The Lost Mother: An absolutely gripping and emotional read that will have you hooked

by Tracy Buchanan

  When she got back to her room a couple of hours later, there was a package outside her room containing a small notepad with pretty patterns on the front; there was a note scrawled on the first page.

  Something to help with your writing. M.

  Claire stared at it, eyes blinking, trying to calm her emotions.

  That evening, Milo joined in with the conversation instead of shovelling his food into his mouth in silence or disappearing outside to get drunk with the Serbs. Filipe was talking about his childhood growing up on the reindeer farm his father ran in Finland.

  ‘I spent my childhood there,’ he said, ‘schlepping up the shit and taking money from tourists.’

  ‘Sounds familiar,’ Milo said, peering up from his bowl. ‘Well, the schlepping up the shit part anyway.’

  ‘Whereabouts in Finland do your family come from?’ Claire asked.

  ‘Originally the far north. But my father bought a reindeer farm in the south to be near my mother’s family.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to visit Lapland,’ Claire said. ‘It’s one of the few places I haven’t been. I spent my fourteenth birthday in North Carolina during the snowstorms there and loved every minute. While everyone was freaking out, me, my dad and my sister made snow angels outside our hotel. The snow was so soft!’

  Milo rested his chin on his hand and stared at her. She felt her face flush.

  ‘But Finland is hard beneath all that snow,’ Filipe said. ‘In the winter, the ice covers the land like a scab.’

  ‘Scabs are good,’ Milo said. ‘They heal.’

  ‘But they grow itchy too,’ Filipe said. ‘And when you scratch them off, they become infected.’

  ‘You’re making it sound like a hellhole!’ Milo said as he laughed, the lines around his eyes crinkling. Claire hadn’t seen him laugh since those days they’d spent together before the shooting.

  ‘Fine,’ Filipe said, flopping back into his chair and raising his arms in defeat. ‘You can move to Lapland and I’ll drive from my warm apartment in Helsinki just to hear you complain of the dark and the cold.’

  ‘I might take you up on that offer,’ Milo said. ‘My niece Holly’s always wanted to go to Lapland.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about Holly, she must be seventeen now,’ Claire said. ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’s okay. I’ve seen her a few times, not as much as I’d like. She wanted to come with me to Serbia actually, but Jen wasn’t too hot on the idea.’

  ‘Yes, I read your sister had taken her in. Any contact from her mum?’

  His face stiffened. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Okay, enough of this talk,’ Nikola said, jumping onto his chair and clanging his fork against his glass. ‘Tomorrow, we will make our case for freedom as we visit the polling booths. So I want to raise a glass. Zivio Ziveli!’ he said, raising his glass high in the air. ‘To democracy! To change!’

  As everyone cheered and stamped their feet, Milo sought Claire’s eyes across the dinner table and this time, she held his gaze too, her heartbeat matching the thump of those feet.

  13

  Fruška Gora, Serbia

  2000

  Luna was huge now, the skin of her belly stretched so tight, you could almost see the little pups inside. It was strange for Claire to watch over her and know she herself would never feel fat with baby. That fact was always inside her, like a lump of coal at the pit of her stomach. But she’d not dwelled on it as much since being at the sanctuary. Maybe it was because she was caring for wounded dogs, playing a part in their lives as a mother would in her child’s? Or maybe the grieving process at the loss of her fertility was truly entering the stage of acceptance? Just a few weeks here and she was starting to believe this really was the path for her, writing about things that slipped between the lines rather than reviews of glossy destinations.

  When it was officially announced that Milošević had retained power because none of the candidates in the Serbian elections had won a majority vote, Nikola exploded with rage. He stomped around the house, calling his friends and throwing things about while Filipe looked on with an ‘I told you so’ look on his face. That evening, Claire picked up the notepad Milo had given her and started documenting all she’d seen in the lead-up to the elections, what Milo had said in Luna’s kennel striking a chord.

  Soon the anniversary of the shooting arrived. Claire woke early and threw herself into her work, her mind spiked by the memory of blood, by the cries of the injured, by the sight of Milo holding his dead brother in his arms. She wondered briefly whether she should seek him out to check he was okay. But she reasoned that if he needed her, he’d come to her.

  When evening came, Claire found Milo in the kitchen sharing a bottle of slivovica in silence with Filipe and Nikola. She sat down at the table and he looked at her with such sadness in his eyes that all she wanted to do was pull him into her arms, tell him everything was okay.

  After a while, Filipe slid his chair across to her. ‘Claire,’ he whispered. ‘I have something for you and your iceberg. Meet me outside in a couple of minutes, beyond the great spruce at the back.’ He looked across at Milo. ‘Both of you.’

  Then he got up and left the room.

  ‘Do you know what he’s got planned?’ she asked as she followed Milo outside.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘How are you coping today? You okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ He looked at Claire sideways. ‘You?’

  ‘How I feel doesn’t matter. Nothing really happened to me.’

  ‘You were there. That was enough.’

  She wrapped her arms around herself. She was wearing just a T-shirt and jeans and the nights were drawing in now, autumn digging her heels in.

  Milo noticed her shivering and peered back at the farmhouse. ‘Shall I get something to cover your arms?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, smiling. ‘Thanks for asking though.’

  They entered a small meadow, the hedges around it frosted white by the moonlight, and Claire could see Filipe had laid out a blanket on the ground and was holding something under the crook of his arm. He patted the blanket. ‘Come, join me.’

  They both hesitated a moment then sunk down across from Filipe. The ground felt cold and hard under the blanket and Claire was very aware of Milo’s proximity to her.

  ‘I know today is a very difficult day for you both,’ Filipe said. ‘For you especially, Milo.’

  Milo kept his face expressionless and didn’t say anything.

  Filipe placed the item he’d been holding on the blanket in front of them. Beneath the moonlight, Claire could see it was a thick oval object with a white animal-skin top and wooden base. Milo caught her eye and she knew what he was thinking: it was like the drum she hauled around in her car.

  ‘This is a Sami rune drum,’ Filipe said. ‘My father gave it to me.’

  He pulled out a crooked birch stick from his pocket and lightly drummed it over the surface, the sound intimate, low, hypnotic. Milo peered into the distance, his eyes going somewhere else – back to that night?

  ‘Drums play an important role in Sami spiritual rituals,’ Filipe said, increasing the pace of the drumstick. ‘The Sami shamans use them to travel to the spiritual world. With every beat, their souls slowly inch out of the body and, when free, latch onto the wind and move onto another plane.’

  At that moment, the wind seemed to grow more intense, the thud of the drum matching it as it whirled around them.

  ‘The plane they enter is usually one of ecstasy and deep knowledge,’ Filipe said, his voice barely discernable above the beat of the drum. ‘But sometimes, the drum’s used to cleanse the soul of harmful memories by easing them out and taking them away with the wind.’

  As Filipe continued to play the drum, Claire closed her eyes, imagining each thump of his hand doing just as he said: easing the memories out, sending them away. She saw them all: her dad’s sunken face as he took his last breaths; the flicker of the flames as she burned the photo she’d been given of he
r embryos after her last failed IVF round; then Milo, his face streaked with his brother’s blood as he stared up at her.

  She opened her eyes. Milo was watching her, his cheeks wet with tears. Those tears made her think of melting icebergs. She saw the river they’d lain down next to three years before. She saw Milo’s brother lying dead in his arms. She thought of how quickly it had changed Milo. How the parts of the Milo she’d been kissing just a few moments before had, like Filipe said, cracked and broken away, drifting so far out to sea, she wasn’t sure he could get them back again.

  But then she focused on the tears sliding down his face and thought of the effort he’d made the past few days. What if the softer part of him, the iceberg that had broken away that night, was slowly coming back? And if so, what did that mean for him? For her?

  She knew then she had a choice.

  As the drumbeat continued to thud in time with the beat of her heart, all she knew was this: she needed Milo and he needed her, not as lovers, but as friends. She placed her arms around him. He tensed for a moment. Then he melted against her, his arms wrapping around hers.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Claire noticed Filipe smiling.

  They stayed like that for the next hour as Milo stared ahead of him, trying, as he told Claire later, to stop the memories he’d pushed away from seeping back into him again.

  Then suddenly their peace was interrupted by someone running towards them in the darkness. Milo jumped up, placing his whole body in front of Claire’s, making her think of that night three years before when his sister had stumbled towards them.

  But as the figure drew closer, she realised it was Nikola.

  ‘It’s started,’ he said, leaning down to catch his breath. ‘Luna’s giving birth.’

  Milo looked at Claire, a small smile on his face. She knew what he was thinking: that Luna giving birth was a sign of new starts. He stood and put his hand out to her. She took it, smiling, and they both jogged to the kennels where they found Luna pacing up and down her kennel whining.

  It took them several hours to deliver Luna’s pups. When the first arrived, flopping onto the ground in front of her, black and covered with mucus, it didn’t move.

  ‘Is it okay?’ Claire whispered, fear streaking through her. What if it couldn’t breathe?

  ‘Wait,’ Milo said, putting his hand gently on her arm.

  She followed his gaze to see Luna had started licking the pup, making it squirm and whimper. Then she chewed off the umbilical cord, whimpering with her new pup.

  ‘You take it, there’s a few more pups in there so I’d better get them out,’ Filipe said, handing Claire a cloth. She gently picked the puppy up, wiping its face and nose just as Filipe had taught her to. It curled against her arm and her heart swelled. It was so tiny and innocent, eyes not even open yet, squirming with confusion and fear. Then she felt a trickle of sadness. She’d never hold her own newborn in her arms; never see its eyes open and latch onto hers for the first time.

  Milo put his hand on her arm as though he could sense what she was thinking and the sadness ebbed away.

  Over the next few days, Milo made excuses to be near Claire, offering to fix the trellis outside her office and bringing her post. And it wasn’t long before she found herself hovering by the window to watch him work on the barn, even bringing him tea one day, ignoring the voice in her head that told her to keep her distance. She’d made a decision to be there for him, but as a friend, nothing more. The problem was, every time she was near him, all she thought about was more.

  As September rolled into October, the feeling of revolution in the air intensified. Local radio stations stopped toeing Milošević’s line, which Nikola assured them was a sign of real change; workers even went on strike in protest at Milošević’s refusal to step down. Then one day, Nikola ran through the sanctuary, screaming ‘revolution’ at the top of his lungs. Even Luna left her precious pups behind and came out from her kennel, ears pricking at Nikola’s excitable tones.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Milo asked Nikola from the ladder he was standing on.

  ‘Belgrade’s on fire,’ Nikola said, eyes sparking.

  Claire thought of what her sister Sofia would say when she saw the news. She’d called a few times the past week, worried about what she’d been hearing. Jay had called too. The only person who thought it was exciting was her friend Jodie. But then nothing scared her: she was currently in Colombia trying to get a book festival off the ground.

  ‘It’s the Skupština!’ Nikola said. ‘They’re burning the parliament building.’

  ‘I think Nikola’s moment has finally come,’ Filipe said, strolling outside as Milo made his way down the ladder. ‘Maybe change is possible. Maybe a country can heal.’

  Nikola’s face exploded with happiness and he pulled Filipe into a hug, kissing his cheek as he rolled his eyes.

  ‘You must come to Belgrade,’ Nikola said to Claire and Milo. ‘We’ll take to the streets to celebrate Milošević’s downfall.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Claire said, peering towards Luna’s kennel.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Filipe said, looking between Claire and Milo with a small smile on his face. ‘I’ll keep an eye on Luna and her pups; I’m exhausted anyway. You go enjoy yourself. It’s not often you get to witness a revolution. It’ll be great for that article you’re writing, Claire.’

  ‘You’re writing an article about all this?’ Milo asked, a small smile on his face.

  ‘Someone very wise suggested I do it,’ Claire joked.

  His smile deepened. ‘Then I reckon Nikola and Filipe are right, I reckon we should go.’

  ‘But it’s not safe,’ Claire said. ‘Haven’t you seen the scenes on TV?’

  ‘Would the old Claire who made snow angels in a snow storm and travelled the world when she was seventeen say that?’ Milo asked, his brown eyes shimmering with mischief. ‘Taking the official path’s overrated, remember?’ He put his hand out to her and Claire felt her tummy whir, memories from their first few days in Exmoor spinning inside.

  ‘Fine then,’ she said. ‘But if I get arrested, I’m blaming you.’

  Nikola held the placard high above his head as he led them into the crowds a few hours later. The centre of Belgrade was jam-packed full of people, the atmosphere sparking with excitement. But there was an edge to it, like any minute something dark might erupt. Combined with the night skies above, Claire realised she ought to be scared. But instead she felt exhilarated, memories from the past and her old brave self floating back to her.

  She peered around her, breathing it all in so she could write about it later. To the right of her was the Serbian parliament building with its distinctive green dome, smoke still weaving its way out from the back of it, scorching the air with its ashy stench. More buildings surrounded the crowds, pale cream walls a contrast to the colourful crowds. Buses and trucks were parked a few rows ahead of Claire with people jumping around on their roofs. Nikola told them that people had travelled from all over the country to join the protests, barging their way through police barricades in their trucks and coaches.

  A cheer went up and Claire looked towards Belgrade City Hall, a square building with pillars adorning its entrance. On the balcony was the opposition leader, Vojislav Koštunica. Next to him, a man waved a huge blue, white and red flag, its colours catching in the light shining from the balcony’s ceiling. A chant started, loud and fierce. Nikola joined in, the scarf covering his face billowing out with each word. People surged forward and Milo grabbed Claire’s arm, pulling her close to him. She could feel the bare skin of his arms against her, the bristle of his hairs.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  A scream pierced the air and someone shouted out ‘Crvene beretke!’

  It was like a war cry for the crowd. Everyone surged forward, and Nikola followed with his fist in the air, disappearing among a sea of people. Claire heard Milo shout her name.

  Then suddenly, he was gone.

  The crowd clos
ed in around her, knocking the breath out of her chest. Her head swam, panic swelling inside. But then strong, cool hands were gripping her under her arms, pulling her through the crowds into the darkness of a nearby alleyway. She leaned down to take in huge gulps of air, the stink of rubbish and urine clogging her nostrils. Claire was starting to regret her choice of attire, a long patterned dress she’d bought in a Novi Sad flea market the week before.

  When she looked up, Milo was standing in front of her, eyes frantic as they travelled all over her.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m fine. Where’d you go?’

  ‘I tried to hold onto you but you slipped away.’ He took a step closer to her, his face intense. ‘I don’t like that, when you slip away.’

  The sounds of the crowd dissipated slightly, the air between them wavered. Claire’s eyes dropped to Milo’s lips and she remembered how it had felt when they were pressed against hers.

  But then she thought of all that came after.

  No, she thought to herself, stepping away.

  ‘Claire! Milo!’

  They looked down the alleyway to see Nikola running towards them.

  ‘Come!’ Nikola said. ‘We must celebrate.’

  Nikola led them to one of the city’s underground bars that had been set up for young people to escape to during the war, so underground a password was needed to get in. When they entered, it was as though they were in someone’s shabby-chic front room with people draped across comfortable-looking chairs, others leaning against bookcases. The heady scent of perfume and sweat and beer and wine mingled with the smell of ashes from outside. The only thing that suggested this was more than a house party was the quaint little bar that sat in the corner of the room.

  The rest of the night dissolved into a stream of slivovica as they all danced on the tables with Nikola’s friends, screaming ‘Zbogom Milošević’ at the top of their lungs. After a while, Milo pulled Claire against him, twirling her down the table and smashing glasses with his feet as people shouted expletives at him. Milo ignored them, pulling Claire even closer as the slivovica slithered into the restricted parts of her mind, memories from that autumn evening three years before trickling out: the feel of Milo’s lips against hers; the way his fingers had trailed over her thighs.