by Leah Mercer
And then when Flora was born, Asher had gazed at the two of them with such love and joy . . .
How can all that be gone?
Sophie shrugs. ‘I didn’t want to believe it either, trust me. But how many times can one person keep trying to keep a marriage alive if the other one just doesn’t seem interested?’ Tears come to her eyes again, and she wipes them away. ‘I don’t know what’s worse: to stay and keep banging your head against a brick wall or just accept defeat and move on. No, wait, I do know what’s worse: to keep banging. I can’t do that any longer, Anna . . . I can’t. I can’t just hang around and wait for him to say he’s leaving, like Dad did to Mum.’
I put an arm around her, searching for something to say. I don’t even know where to begin.
‘The worst bit is, when I told Asher I thought we should separate, all he said was fine, if that’s what I wanted.’ She lets out a bitter laugh. ‘As if that’s what I want! He couldn’t even be bothered to ask me why.’
‘I’m so sorry, Soph,’ I say. Guilt washes over me as I realise I’ve been so busy, so driven to find my husband that I never even attempted to talk to Sophie about her marriage. But then I never – not in a million years – dreamed it would come to this. ‘Listen, please don’t worry about any of this.’ I wave a hand at the computers and lists and mobiles littering the table.
‘No, no.’ She shakes her head. ‘Focusing on finding Mark is giving me something to do. It’s something to think about, other than what’s happening with me and Asher. Besides’ – she smiles up at me – ‘I know your marriage will make it through this . . . unlike what’s happened with mine. If I have faith in anything, it’s you two.’
I nod, grateful for her faith that mirrors my own. Our little family will make it through this intact, I know that much for sure. It’s one thing for Mark to have left in order to protect me from his illness, but there’s a baby involved now, and my husband would never dream of cutting himself off from our child.
‘Right.’ Sophie clears her throat. ‘Let’s start making some calls.’
We spend the next few hours ringing hotel after hotel, breaking only for cups of tea. I jump when my phone rings later that afternoon, and I remember I’ve been waiting to hear from Richard. I grab the mobile and answer before I can see who’s calling.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Richard,’ he says, and my heart starts beating faster. Sophie raises her eyebrows at me and I nod. She looks as tense as I do, and just as desperate for some good news.
‘And?’ I realise how abrupt that sounds, but I don’t care. I need to know if he’s managed to get anything out of the GP. I hold my breath, bracing myself for his answer.
‘We’ve found him, Anna,’ Richard says, his voice ringing with triumph. ‘We’ve found Mark.’
‘You found him?’ I nearly drop the phone, and Sophie punches the air in victory.
‘Well, I’ve found out where he’s receiving treatment,’ Richard says. ‘And since we know that, we know where to look.’
‘That’s fantastic!’ I say, happiness filtering through me for the first time since Mark left. We found him. I can barely believe it’s true. ‘So where is he?’
‘He’s a patient at Euston Central Hospital, at the cancer centre there,’ Richard says.
‘Euston Central Hospital?’ My voice rises and I swallow hard. That’s just around the corner from my office – my everyday world. I pause, picturing Mark walking those familiar streets. Did he hope he’d see me? Did he walk past my building on the off-chance of running into me? Or did he keep his head low, scuttling around corners in fear? How could he be so close to me yet hold himself so separate?
He’s trying to protect me, I remind myself. That’s all. Once he realises I want to be there for him . . . I think of the tiny T-shirt wrapped up in my bag and I grin in excitement and anticipation. Finally, we will have our Hallmark moment. I can’t wait to see Mark’s face when he opens my gift. He is going to be the greatest father ever.
‘Why Euston Central Hospital?’ I ask Richard. ‘Sophie and I figured Mark would most likely be in north London. Wouldn’t the GP refer him to the nearest centre?’ I make a note to redouble our efforts to focus on all the hotels and B & Bs around Euston. There are loads, and I’m not even sure we’ve made it that far on the list.
‘There could be several reasons.’ Richard clears his throat. ‘He might have been referred there because of the type of cancer he has. Different centres often specialise in certain cancers.’
I nod, cursing the fact that I still don’t know what cancer Mark has.
‘But listen, Anna,’ Richard continues. ‘If anyone can help get him through whatever he’s facing, it’s them. I have every confidence in their medical ability.’
I take a breath, clutching his words close to me. Richard’s right. He has to be, especially now that we’re having a baby.
‘So here’s what I propose,’ Richard says. ‘Depending on Mark’s treatment plan, he could be in the cancer centre anywhere from every week to every month. And he’ll likely have tests and appointments in between, too.’
‘Every week to every month?’ My heart drops. Somehow, I thought we could just swan over and he’d be there.
‘The body needs time to rest between the treatments,’ Richard says. ‘The side effects can be fairly brutal.’
I cringe, picturing the man I love lying prostrate on a bed, unable to move or take care of himself.
‘Couldn’t you just ring them up and ask when his next appointment is?’ I ask. If the GP had told Richard which centre Mark’s at, perhaps the doctors will give him more information, too.
‘I wish it were that easy,’ Richard says. ‘But it’s one thing for a professional colleague to tell me where a family member has been referred, and another to ask for specifics of their medical treatment. No receptionist or administrator would risk their job that way.’ He’s silent for a minute. ‘Why don’t we set up a rota and take turns to watch out for him? I know it sounds a little cloak-and-dagger, but if that’s what it takes to find my son, that’s what I’m willing to do.’
‘Oh, me too,’ I say without a second thought. Knowing that Mark could walk around the corner at any time would make me willing to watch for him every minute of every hour. ‘But you don’t need to do that, Richard. I’ll stay there as long as it takes.’
‘Well, the outpatient centre is only open during daytime hours,’ Richard says. ‘And hopefully we won’t have to wait too long until we find him. But . . .’ I hear him draw in a breath. ‘I need to do this. I need to be there for Mark this time.’
‘Okay. Well, I’m going to head to the outpatient centre right now,’ I say. ‘Can you come too?’
‘Yes, I’ll meet you there.’
‘Great,’ I say, relieved I wouldn’t be alone in this. ‘You’ve got my number – just ring and I’ll let you know where I am. I’ll be there before you.’
‘All right. I’ll see you soon.’ And with that, he’s gone.
I turn towards Sophie, who’s watching me eagerly, and a huge smile crosses my face. ‘We’ve found him,’ I say, tears filling my eyes. This whole ordeal will be over soon. I know the road ahead won’t be easy, but I don’t care, because no matter what happens, Mark and I will make it . . . together. I take a deep breath and touch my tummy. We’ll make it together, I think again. For this baby, and for the family we always dreamed of.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Mark
One day melds into the next in this timeless void I’m now inhabiting. Apart from the cleaner who ducks in and out of the room (likely to check if I’m still alive), I feel like I’m alone in this place. In a way, I guess I am. How many others are caught in the terrible twilight between life and death, knowing that even if treatment does work, this is their final autumn, final winter . . . ? Maybe I’ll see spring, and possibly summer – if I’m lucky. How many others have shut down their lives before life shuts them down? I turn over on the bed, wondering how I
’d have reacted to this illness if Margo had lived – if things had been different. Would I have bravely faced it head-on with a confident smile, fully embracing life for the time that remained? I’d like to think so. I’d like to think I could be that person.
But there’s no point dwelling on that. I’m not that person and I never can be. Margo is gone and the only thing I can do – apart from protecting Anna from my illness – is find Grace and make sure she’s all right, despite my failure to watch over her. I should give my body a chance to rest and to eat and drink. But even if I wanted to, nothing tastes good any more. It’s as if I’ve lost my taste for life, like my senses have started to turn themselves off in preparation for the end.
I can’t sleep either, even though I’m absolutely knackered. I lie on the bed, eyes wide open, my mind spinning as I try to come up with a way to track Grace down. If only . . . Christ, if only I’d tried to get Grace back when Margo came to live with me again in my flat after I’d taken her away from Ben’s. She’d begged and pleaded for me to get in touch with social services, to back up her story that she was in a safe place now and with someone who could help – that she was getting the assistance she needed.
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t see how my sister could cope with a baby just then. She was so weak, so tired, hardly able to care for herself. I couldn’t deal with caring for her and the baby. I had to focus on one of them, and I chose her. Besides, I figured it would just be a couple of months before she was back on her feet. The child wouldn’t be adopted that quickly, and surely social services would have to ask for Margo’s consent . . . something I knew she would never give.
And for a while I thought I’d made the right choice. Margo appeared to be getting better, stronger. She was on different medications that seemed to ease her anxiety about gaining weight and she was talking about the future and how she might support Grace. Regular life resumed, and I went back to work. And then . . .
I close my eyes as the memory jolts into my brain. I remember the early morning sunshine streaming through the large sash windows, chasing away the lingering darkness; the birdsong outside making you believe you lived in the country rather than a crowded north London neighbourhood; and the peace of the street before the city awakened and the rush towards work and money began. I sat at the small breakfast bar that morning, like I had done on so many others, breathing in the rich, heady scent of my coffee and savouring the silence before another busy day.
And like always, after finishing my brew, I padded quietly towards my old bedroom where my sister now slept, taking care not to step on the loose floorboard that always squeaked. I cracked open the door, waiting until my eyes adjusted to the darkness, then crept across the threadbare carpet towards the bed, eyes peeled for any hint of movement. I stood there that day, waiting, as the niggling worry grew into fear and then panic.
‘Margo?’ I whispered, because I didn’t want to think . . . ‘Margo.’ My voice was louder, but my sister didn’t move.
‘Margo!’ The shout escaped from me before I even had a chance to consider stopping it. I reached out to shake her, to feel the warmth of her breath on my palm, to sense her body twitch beneath me. But she was stiff, her skin cold and unyielding. I told myself it was too dark to see properly – that I was overreacting – and I flew to the window and yanked open the heavy curtains.
And in the streaming sunshine that bathed the room in gold and yellow, my sister lay still in the bed now awash with light – light that couldn’t drag her back from the darkness she’d chosen to embrace.
I don’t recall much about the hours that followed. I never wanted to – never tried. I do remember doctors saying Margo had died of an overdose brought on by taking too much of her medication, so much it couldn’t have been accidental . . . suicide. I remember my mother and father telling me I’d done everything and more, and me turning away in disgust. How could they know – they, who’d left my sister to fend for herself . . . or me to fend for her, moving on with their own lives, taking off in separate directions. For God’s sake, they didn’t even know she’d had a baby.
And anyway, they were wrong. There was something I could have done. I could have got Grace back, or at least tried. I could have given Margo an iota of hope that there was a reason to carry on.
I turned my back on everything after that. I got a new phone, changed my email address and threw away any post from my parents unopened. I had to or I wouldn’t have been able to move, to even start to function and pick up the pieces of my life. And the baby . . . well, I don’t know what happened. I didn’t want to know.
Until now.
But how can I find a thirteen-year-old girl if no one can even give me a hint as to where she might be? Anna would have some ideas, I think, as a longing for my wife darts through me. We’d sit down together, brainstorm for ages and come up with different paths to follow. It feels so strange to be engaged in such a big thing without her by my side.
I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. If Anna was by my side, then I wouldn’t be doing this . . . would I? Would I – could I – ever have told her about Margo, about the baby? I grimace just imagining her stricken expression if I’d told her that I’d let my own niece go. No, I could never tell her that. I couldn’t bear to have her think of me any differently from the man she believes I am.
There is a final place I can search for clues – a place I’ve been dreading . . . avoiding it until every other avenue is exhausted. After Margo died, I packed away all her things – and Grace’s, too – and shoved the boxes in a storage unit. I’d drained a bottle of vodka I found stagnating at the back of a cupboard before even attempting to enter my old bedroom (sleeping there was out of the question – I hadn’t been inside since Margo had died a month earlier). My father had offered to come and clear it out, but hell would have frozen over before I’d let him anywhere near her possessions. If he couldn’t help her in life, then he could forget about offering assistance after her death.
I’d thrown things in boxes as fast as I could, trying not to touch any object for too long, as if they would burn my fingers. Stacks of unopened post, crumpled letters, magazines, her favourite soft toy, Lopsy, that I’d bought for her when she turned ten . . . and then all the baby stuff she’d hung on to. My chest squeezes as I remember the tiny baby clothes she’d laid out neatly in a drawer, the unopened pack of nappies, the cartons of formula. She’d wanted her baby back. She’d prepared for it. So why . . . ? Had she thought she would never recover? Had she thought I’d never help? Would I have?
When everything was packed, I stood back and stared at the pile of boxes. This was the whole of my sister’s life, contained in only five boxes . . . packed away in a matter of minutes. But I couldn’t stop and think for too long. I loaded the boxes into the boot of my car, drove to a storage centre and rented a locker. I could have kept them in the crawl space above the flat, but I wanted them away from me. I couldn’t bear to think of all her things resting just above my head – as if they were silently judging me.
And to this day, they’re still at that storage centre. Unopened, unexamined, untouched. Protected from time.
I take a deep breath and sit up in bed. I need to go there, after all these years. I need to comb through those papers, those things I packed away. To unearth the memories I’ve worked so hard to forget and to see if there’s something that might help me find my sister’s child.
I throw on my coat and head out into the blinding sunshine. My breath makes clouds in the air as I walk down the street to hail a black cab. My head is pounding and I know I should stop and take something for it, but I can’t bear to slow down now. I climb in the back seat of a taxi, and as the cab slowly wends its way from central London to the north of the city, I remove my keys from my pocket.
Nestled against the others is a tiny key, almost lost in the forest of glinting metal – the key to the locker holding all of Margo’s things. My fingers trace its sharp ridges as I ponder why I left it on my key ring for all
these years. I glance down at the other keys, each one signalling a step forward: new home with my wife; new responsibilities at the bank; new life. Yet through the past thirteen years – through the changes and the moves – that locker key has remained. I barely even gave it a second glance. I mostly forgot it was there. But still, the thought of removing it never even crossed my mind.
You really can’t disconnect from the past, no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise.
After a long journey across London, the minicab pulls up to a brightly painted building on the outskirts of the city. I gaze up at the exterior, but nothing looks familiar . . . I really was in a haze the last time I was here. My legs shake as I hand the driver some notes and get out, but I know my queasiness has nothing to do with my illness.
My breath comes fast as I make my way into the building, then through the labyrinth of corridors until I reach the right locker. I fit the key into the lock and steel myself to face what’s inside – to face my past. But as I swing open the door, I’m not met with the wall of grief and pain I’ve prepared for. I’m met with . . . nothing.
The locker is empty.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Mark
I stare at the yawning space, my mouth open. I draw back and check the number on the locker door: yes, I’m sure it’s the right one – it’s burned into my mind. And the key did fit the lock after all. So why is there nothing here? Where has everything gone?
I’m sure there’s a logical explanation, I tell myself as I retrace my steps back to the reception desk. There must be.
‘Excuse me?’ I say to the bored-looking teenager sitting behind a battered metallic counter. A few plastic chairs are dotted around, a dusty fake fern sits in one corner and a radio blares out the latest football match scores. The whole place couldn’t be less inviting if it tried.