by Leah Mercer
Not a baby any longer, I think, shaking my head and trying my best to visualise that squalling, warm bundle as a teenager. Now that my carefully built barrier has tumbled down, the past feels so much closer than all those years would suggest, as if I could reach through time and gather that child in my arms.
Pain slices into me again. If only. If only I had done that – helped when I could have, instead of turning a deaf ear. Maybe then things would have turned out differently. Maybe . . . I don’t know. All I know is that I need to take that child in my guilty embrace and say I’m sorry. Sorry for failing her and sorry for failing her mother. It will never be enough; it will never change what happened. But if I can find that baby, then maybe I can find a way to take hold of the past, one final time.
CHAPTER NINE
Anna
I twist and turn in bed, trying to sleep as images assault me. Margo and Mark hugging and laughing, then Mark grieving at her grave. Mark running away from me and tumbling into the yawning hole that swallowed Margo . . . then me yanking him out, pulling him back into the light and anchoring him in our world.
As the days pass with no word from Mark’s parents, I’m struggling to take steps in any direction, rotating between worry, fear and anger . . . then love, and finally a trust that somehow, despite what Mark didn’t tell me, everything will be okay. And then I’m straight back to worry and fear when I realise it’s almost a week since my husband left and I’ve no idea where he is. I’m trapped in a no-man’s land: the past has cracked, I can’t recognise the present and I don’t know the future, either.
I’m jolted awake one morning by a ringing mobile. It takes a few seconds before I realise the noise is coming from Mark’s phone. I grab the handset, brow furrowing as I stare at the unknown number on the screen. Could it be Mark’s mother or father, calling him to get in touch? Have they seen my email?
‘Hello?’
‘Can I speak with Mark Lewis, please?’ A man’s voice comes through the phone and my heart crashes – it’s not Mark’s father.
‘I’m sorry, he’s not here right now. Can I ask who’s calling? Or take a message?’
‘Just the nurse returning his call. I’ll ring again. Goodbye.’ The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone for a second. The nurse? From where? I hit the number to call it back, the mobile sweaty in my grasp. The phone rings once, then clicks as someone picks up.
‘Hello, Macmillan Cancer Support. Can I help?’
Macmillan Cancer Support?
‘Hello? Can I help?’
‘Yes.’ I push out the word. ‘One of your nurses just called my husband, Mark Lewis?’ Silence falls on the line as I realise I don’t know who or what to ask for.
‘I’m sorry.’ The woman’s voice is low and sympathetic. ‘I can only speak to Mark Lewis.’
‘Is there a reason you’re calling him?’ My pulse is racing now and my mouth is dry.
‘I’m very sorry,’ the woman says again. ‘Goodbye.’
The phone clicks off. I sit there staring down at the screen as my mind whirls, trying to compute what’s happened. A nurse from Macmillan Cancer Support called my husband . . . but why? Maybe for a donation? But then I’m sure they would have tried their spiel on me – or at least have told me why they were calling. And I don’t think they use nurses to canvass for money, either.
My heart beats fast as I snatch the laptop and google the charity. A colourful website fills the screen containing lots of tabs and links for people who have been diagnosed with cancer. My eyes pop at one line offering anyone with questions the chance to call an information line.
But why would Mark be in touch with Macmillan Cancer Support?
I swallow hard against the fear rising up inside me. Mark can’t be ill, can he? He’s never even had a cold, for God’s sake. He’s the healthiest person I know, always eating his greens, taking vitamins and making sure I do the same.
Maybe it’s not for him, I tell myself. Maybe it’s . . . My thought trails off as I blink slowly. Pieces fall into place, slotting neatly into a jigsaw of horror. Those secretive phone calls and the time off work. The nights he didn’t want to make love . . . the weight I wasn’t sure he’d lost.
Mark leaving his job – leaving me.
My husband has cancer.
Every part of me starts vibrating with terror, with panic, with a love so strong – so visceral – that I feel like I could conjure Mark up right here. Whatever doubts and fears the past few days have thrown up about our marriage – whatever secrets Mark has kept – none of it matters now. There may have been a few cracks in our perfect world, but this news has blown it apart.
Our protected safe space is forever behind us, but it doesn’t matter. All I care about now is Mark. I don’t know why he hid things from me and I don’t know why he left. But I do know one thing: I want to find him and be there with him – through this, and whatever else may come.
CHAPTER TEN
Anna
A restless energy flows through me, sweeping away any hint of fatigue. I can’t stay in the flat. I need to move – need to do something. I need to find my husband and gather him close to me, but I don’t know where to look. I throw on my coat and grab my keys, not even sure where I’m going. My feet move forward, one and then the other, faster and faster, until I’m almost jogging.
Mark has cancer. Mark has cancer. I breathe in and out, the cold air searing my lungs as questions tear at my brain. Is it serious? Is he in hospital right now? Is it something minor – easily treatable – and he’s just panicked? Maybe he was planning to come back to me once the cancer is gone.
But then . . . why would he quit his job, just like that? And why did he need to leave me?
I swivel in the direction of Hampstead Heath, the scent of wet leaves and damp earth filling my nose as I enter the park. The sky looms large above me and long grass tangles around my feet, making it even more difficult to push ahead. But I’m desperate to keep going, as if stopping will let everything catch up with me and pile on top of me, forcing me down.
The horns and screeching brakes of buses fade as I make my way across the broad expanse. There’s something so different about this park from any other: it’s untidy – untamed – and you could wander for hours, pretending you’re not in London but some ancient, otherworldly forest. Mark and I are lucky to have it practically in our back garden.
Every Saturday and Sunday morning, we’d head here when the streets were still quiet, before the Heath filled with families and tourists. We’d run through the underbrush, taking the back route into the park. I’m nowhere near as athletic as Mark, but I loved moving beside him through the empty fields as if we were alone in the world. He could have surged ahead, but he matched me step for step as we huffed up the steep incline of the park. London would spread out beneath us, and it felt like we’d conquered the city.
I stop for a second, thinking back to a few weekends ago. We’d had our usual run and Mark didn’t seem any weaker, any more tired than usual. I wonder if he knew about his diagnosis then. I wonder if he was hurting inside, full of questions and fear. No, surely not. I would have noticed something was wrong; I would have seen he wasn’t himself. Maybe you can hide your past, but you can’t hide an illness from the person who knows you best . . . can you? And why on earth would you want to? God, if I was sick, I’d take all the help I could get, particularly from those closest to me.
Before I know it I’m across the park and just steps from Sophie’s. Her house isn’t exactly what you’d call big, but it’s worth an insane amount of money. Glossy blue shutters stand out against a white stucco front, ivy crawls up a trellis on one side and, even in autumn, the front garden is filled with green. Set back from the hustle and bustle of the high street, you almost feel like you’ve stepped into another world. Sophie’s constantly complaining about all its quirks and foibles – the doors that don’t shut properly, the mismatched floorboards – but I love it. It’s exactly the kind of place I can pi
cture Mark and myself living, even if it’s well beyond our price range.
I stare up at her house and a desperate urge to fall into her arms sweeps over me, as if she can make everything better. I rush up the little path to her door and bang the knocker on the bright blue wood, praying she’s home. Never have I wanted to see my big sister more, not even during those dark days after our father left.
‘Anna?’ Sophie swings open the door and I practically fall into her. She sways under the force of my embrace, but manages to stay upright and wrap her arms around me. I let my head drop on to her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of vanilla musk that she’s worn since she was a teen.
Finally, I lift my head, then wipe away the tears I didn’t even know I’d cried. She gazes at me, waiting for me to speak – waiting until I’m ready, even though I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to say the words. But I need to. I need her strength, even if just for a minute.
‘It’s Mark,’ I say, my voice raspy. ‘He’s left.’
‘What?’ Her eyebrows fly up, and she takes my arm. ‘Come on, sit down. Tell me what’s going on.’
I let her guide me into a chair at the kitchen table, suddenly feeling so, so tired. All I want is to put my head down on the solid wood and let myself drift off – drift away, even if just for five minutes – to a place where this nightmare doesn’t exist. But I can’t, because somewhere out there, Mark needs me – more than he ever has before.
‘Mark has cancer,’ I say quickly, afraid I’ll halt halfway through the sentence if I don’t get it out fast. ‘At least I think he does. He didn’t tell me. He just left . . . almost a week ago now.’
‘A week?’ Sophie’s voice rises, but I can’t stop.
‘I only found out when I called a number on his phone,’ I continue, ‘and it turned out to be Macmillan Cancer Support.’
‘Okay,’ Sophie says slowly, processing the information. ‘Okay. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he has cancer. Right?’
‘No, but a nurse from there said they were returning his call. I tried to find out more, but they wouldn’t tell me anything. Mark has lost weight, and . . .’ I close my eyes, as if I can block all this out, then force them open. ‘I went to his work, but he’s resigned.’ Sophie’s eyebrows shoot up again, and I look away. I can’t bear it. ‘His colleague said he’d been taking a lot of time off.’
‘Oh my God,’ she says, reaching across the table and grasping my hand. ‘Poor Mark. Poor you.’ She falls silent, and all I can hear is the ticking clock on the wall. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No. No idea.’ I shake my head, staring down at the table as confusion rushes into me. ‘I can’t believe he left. He knows I’d do anything for him. I mean, he’s my husband, after all. I love him.’
‘I know you do,’ Sophie says softly. ‘And I’m sure he knows that, too.’ She’s quiet again for a minute. ‘But people don’t always think sensibly after being diagnosed with a serious illness. It’s such a huge thing, isn’t it? The first reaction is probably to run away. Especially for men.’ She rolls her eyes, and the corners of my mouth lift, despite everything. That’s exactly what I’m hoping: that he’s just panicked and he’ll come back soon. ‘But if I know one thing it’s that Mark loves you. The man practically worships you, Anna. I wouldn’t have let him marry you if he didn’t.’
She squeezes my hand, and I think for a minute about telling her about Margo. But I can’t bear to have her pick over Mark’s past – I can’t stand any more speculation about why my husband would hide Margo from me. I don’t want to focus on uncertainty and doubt, and whatever happened with him and Margo isn’t important now. I shove her name from my brain, focusing back on Mark.
‘Do you think the cancer must be serious, though?’ I ask, barely able to get the question out for the fear clutching my throat. ‘I mean, if he’s left me, left his job . . .’
‘Look, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ Sophie says in a practical tone. ‘There are so many different kinds of cancer, and many of them are treatable. Let’s just focus on finding him.’
Several hours later, though, finding my husband doesn’t seem like an easy task. My ever-efficient sister has sat us down at the table, opening her trusty laptop and making a list of all the places we should ring. B & Bs, hotels, our doctor’s surgery, hospitals with cancer centres, Harley Street clinics . . . the list is endless, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t daunting. London is a city of over eight million people, and there are plenty of places to hide if you don’t want to be found.
Don’t want to be found. I wrap my arms around myself, barely able to believe that phrase applies to my husband. I always thought we were each other’s ultimate security blanket – at least, I felt that way about Mark. An image of Mark kneeling at Margo’s grave fills my head again, and I try once more to push it away. It’s wispy and ethereal, though, and I can’t get hold of it. Confusion and panic wash over me and my gut twists. Mark didn’t let me into his past and he hasn’t let me be here for him now, either. But why?
My stomach lurches with panic and I rush up the stairs to the toilet, dry-heaving into the sparkling toilet bowl. I’ve barely eaten these past few days – I couldn’t face making a meal for one in the kitchen. I wipe my mouth and shakily make my way back downstairs.
The front door bangs closed, and Flora rushes into the kitchen.
‘Hi, Mum.’ She spots me, then streaks into my arms. ‘Auntie Anna! Is Uncle Mark here, too?’ Her ponytail bobs as her head swings back and forth in a bid to find him. If only it were that easy.
I tighten my arms around her soft body, loving that she’s still so squeezable. Sophie told me that lately the girls at her school have started playing ‘dieting’, where they ‘cut out carbs’. Goodness knows where they got this from – at Flora’s age, I was more worried about where to get sweets than cutting them from my diet. I relayed this to Mark one day over dinner and was surprised and touched at the vehemence of his reaction.
‘That’s crazy,’ he’d said, anger twisting his face. ‘The teachers need to put a stop to that before it gets out of hand.’
‘Mark’s . . .’ I falter, unable to even complete the sentence. I don’t even know a plausible place that he might be. The thought makes my gut twist again.
‘Mark’s busy just now,’ Sophie says firmly. ‘Now, how was your day?’
Sophie sits Flora at the table with a plate of toast and I close my eyes as Flora’s stream of consciousness washes over me. The cosy domestic scene makes my heart ache. I’d give anything to have this right now – to be sitting with Mark in our flat, looking forward to our future with absolute certainty and trust.
Flora runs upstairs to start on her homework and Sophie plonks down beside me with the laptop again.
‘Right,’ she says, swivelling it round so I can see it. ‘We’ve got lots of numbers to call, but . . . it is something of a long shot. We don’t know if he’s checked in under his own name, and it’s unlikely the cancer centres will tell us if he’s their patient. We can try the GP, but they probably won’t tell us anything, either. And you’ve already contacted his parents . . . is there anyone else you can think of getting in touch with?’
I shake my head. ‘No, not really.’ For some reason I don’t want to tell Sophie I’ve already checked his phone and laptop.
The door bangs again and Sophie’s head snaps up. Asher sweeps through the kitchen, briefcase in one hand and suit jacket in the other. His eyebrows rise when he spots me.
‘Oh, hi, Anna,’ he says, leaning down to give me a quick kiss. ‘Everything all right?’
I open my mouth to answer, but he’s already halfway up the stairs.
‘Flora home?’ he calls over his shoulder, his footsteps thumping on the stairs.
‘In her room,’ Sophie answers, then shakes her head. ‘Hello to you, too,’ she says in a low voice. She busies herself with typing out more numbers, but I can see from the set of her shoulders and the way her mouth has tightened th
at she’s anything but happy. I certainly wouldn’t be if Mark came back after a long day at work and didn’t even say hello or kiss me. But maybe it’s just been a stressful day for Asher. Sophie’s always saying how hard he works.
Footsteps thud on the stairs again, then Asher reappears in a cloud of cologne. ‘Right, I’m off,’ he says. ‘Sorry I can’t stay and catch up, Anna.’ He flashes me a smile.
‘Wait!’ Sophie says before he can dash out the door. ‘Where are you going? You said you’d be home tonight, remember? Flora really wanted to play that game on her tablet with you.’
Irritation streaks across his face. ‘Oh, sorry, I must have got mixed up. I am busy tonight, after all. I just talked to Flora, don’t worry.’ And the door bangs behind him before Sophie can say anything else.
Silence falls in the small kitchen and, for the first time, I don’t really know what to say to my sister. She complains about Asher a lot, but I never suspected such . . . coldness.
‘Well, that’s him gone, then.’ Her tone is breezy, but I can see the hurt in her eyes. ‘Do you want to crash here tonight? God knows what time he’ll be back, and it would be nice to have some company – for once.’
‘Actually . . . yes, thanks. I’d love to.’ I don’t fancy crossing the Heath in the dark – Mark’s admonitions ring in my mind – and I don’t want to spend another night alone at the flat with my torturous thoughts. I want to be here at the epicentre of our search.
‘Great.’ Sophie gets up and stretches. ‘I’ll make another cup of tea, and then we can add some more numbers to our list so we’re ready to start in the morning.’ She puts her arms around me and, for a second, it feels like we’re kids again, just the two of us against the world. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says into my ear. ‘We’ll find him. Everything will be all right.’