by Leah Mercer
My mother on the opposite side of the church from my father, holding herself so stiffly, like she might crack with just one movement.
And Margo’s coffin in the middle, at the front of the church. The focus of our vison now, just as she’d been the focus of all our lives for . . . well, for what felt like forever.
But no more.
I was climbing the steps to give the eulogy when I spotted him: Ben, at the back of the church, dressed in his usual uniform of combat fatigues. I can’t even identify what happened to me at that moment. All I know is that my vision blurred and rage scalded my insides. Words spewed out of me, mangled and contorted, darkened by anger and grief.
‘Get out,’ I said, my voice echoing around the sanctuary. ‘Get out of here. You left Margo. You’re the reason she’s dead. Go.’
And without a word – without a sound, almost – Ben did leave. I never saw him again – never wanted to think of him again.
Until now.
‘You know, you were right.’ Ben meets my gaze, then shakes his head. ‘I shouldn’t have been there. I shouldn’t have gone that day. I was the reason she died.’
I jerk in surprise, stunned both at his words and at the pain now pulling at his face. Has he lived with guilt all these years, too? Despite what I said at the time, I never really thought anyone else was to blame . . . anyone but me. Ben may have played a small part in what drove Margo to her death, but ultimately the failure to protect her lay with me.
Ben motions me on to a sofa, then sinks into an armchair. ‘I tried, mate. I really did try.’ He falls silent, and the only sound in the flat is the ticking of the radiator. It’s so warm I peel off my coat, and I can’t help remembering how stifling it was that day, too, so long ago, when I came here to find my sister.
‘I didn’t even know Margo had an eating problem until after she got pregnant,’ Ben says. ‘I’m not sure she would have told me if it wasn’t for that – she’d read somewhere that a history of anorexia could affect the baby’s development, and she wanted to make sure everything would be okay. And for a while it was.’ He sighs. ‘I’m not going to lie – I was a little unsure about wanting a baby. But seeing her so excited, hearing her talk about how wonderful it would be, well . . . it made me excited, too, even though I don’t think I’d ever even held a baby before.’
I nod – that makes two of us. Grace was the first baby that I’d held, too.
‘Watching the birth, that blew my mind. I had no clue what to do after that – Margo neither, but we muddled through. It was all going fine for the first few weeks.’ He drops his head. ‘And then she started going on about losing her baby weight. I might have made a few comments about laying off the cake.’ He winces. ‘I had no idea how that would affect her, you know? I just thought she would get back in shape . . . a bit faster. You always see those birds in the paper and on TV just weeks after having their baby and they look exactly the same.’
I can’t help sucking in my breath. I can only imagine how Margo took that.
‘I know, mate. Christ, I know.’ Ben runs a hand over his face. ‘But shit, I was only young. I didn’t realise – didn’t understand what could happen. Didn’t know she would just stop eating, that her milk would dry up, that she wouldn’t be able to feed the baby and it would just scream for hours on end . . . I tried to help her, I really did. But I couldn’t take any more. Before I left, she promised to call you, to get you to come and take care of her and the baby.’ He shakes his head. ‘She wouldn’t even move from the bed at that point. I don’t know if she was too weak or depressed or what, but I knew I couldn’t stay there, couldn’t try any more. I just . . . I had to get out. So I called that health visitor who’d been keeping tabs on us – because she knew about Margo’s history and all that – and I left.’
He takes a deep breath, his huge chest heaving under the T-shirt. As strong as he looks right now, he seems weighed down, almost crushed by all that’s happened. A flash of sympathy goes through me, and I blink in surprise.
‘It’s a tough disease for anyone to handle,’ I say, thinking how bizarre it is that I’m trying to comfort this man – this man I drove from my sister’s funeral, who hurt her so deeply. ‘She needed more than what you could give her.’ She needed me, and I let her down.
‘I had no idea the health visitor would call social services,’ he continues, as if he hasn’t heard me. ‘No clue the baby had been taken away. I only found that out when I dropped by a couple of weeks later to collect some of my things . . . and to talk about what to do with the flat. That’s when I called you.’
‘Do you have any idea what happened to the baby? To Grace?’ I ask, holding my breath.
He shakes his head and my heart crashes. ‘No. All I know is that she was adopted. A few months after Margo died, I think it was. I had to sign something giving up my parental rights. I did think about keeping her, just for a second. But I couldn’t give her a good life, not the kind of life two parents who really wanted her could. I could barely take care of myself back then, let alone a baby. It was Margo who did everything, until—’
The door opens and a woman with long dark hair comes in. She bustles into the room without turning to face us, plopping her bags on the table. ‘God, that took ages. The queue was massive, some idiot wanted a refund, which dragged on forever, and . . . Oh, hi.’ She smiles as she spots me on the sofa. ‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there.’ She throws off her coat and I try to keep my expression neutral as I notice a tiny bump underneath her clothes.
She’s pregnant.
I can feel Ben’s gaze on me now, and I wonder how much he’s told this woman. Has he told her he has another child out there somewhere . . . a child he abandoned, signed away to someone else? Has he told her the story of Margo and how he left after setting her off on a path to despair? Or has he kept all that locked inside, like me?
My lips lift automatically to return the woman’s smile, and I can’t help thinking that however Ben has chosen to handle the past, his life has moved on. This flat is almost unrecognisable, and he’s with a new woman now . . . and with a baby on the way. A wave of jealousy and anger sweeps over me – it’s so strong I have to lean back and breathe deeply, waiting for it to pass. Ben has the life I wanted to have – the life I tried to live. The life I should have, for all my sacrifices. Because I didn’t run. I’m the one who stayed and nurtured my sister all those years. I’m the one who cajoled her to eat, who carried her to the loo when she was too weak to go on her own, fragile and weightless in my arms.
But I’m also the one who didn’t save her child – who didn’t even try to find the baby, despite Margo’s desperate pleas. I’m the one who brought about her death. How could I even think of happiness after that? I don’t deserve it. I don’t even know why I tried.
‘I’d better go,’ I say, shuffling to my feet, my muscles crying out in pain.
Ben gets up, too. ‘Will you . . . will you let me know if you find anything?’ he asks, his face still tight and his shoulders hunched up around his neck. None of us has escaped the past unscathed, it seems.
I nod. ‘I will.’ I lift a hand to say goodbye, then plod down the stairs and back on to the street. It feels even colder after the closeness of the flat, and tiny shards of ice fly through the air, needling my skin. I duck my head, burrowing my chin into the softness of my jacket. Cars and buses lurch by me, but I barely hear them. I’ve opened the door to the past with this visit, willingly stepping inside this place of pain and grief that I have barred myself from for so long. But the one thing I long to find – the one piece of the puzzle I need to slot into position – seems determined to elude my efforts.
But it won’t stay hidden for long. It can’t. No matter how much you may try to run, the past is always there, waiting.
Just like, I hope, Margo’s baby is waiting somewhere for me.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Anna
I’m bursting to tell Mark that we’re having a child – bursting to lift him
up from the dark place he must be in, to bring us even closer together – but we still haven’t found him. It’s been over two weeks now since he left, and with every passing day my desire grows and grows until I can barely stand it. I need to make this real, as if the baby growing inside me won’t exist until its father is aware of its presence.
I’m desperate to tell anyone, actually, but I can’t – not even Sophie. I won’t . . . not until I tell my husband first. This child is our wonderful secret, our token of hope for the future, and I can’t break that hope by sharing the news with anyone other than Mark. Even though we still have no idea where he is, he feels closer to me now than ever before. Part of him is inside me, and despite my initial fears about this pregnancy, I’ve never been more thankful. This baby will bring such joy to our lives, no matter what the challenges ahead.
I smile, thinking of the cute T-shirt I bought as a way of breaking the news to Mark. I tore myself away one afternoon from manning the phones and headed up to the high street and into one of those exclusive baby shops where one scrap of cotton costs about as much as a jumper from Boden. I’d only ever been in here to buy things for Flora, and it was so surreal picking out something for my own child . . . our own child.
As soon as I saw the T-shirt hanging at the back of the shop, I knew it was perfect. So tiny it was hard to imagine a baby fitting inside, it was such a soft blue I wanted to wrap the fabric around me. But it wasn’t the colour that drew me in – it was the slogan ‘Mummy + Daddy = Me’ emblazoned in bright letters across the front. As I held it in my hands, happiness washed over me and a smile lifted my lips. Everything will be all right. This baby is the perfect combination of me and Mark, and he or she will keep us strong – will make us strong, together.
I carried the T-shirt home inside my coat, right next to my heart – right next to our baby – just in case my sister decided to pop out of the house and spotted me. Back at Sophie’s, I folded the T-shirt into a slim box, then wrapped it in blue and pink tissue. I wrote a little card saying that Mark will be the greatest father ever, then stuck the box in my bag, longing for the day I could give it to him. We will find him, because it’s not just for me now. It’s for this child, too.
Mark’s father has rung every morning this week to give me an update and to see if I’ve made any progress. So far, Richard has called the west London hospital he used to work at on the off-chance his oncologist contact there might tell him something. He’s reached out to hospital admins he knows and to specialists he’s met at conferences. But he’s made the same amount of progress as me and Sophie: none.
I emerge from the bathroom then pad down the hallway and into the chill of the bedroom to shrug on another jumper. Sophie keeps the house nearly frigid, and no matter how many clothes I put on I’m always cold. I remember Sophie saying she was always hot when she was pregnant, but I guess it’s too early for that to happen yet. I’m about to head down the stairs when my phone rings.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Richard.’ The low, rich voice comes through the handset and for a second I think how much it sounds like Mark.
‘Oh, hi.’ I pause, wondering what to say today. It’s becoming harder and harder to maintain an upbeat front. ‘Still nothing I’m afraid. But my sister has put together a whole new list of B & Bs and hotels to try, so we’re going to dive into that.’
‘I need to meet this sister of yours,’ Richard says. ‘She sounds like she might even be able to organise my office. Jude’s long since given up, but she’s not exactly the most organised person herself.’
‘Sophie probably could,’ I say, thinking that she’s certainly organised her house to within an inch of its life. No speck of dust would even think of settling on a surface here – it would be whisked away before making contact.
‘Anyway, look. I’ll keep ringing hospitals, but I’ve pretty much exhausted my contacts. It was worth a try, though.’
I nod and stay silent, something like despair pressing down on me.
‘I’ve been thinking that perhaps we should try to talk to Mark’s primary-care physician,’ Richard says.
‘Primary-care physician?’ I ask, wondering who on earth that is.
‘The GP,’ Richard responds.
‘Oh.’ My heart sinks – I’d thought it was someone new who might have answers. ‘I did try them, right after we first found out Mark was ill. They wouldn’t tell me anything . . . confidentiality and all that, just like you said.’
‘I know,’ Richard responds. ‘But if I see them, as Mark’s father and a fellow colleague, they might extend me the professional courtesy of at least telling me what centre they’ve referred my son to.’ He sighs. ‘It’s something I can try, anyway.’ I hear a thump on the table. ‘I can’t stand sitting here, doing nothing.’
I nod silently, wondering how a parent gets through the death of one child . . . only to be hit by the serious illness of another. And I can certainly understand Richard’s desire for action – staying still feels like giving up. That’s part of the reason why I keep dialling number after number.
I quickly tell him the name and address of our GP. ‘Can you let me know how it goes, even if you don’t find out anything?’ I ask, praying he has more success than I did. Anything would help at this stage.
Richard says yes, then we hang up. I bang down the stairs, sniffing the air in anticipation of coffee. The kitchen is deserted – odd, since Sophie’s usually back from the school run by now, beavering away on the phone even before I arrive.
‘Soph?’ I call.
I hear a noise, then Sophie emerges from the downstairs loo.
‘Okay, let’s get started,’ she says. Her tone is brisk and efficient, but her cheeks are red and her eyes are wet. She sits down at the table and picks up the phone, then clicks on the computer to bring up the screen.
‘Wait.’ I put a hand on hers. ‘Is everything okay?’ I wait for her usual torrent of complaints about Asher and his job, but she just nods. ‘Oh yes, everything’s fine. Just these bloody allergies.’
I know for a fact that Sophie’s hay fever only acts up in June. ‘Really?’ I ask, eyeing her carefully. I’m sure she won’t say anything – she’s never been the emotional type, preferring to crack sarcastic jokes instead of wading into sentiment. I wait for her brusque response, so I’m stunned when tears start seeping from her eyes and she gets up and spins away.
‘Sophie? Soph!’ I touch her shoulder, trying to turn her towards me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her cry, not even when Dad left. She’s always been the practical older sister I could lean on.
‘I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry.’ She pulls away and wipes her eyes, then blows her nose loudly. ‘I told myself I wasn’t going to do this. God knows you have bigger issues than what’s going on with me right now.’
‘What is going on with you?’ I ask, biting my lip. Does this have something to do with Asher? My mind flashes back to her comment on how he’s always away, the coldness between them and the argument I overheard.
‘Asher and I are separating,’ she says, and my heart sinks. I knew something was wrong – I’ve been around here so much lately and, despite my own problems, I’d have to be blind not to see it – but I never imagined it could be so serious.
‘Oh, Soph.’ She lets me pull her in for a hug, then moves away. ‘Why?’ I ask.
Sophie sighs. ‘It’s nothing . . . and it’s everything,’ she says. ‘We just don’t connect the way we used to, you know? I used to love being with him, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he loved me. He certainly tried hard enough to convince me of that in the beginning.’ She smiles sadly. ‘And I believed him. But lately . . . well, lately it feels like he couldn’t care less – about me, anyway. He always asks about Flora. I’m just a cog in the machine that keeps things ticking over.’
‘I’m sure he doesn’t feel that way,’ I say. I’m not sure, actually, but I need to say something.
Sophie shakes her head. ‘Sometimes I feel like I c
ould disappear and the only thing he’d notice was the lack of clean pants in the drawer. I mean, seriously! And when he is around, all we do is fight. We can’t even discuss what to have for dinner without arguing. Not that he’s ever home for dinner now, anyway.’
‘But can’t you just talk to him about all of this?’ I ask. It doesn’t sound like a happy relationship, but it doesn’t sound terrible, either. ‘I mean, you have been married for so long. And you have Flora . . .’
‘I know, I know. And I never wanted Flora to grow up in a divorced family – or to have to go through something like we did. That was brutal. God knows I’ve tried to give her a good home life. That was part of the reason I decided to start up my own business and work from home so I could be here for her. For Christ’s sake, I even sew all her clothes! And you know I didn’t exactly begin life as a domestic goddess.’ She smiles, and I remember all those times she made ‘soup’ for me from a horrible concoction of ketchup and onion powder.
‘Maybe if I’d stayed in an office job, maybe if I hadn’t taken on all the house stuff . . . maybe things would have stayed more equal. But I feel like now I’ve become the bitter stay-at-home mum while he’s out swanning around enjoying life.’ She sighs. ‘And I did try to talk to him. I told him how I felt, suggested we get you guys to babysit and go out more often – start to have a life together again.’
‘And?’ I ask.
‘And that was two years ago now and nothing changed.’ She rubs her eyes. ‘He’d say sure, good idea, but whenever I tried to book something, he was always busy. As far as priorities go, I don’t even think I’m on the list.’
‘I can’t believe he doesn’t care, Soph.’ Okay, so things might point to that now, but they have such history together. I remember when they first met: how Sophie’s face had lit up, and how she couldn’t stop talking about this guy who didn’t let her get away with her usual trick of creeping off after a one-night stand, who asked her out again and again until she said yes. When they married in a huge ceremony with practically half of London in attendance, she screamed out ‘yes’ with such force and conviction that everyone burst out laughing.