She wrote her first story about Bantra the mouse aged twelve, then put away the word processor until her first child was born, when she was overtaken by the urge to write. A graduate of Somerville College, Oxford, and a project coordinator by day, she’s become adept at writing around the edges. Strong coffee and a healthy disregard for housework help. Karen lives in Wiltshire with her family. Countless is her first novel.

  Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Oxford, New York, New Delhi and Sydney

  First published in Great Britain in May 2017 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

  This electronic edition published in February 2017

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  BLOOMSBURY is a registered trademark of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  Copyright © Karen Gregory 2017

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 4088 8250 4

  eISBN 978 1 4088 8249 8

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