by Emily Gunnis
‘Hello?’ said Iris, her voice shaky.
‘I’m sorry to bother you darling, I know you’ve got your meeting with James this morning.’ Her mother’s voice was quieter than usual.
‘You sound funny. What’s wrong?’ Iris looked at her watch. She had told Miles she would be back at her desk at The Tribune by eleven at the latest. She was not in her news editor’s good books at the moment, and she couldn’t afford to be any later than that.
‘Iris, I didn’t want to blurt it out like this. I was going to call you tonight and talk to you—’ Her mother sounded on the verge of tears.
‘What is it? Are you okay?’ Iris asked.
‘Yes, I’m fine. It’s Jessie. She’s missing,’ Rebecca said.
‘What do you mean, missing?’
‘Jessie gave birth to a little girl yesterday. I only just found out myself that she was pregnant.’
Iris’s stomach lurched at the news that her half-sister, whom she barely knew, had just had a baby. That Jessie, not her, was making her mother a grandmother for the first time.
‘But how is she missing? Didn’t she go to hospital to have it?’ Iris’s overcrowded brain struggled to take in the news.
‘She walked out of St Dunstan’s Hospital this morning, without being discharged. The baby needs antibiotics, and Jessie’s taken her away so it’s all extremely worrying. The police just called me to say there is a police liaison officer on their way to me. I want to drive down to Chichester but I’m sure Harvey wouldn’t want me down there. He probably blames me.’
‘How can he blame you? You haven’t seen Jessie for nearly a year.’
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Iris. Jessie came to see me on Friday. I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to keep it from you. It was just all rather difficult.’
Iris felt her defences snap. How had it come to this? She felt a wave of guilt that she felt so hostile towards Jessie, when she was clearly going through some sort of crisis. She had lost count of the number of times she had had to pick up the pieces after her mother had had an upsetting visit with Jessie and her overbearing stepmother, Liz. And on the rare occasions her half-sister had come to stay, Jessie got away with murder. Their mother would tiptoe around her, desperately trying to make up for her absence in Jessie’s life. Still, Iris tried to understand as best she could, and she wanted nothing more than for Jessie to be in her life.
‘That’s awful. How could she just leave? I thought hospital security was tight,’ said Iris.
‘I don’t know, but she’s found a way. I’m terrified she’s got psychosis, like I had. It sounds like everyone’s in a panic, thinking she’s going to do something stupid. They wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone, and no doubt Harvey will keep me completely in the dark as always. I’ve tried to get hold of someone at the hospital, but no joy, they’re in a panic and on lockdown. I was wondering if there might be anything you can find out?’
‘Okay.’ Iris frowned. ‘Does anyone from the press know about this yet?’
‘Well, the officer that called me said there was the possibility of a press conference later, but other than that I have no idea. Presumably there must be some CCTV footage of her walking out of the hospital? How much do they tell the press in a situation like this, if they need you to help inform the public?’
‘They’d normally just brief us before the press conference. But it may be that my boss has heard something from one of the local press agencies.’
‘If you could just ask I’d be so grateful. I’m just desperate to know if they’ve been seen at all since. You’re always saying your colleagues on the newsdesk at The Tribune seem to know what’s happening before the police do.’
‘Okay, I’ll call my boss and see if he’s heard anything. I won’t say we’re related, just that I’ve heard a rumour about a new mother walking out of St Dunstan’s Hospital.’ Iris felt her heart throb with jealousy. Jessie was a mother, but from what she could gather she was putting her baby at terrible risk.
‘Thank you, darling, I just wanted to call before the police liaison officer gets here. Are you okay?’
‘Yes, I’m okay, Mum. I better go. I’ll call you if I hear anything.’ Iris took a deep breath and, after a fleeting glance at the solicitors’ office she dialled the newsdesk and set off towards Victoria Station.
Chapter Four
‘Can you tell us your name?’
The muffled female voice pulls me to, though my eyes are heavy and I can barely open them. I hear the loud crashing of the sea next to me and feel cold, wet sand under my shaking legs. Broken shells scratch at my skin like claws. I am at the opening of the sea; it is rushing under me, then drawing away. The icy wind is strong and the tide is pulling me towards the water, to where I want to be.
A woman crouches down and wraps a blanket around me. ‘Can you hear me?’ I turn and look at her. She is wearing a green uniform and tells me her name is Claire. I am too cold to answer.
‘We need to get you away from the water and warmed up. Can you try and stand up?’
A man appears and they take an arm each. ‘One, two, three.’ My limbs ache and I let out a moan.
‘Do you know how long you’ve been here?’
I don’t answer, but I left soon after lunchtime and now it’s getting dark. I’m frozen through and my tummy is so empty it’s groaning, but I don’t know when I arrived or how I got here. I stand and stare out at the sea, my legs throbbing mercilessly, and when I look down I see I’m not wearing any shoes. I think I took them off when I walked down to the water, but when I look over at the bench at the edge of the bay they aren’t there.
‘That’s it. You’re doing great. Can you remember if anyone brought you here today?’ The woman pulls the blanket more tightly around me. The sea air thrashes at my face.
It is a dark, cloudy day, and the sea looks the same shade of grey as the day I left her. The air feels the same too; intensely cold, like it’s carrying droplets of ice. I close my eyes and try to remember her. I’ve been trying to remember her all day. Her smell, her hair, her skin. My heart hurts from trying to remember.
‘We need to get you into the ambulance, warm you up a bit. Can you put your arms around us so we can help you walk?’
I turn and look at the woman’s face. Her lips are moving but my brain can’t connect with what she is saying so, again, I don’t answer. My thoughts are on a loop, entangled like the seaweed at my feet.
‘I should never have left her,’ I whisper, but the rush of the sea drowns out my words.
‘There you go, just take it slowly. You’re probably going to feel a bit dizzy,’ says the woman. She is blonde, her short, wavy hair pinned back with kirby grips, no make-up. She keeps smiling at me, her brown eyes creasing at the edges, but I don’t smile back.
I came back here to feel closer to her and I don’t want to leave. This where I last held her.
They are taking me away and I don’t have the strength to stop them. I’m shaking and my legs cannot hold me up. The man wraps another blanket around me. It doesn’t help. I didn’t know it was possible to feel this cold. ‘Okay, see the ambulance up there?’ he says. ‘That’s where we’re headed. We’ll take most of your weight. There you go.’
An overwhelming feeling of fear and dread washes over me as we start to move. I know that this is it. After today, I will never come back here. I will never so clearly remember those precious few days when she was mine.
‘I didn’t leave her. I just wanted to swim,’ I say. Again, the roar of the sea crushes my words.
‘It’s too cold today, love, you can’t go in,’ the woman says, misunderstanding me. She looks so young, barely out of school. The walk is long and hard and I sink into the sand.
I look back at the sea and it whispers my name. Just as it did that day.
We reach the open doors of the ambulance. I’m hauled up the metallic steps, laid on the bed. They put the side up so I don’t fall out; like a baby in a cot. I close my eyes
and listen to my heart in my ears.
The woman is tugging at my hands. ‘You’re too cold for the finger probe so I’m going to hold your hand to warm you up.’
I don’t want her to hold my hand. I pull away but she persists, puts something on my finger and around my upper arm. I try to pull them off, but she stops me and I start to feel angry. I want to be alone on the beach so I can remember her. The last moments with my baby, just the two of us. I don’t want to leave.
‘Please let me stay,’ I say. ‘I don’t care if I die.’ But her back is turned and she doesn’t hear.
‘How’s she doing?’ The man is at the door.
‘She’s getting a bit agitated. She’s bradycardic and hypothermic, temperature low – thirty-four. Oxygen level sixty. Blood pressure ninety over fifty-five. Let’s get her in.’
‘Blues and twos?’
‘Yeah, it’s coming into rush hour.’ She turns her attention to her notes. I wish I had the strength to run.
I look back and watch the sea as the man closes the doors. It’s calling to me.
I’ve been here before.
They were wrong. They’ve always been wrong. I didn’t take my baby into the sea.
I left her in the cave. I was going to go back.
The ambulance rattles along the road. I sleep then jerk awake when stop, abruptly. The doors open. The voices of the paramedics are more hurried now, they move quickly.
‘Her temperature’s down – thirty-one. Can we get some help here!’
They lift the stretcher, carry me down the ambulance steps, wheel me through a bright entrance. Accident and Emergency. The words are an angry red and hurt my eyes.
I turn my head slowly; a nurse is running towards us. The lights in the corridor they wheel me along are too bright. I long to be back at the beach, in the dark, alone with the memories of my baby girl.
‘We were called to Wittering beach by a passer-by. When we got there she was sitting at the water’s edge and seemed confused. Her temperature has dropped from thirty-four to thirty-one; pulse forty. We’ve asked her name and age, but she’s not responding.’
‘Cubicle three.’ A nurse in white scrubs leans down to me. ‘Hello? Can you hear me? I’m Helen, one of the nurses. Can you tell me your name?’
I close my eyes and turn my head away. A tear escapes. I wish they would all go away.
‘She’s very pale and her lips are looking quite blue. I think we’d better put her in resus. I’ll get a doctor to come straight away.’
The stretcher is moving again; there are more people around me now. It’s so loud, too bright. I feel frightened, surrounded. I wasn’t frightened on the beach, I wanted the sea to take me this time. I don’t want this. I don’t want to be here.
‘Let’s get her across. One, two, three, slide.’ They lift me onto another stretcher. I tell them to leave me alone but they don’t listen. They tug at me – ‘Let’s get you out of these wet clothes.’ Everything hurts.
I hear the rip of the blood-pressure cuff. ‘Ninety over sixty,’ someone says.
Please let me die. I feel the stretcher move gently, as if I’m on a boat. I feel myself rocking and close my eyes, longing to be back at the sea’s edge. I wish I’d had the strength to go in.
The stretcher jerks, the side bars crash down and I hold on to the sides in case I fall. I feel queasy and try to turn over to get away, but I don’t have the strength.
Another voice. ‘Hello? Can you hear me? I’m Dr Hardy, I’m one of the A&E doctors.’
He pinches the muscle on top of my collarbone. It stings and my eyes open briefly.
‘Do we know what her name is? Did anyone come in with her?’ His voice is urgent. I start to feel nauseous. And suddenly, my body starts to warm.
‘She was spotted wandering on the beach by a passer-by. She’s not told anyone her name.’
Slowly, the heat creeps through me. I start to feel unbearably hot. I try and push the blanket off. They pull it back on.
‘Put her on high-flow oxygen.’
More unbearable noise. They put a mask over my face; I hear it hiss in my ears. I try to take it off but they stop me and tell me to breathe. In, out. In, out.
It’s like the tide. You cannot stop it.
I try and think myself back there. Try to remember my last moments with her. I hear a baby’s cry and look around me.
My eyes fill with tears and I feel pressure on my chest. I want to scream at them to go away but I have no voice.
‘Air entry throughout her chest. Pulse rate forty. Blood pressure ninety over sixty. Temperature? We need to put a cannula in, take some bloods and give her some warmed intravenous fluids.’
‘I can hear a baby crying,’ I try to say through the mask, but I just swallow the words back down.
‘Sorry?’ The nurse stops what she is doing and leans down to me. She lifts my mask. ‘What did you say?’
‘That baby needs help.’ My shivering is uncontrollable.
‘It’s okay. Don’t upset yourself.’
‘What are they doing to her?’ The baby’s cries take me back.
‘Can you tell us your name so we can contact a family member? I’m sure there are people who are worried about you.’
‘My baby cried like that. I didn’t leave her. I was going to come back.’ The nurse strokes my hair and puts the mask back on.
‘She’s very confused,’ she says.
I close my eyes and let my mind return to the beach. The place where it ended. And where it all began.
Chapter Five
Rebecca
Friday, 14 November 2014
Rebecca Waterhouse looked along the road outside her Victorian townhouse for any sign of her daughter’s red Fiat, then up at the clock on the wall, for the third time in as many minutes.
It was nearly 10 a.m. Jessie was half an hour late, but it had been so long since they had arranged a meeting together with just the two of them Rebecca had no idea whether it was out of character or not. She let out a heavy sigh and tried to calm her nerves. Jessie was fine; their chat – as Jessie had referred to it the night before – was going to happen. After all, Jessie had been the one to call her to arrange the visit, so why would she change her mind? She had clearly just inherited her father’s laissez faire attitude towards timekeeping.
Rebecca walked over to the kitchen counter and poured herself a large black coffee from the percolator. Her eyes stung; she had barely slept after her daughter’s call had woken her just before midnight. She had thought it was sleep tricking her when she turned to her buzzing phone and the name ‘Jessie’ was flashing on the screen.
‘Jessie? Are you okay?’ She had grabbed the phone and answered in rather a panic.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Her daughter had sounded slightly on edge, but it had been so long since she’d spoken to her. ‘I’m sorry, did I wake you? I’ll call back,’ Jessie had said.
‘No, don’t worry! No, it’s fine. I was just dozing. I’m not asleep. It’s lovely to hear from you.’ She knew she sounded slightly needy, as she always did when she spoke to her thirty-nine-year-old daughter.
Sitting up in bed and fumbling for the light switch, she felt a stab of grief for her husband. He had been gone nearly a decade and would have done nothing but roll over and continue snoring, but his presence would have calmed her.
There was an awkward silence, Rebecca anxious not to say anything that would frighten Jessie off, as if she were a robin perched on the sill by an open window.
‘I know it’s been a while now, but I don’t think I’ve had a chance to say how sorry I was to hear about Liz. I do often think about how much you must miss her,’ she said finally, knowing that the death of her daughter’s stepmother from breast cancer needed to be acknowledged, and hoping that Jessie didn’t think her words insincere. ‘I hope you got my card at the time?’
‘I did, thank you,’ Jessie replied, but offering nothing more about her grief over the woman who had raised her since she was a baby
. Jessie had barely contacted Rebecca since Liz’s breast cancer diagnosis and in the two years since her death. Rebecca guessed that – knowing she and Liz didn’t get on – she perhaps felt it would be disloyal to do so.
Rebecca’s mind had flashed back to the last time she had seen Liz, nearly ten years before. Close to the time John died.
She, Liz and Jessie had met in a café in Brighton, which Liz had suggested as a good halfway point – though Rebecca would have driven to the ends of the Earth for any time with her elder daughter. The atmosphere had been painful, plates and cutlery clattering around them while Liz lectured Rebecca about homeopathy and harnessing the power of the menopause, her oversized bangles jangling on the table between where she and Jessie sat.
That meeting had signalled the beginning of the end of any semblance of a relationship between mother and daughter. Rebecca, grieving for her husband and overflowing with frustration at having her precious and rare meetings with her daughter dominated by Liz, had called Liz afterwards to ask whether it might be time for Liz to step aside and give Rebecca’s relationship with her daughter a chance. Liz had flown into a rage. ‘She’s a lot more traumatized by these meetings than you’d ever know, Rebecca,’ she’d said.
‘Well, I should know – I want to know – if you’d just give me the chance to talk to her.’
‘None of this is my fault. I had to push her to come today – she wouldn’t even come out of her room.’ Liz spoke as if Jessie were twelve, not twenty-eight. ‘But if that’s the way you want it, that’s fine. I won’t have anything to do with it, and we’ll see how far that gets us, shall we? A thank-you would have been nice, Rebecca, after all I’ve done for your daughter.’
As time dragged on and Rebecca’s letters and phone calls remained mostly unanswered, Liz’s prediction that their relationship wouldn’t survive without her intervention turned out – rather fortuitously for Liz – to be correct.
‘Anyway, how are you?’ tried Rebecca now.