‘Did I give it to her? Was it my bug?’ Grace wondered.
‘I don’t think so. I don’t think it works like that.’ Tom spoke to the floor.
‘Is it our fault? Should we have done something? Got her medicine?’ Grace was aware her voice had gone up an octave and that she was breathing a little too quickly.
‘I don’t know.’ Tom answered truthfully, his voice still a growl, his eyes downcast.
Grace knitted her hands in her lap and tried to let the facts crystallise. Their little girl had died from a disease they had never heard of. And she didn’t know if there was something she could have done to stop it. She felt her stomach cave with a new wave of grief that hit her sharply and left her winded.
Tom reached up to place his arm around his wife, but Grace stood, unable to cope with physical comfort or any words of solace, no matter how well intentioned. She was raw, angry and hurt; no arm across the shoulders could possibly help that.
6
People suffering from sepsis may have mottled or discoloured skin
The blinds were pulled, allowing little natural light into the room. Grace sat in front of her dressing table and stared into the mirror. She barely recognised the face that looked back at her. It was older, worn and etched with exhaustion. Her greasy hair lay limply against her skull, her skin was dull and her lips pale. It was amazing how grief had invaded every aspect of her, changed every single bit of her. Lifting her fingers, she touched them to the cool glass and ran them over the outline of the image of the woman that looked a little bit like her, but different, muted somehow. It was as if she had been scooped out, made hollow, and what was left was this flat representation of the person she used to be. She tried again to understand how in such a short space of time her entire world could have got so broken, all the joy extinguished.
It was January the twentieth. Grace tried to remember what she’d done on this date last year, or the year before that. She couldn’t be sure but could hazard a guess: breakfast, work, home, supper and bed. A day pretty much like any other, and yet now this date would always be a significant one in her diary, a day that could never feel normal again. January the twentieth would always be the day that she had buried her little girl. Grace closed her eyes, taking gulps of air, trying to stay present, trying to gather the strength to make it through the day without cracking.
Reluctantly she left the solace of her room and found herself at the door of Chloe’s bedroom. It would always be Chloe’s bedroom, the place she had laid her beautiful head, bounced on the bed in her nightie and cuddled her toys, the walls where her snores had rippled and echoed, the creaky door that alerted them when she was on her way. Tom had beaten her to it. He sat on the tiny bed with his daughter’s small pink and white duvet folded into his chest, hugging it closely and taking deep breaths through the fabric, drinking in her ever-fading scent. His eyes were red and swollen from crying, his stubble untended, his speech muffled as he whispered to himself like a madman. Grace looked at the stranger her husband had become and noticed how he, like her, was physically altered.
Leaving him alone with his grief, she returned to her room and pondered the clothes that hung in her wardrobe. She was vaguely aware of having to wear something dark. Her suits, the costume in which she faced the world of work, held no appeal. She thought about all those mornings when she’d rushed to get to the station, always up against the clock, the minutes between the alarm going off and her leaving the house invariably disappearing far too quickly. There was never enough time and Chloe would insist on hanging around her legs while she tried to select her ensemble for the day. It used to irritate her, the continual inane questioning when she simply didn’t have the time to respond. Had she tutted or snapped? Probably both. What wouldn’t she give now to feel that chubby little body sitting against her leg, babbling on about something entirely irrelevant. Showing her pages from books or telling her in great detail about something funny Mr Tumble had done. Grace had only ever half listened, concentrating instead on planning her day, thinking about Jayney and Jason and work and meetings… I’m sorry, Chloe. I’m so sorry. I thought we had all the time in the world. I thought I would always be a weekend away from spending time with you.
Grace pulled a navy skirt from its hanger and stepped into it before fastening the zip. She let go of the waistband, only for the skirt to fall down to her hips. She knew she had lost weight and this garment was proof of just how much. Grace ran her palm over her jutting bones, hating the living, breathing body in which she was trapped. Why couldn’t it have been me? Why did it happen to her? I would have swapped, I would swap.
Instinctively balling her hand into a fist, she thumped hard into her abdomen. The effect was intoxicating; she liked feeling the physical pain that she craved. How many times she struck herself she couldn’t be sure, but it built into a frenzy of blows.
Tom seemed to appear from nowhere; he caught her by the wrists and held her fast. ‘No!’ he shouted at her.
His grip hurt. The thin skin of her wrist bit against the bone as he twisted. Still he didn’t release her. His pupils were pinpricks as he fixed her with his gaze.
‘Why are you doing that? Do you think it helps? It doesn’t. Trust me.’ And then his tears were flowing again.
‘I’ve lost my little girl and I will not lose you. You are not going to cause yourself harm, do you hear me? Do you hear me?’ he shouted, even though he was close.
Sinking down onto his knees, he slumped onto the carpet and she, tethered to him at the wrists, had no choice but to sink with him.
‘Where is she, Grace? Where has she gone?’ He was sobbing now. ‘I can’t bear to think of her on her own somewhere. I keep looking for her.’
There was nothing she could say to heal or console him. They sank further down until she lay with her head on his chest and they fell into a fitful sleep, welcoming the oblivion that it offered, exhausted by the outpouring.
They woke some time later to the pip-pipping of Tom’s phone alarm and were surprised to find themselves in a heap on the bedroom floor, neither mentioning or recalling the drama that had led them to that point. It was nearly time for them to leave.
Grace pulled on her navy jacket, applying neither make-up to her face nor a comb to her flat hair; this, like everything else, seemed utterly pointless. Tom had managed a sports jacket and suit trousers, an odd combination, which no one would question or care about but plenty would notice.
They stood in the hallway and stared at each other. ‘I wish I could fast-forward the day,’ Tom mumbled.
‘I wish I could fast-forward forever,’ Grace replied levelly, rubbing at eyes that felt full of grit.
The front door opened to reveal a beautiful crisp blue day. Despite the cold, wisps of cloud danced in the subtle breeze. The long black shiny car sat in the middle of the frosty driveway. Grace noticed the glossy paintwork and the slick gleaming chrome of the mirrors. Two men she didn’t recognise sat up front, very smartly dressed. Her eyes were drawn to the back of the vehicle, where there was a large space filled with flowers. Amid the huge daisies sat a little white wooden box.
Grace felt her knees buckle and the bile rise in her throat. Tom held her arm and kept her on her feet. She fought the overwhelming desire to run. Tom then let out a loud sob, the kind of noise a person would normally only be comfortable making when they were alone. But there was nothing normal about this day.
‘Where is she, Grace? Where’s she gone?’ he asked again, as though she might have the answer.
She matched his tears, sobbing now. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know where she is. I can’t bear to think of her on her own somewhere. I can’t. I think she might need me, but I don’t know how to get to her and she won’t understand why I’m not there. I’m her mummy!’
Grace heard a whimpering behind her and was aware for the first time of other people. Quite a large group of people, actually – how had she missed them? Some of them she recognised: her best friend Ruthie, Jayney, Tom’s parents, t
he lady that owned the flower shop in the village, and some people she couldn’t quite place, though they were vaguely familiar, women from pre-school maybe? How did they all know where she lived? She wished they would all go away.
Her eyes returned to the little white box that was not much more than three feet long and a foot wide. Grace could imagine the whispers. ‘Apparently it can happen to anyone. What was it they said – sepsis? Never heard of it…’
Tom guided his wife into the arms of her mother and father, one on either side, her supports. She was too distracted to acknowledge them; they were merely another two blurred faces in this surreal pantomime. She travelled to the church behind the hearse, sandwiched between Alice and Olive. Mac and Tom sat in front of them. Mac kept his steady hand on his son-in-law’s shoulder. Olive made small whimpering sounds, as if she had run out of tears and this dry heave of distress was her new norm. Alice squeezed her sister’s arm and whispered repeatedly, ‘It’s okay, Gracie. You’re doing great. It will all be over soon.’ But Grace knew that no matter how sincerely offered this was a lie. It would never, ever be over.
Sitting at the front of the church, Grace stared ahead. Focusing on a stained glass window of an angel with her arms outstretched, she would hold the angel’s eye and leave when it was over, trying not to think about what was actually happening, because if she did, she feared she might actually lose her mind. With her parents on either side, Grace realised for the first time in her life that they could not fix everything. She felt grown up and abandoned all at once. Glancing at her mum and dad, she noticed how they had shrunk, looking every one of their combined one hundred and fifty-eight years, bowed and broken. Mac reached across and took her hand into his own. He too stared ahead, holding her hand like he used to when she was little, when it used to make everything feel better. A long, long time ago.
She was aware of the vicar standing upright and business-like, the only person who appeared unmoved, almost indifferent to the event. She tried to think of why that might be – was he so used to the disposal of bodies and the passing over of souls that the whole ghastly business had become almost matter-of-fact, routine? Or maybe he was so certain about where her little girl had gone, that ‘better place’ that everyone kept telling her about, that he saw no reason to feel sadness, confident that everything in the universe was as it should be. Grace allowed herself to hope so.
Throughout the service, she was aware of a light pressure against her thigh. Eventually looking down, she saw Chloe standing beside her with her hand on her leg, watching proceedings with an almost bored detachment, scuffing her pink wellington boot against the side of the pew and wearing her little raincoat.
Grace bent down at one point and whispered to her daughter, ‘Not too much longer now, darling,’ and her daughter smiled in response. Grace realised that every time she saw Chloe now, she was strangely silent, as though the little girl had lost her voice.
Music started playing; it was the slow segment from Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet. It was beautiful. Grace let the sound fill her. The lilting horn and delicate, heartfelt strings cut into her like tiny daggers; she succumbed to the sorrow and desolation of the notes as they climbed.
All faces apart from Grace’s turned towards the back of the church as the heavy oak door opened and Tom entered. Jack walked behind him, for no other reason than to offer moral support, stepping in the wake of his brother in a slow procession that seemed to take an eternity.
Tom’s arms were outstretched, his forearms bent upwards and his fingers clasped around the small coffin that contained his little girl. A single large daisy sat on top, her favourite flower. He walked slowly, wanting the moment to last for as long as possible, wanting to hold onto her and savour this contact for the last time ever. He knew that what was coming next should be delayed. Stalling, he tried to avoid the inevitable. He spoke to her in his head. ‘It’s all right, my darling, you go to sleep now, baby. Go to sleep now. I am right here, Chlo. Your daddy’s got you…’
Grace kept her eyes fixed on the angel.
As the car pulled up to the house, Grace let her gaze rove over the many vehicles that were parked on the verges, crowding the lane and filling the drive.
‘I don’t want to see anyone. I just want to go to bed,’ she murmured.
Tom nodded. This he understood. ‘I don’t think anyone will mind,’ he whispered as he rubbed at his stubble.
She stepped from the car and pushed the front door, which was ajar. Jayney was standing by the stairs, hovering. She rushed forward, crushing her friend to her in a hug. ‘Grace! Oh my God. I am so sorry. If there is anything I can do. Anything you need, anything at all, just shout.’ Jayney started to cry. ‘It’s the worst day in the world.’
Grace nodded. Every day is now the worst day in the world. Every single day. She spied one of their neighbours, a sweet lady who she was on nodding terms with. They used to wave enthusiastically as their cars passed and would exchange snippets about current and future weather when collecting their bins from the top of the lane on a Tuesday evening. The woman stepped forward and handed her a white envelope, then left. Grace turned it over in her hand. She noticed Ruthie across the floor, too tearful and emotional to speak. Grace looked from person to person, room to room and felt as though she were watching everything in slow motion. Kicking off her shoes, she gathered them into her hand and in her stockinged feet trod the stairs, caring little about the eyes and comments that followed her stumbling progress to her room.
Closing the bedroom door behind her, she shrugged off her jacket and unzipped her skirt, letting them both fall to the floor where she stood. She unbuttoned her shirt, pulled on her nightshirt and pyjama bottoms and crawled under the duvet. Closing her eyes, she welcomed the escape that the soft space offered.
There was a knock on the door as it opened. Olive came in with a cup of tea. ‘Here you are, darling, thought you might like a drink.’ She placed it on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed. Her weight pushed the mattress down and Grace listed towards her. Olive’s words were delivered slowly in barely more than a whisper. ‘I can’t tell you that it will get better, because I’m not sure it does and I have never lied to you, Gracie, but I can tell you that you are a strong woman who will find a way through this. God will—’
‘Don’t you mention God to me,’ Gracie snapped. ‘Don’t you dare! There is no God!’
‘Darling, don’t—’ Olive began.
‘I mean it. There isn’t. What kind of God gives a germ to a baby girl who didn’t stand a chance?’
‘I don’t know how to answer that.’ Olive knotted her fingers in her lap and swallowed her tears.
‘Well, I don’t know either.’
They sat in silence for some minutes, both trying to erase the image of the little girl’s coffin being lowered into the soil on that sun-bright winter’s day.
‘I promised her it would all be okay. I told her we’d get ice cream and that she could watch Frozen. That’s what I told her. And she was hungry, Mum…’ Grace’s face crumpled as, open-mouthed, her tears flowed again. ‘She was hungry and I didn’t give her any breakfast and she was hungry and I ate a bun. I ate a bun and laughed while she was lying there…’
Olive shook her head. ‘You can’t do that, Grace. You can’t go over every detail and blame yourself.’
‘Can’t I? Why can’t I? I think you’ll find I can do what the fuck I want. And I want you to go now,’ Grace retorted.
They fell silent again.
‘I mean it. I want you to go! I don’t want to see anyone!’ She was shouting now.
Olive laid a hand on her daughter’s arm. ‘If I could take all your pain and put it into me, I would, I would do it in an instant.’ she whispered as she crept from the room.
Grace placed her head on the pillow and listened to the murmur of conversation that floated up the stairs. Once or twice she heard laughter – how dare someone be laughing, laughing in her house, laughing today, laughing at all
? Closing her eyes, she pushed her face into the soft surface of the pillow and wished for sleep. Remembering her mum’s words, she whispered into the dark, ‘There is no God. There is no God. There’s nothing. I don’t want to be any more. And yet I keep waking up. No one is listening to me, no one is helping me escape. What do I have to do to make this stop?’
An image played in her head, over and over, as it had since that morning when she’d watched her husband with vomit clinging to his skin as he bent over their little girl. It was like a movie that she couldn’t switch off, on a loop. She saw herself holding her newborn, kissing her little face and whispering, ‘Welcome to the world, little one. I’m Grace, I’m your mum and I love you.’
Grace must have dozed off because she woke with a start when the bedroom door opened. She recognised the outline of Tom as he shuffled in, removed his jacket and dropped it over the chair that sat in the corner. He tiptoed round the bed and slid down onto the mattress in his trousers, shirt and shoes. She could smell sweat on his skin and alcohol on his breath as he exhaled.
The two lay side by side, listening to family, friends and those they vaguely knew milling around below them. In other circumstances it would have been amusing that, in their own home, they were confined to their bedroom while strangers ate their food, sipped their wine, glugged their whisky and admired the cut of the drapes. But this wasn’t other circumstances, this was January the twentieth, the day their hearts had been further ripped in two. There were no rules on how to behave and no previous experience on which they could draw; it was entirely new, raw and all-consuming.
They lay in silence as the house grew quieter and quieter. Night crept up on them and threw its dark veil over the darkest of days.
7
Sepsis claims 37,000 lives every year in the UK. 37,000…
Grace woke in the throes of a nightmare. The sheets were twisted about her body and she lay in a cloying film of sweat. Her heart was racing, her throat was dry and tears clogged her nose. She sat up and closed her eyes, swallowing hard, trying to picture something different, trying to make the moving image that lurked behind her eyes go away.
Three-And-A-Half Heartbeats Page 8