by Sibel Hodge
‘Yes. Fine. How’s Charlotte feeling?’
‘Um . . . she’s still tired. I’ve made a doctor’s appointment at the surgery for her to have a blood test.’
‘Good.’
‘Are you seeing Dad today? I’m going in tomorrow. I’m organising that charity bash for the Dorchester Children’s Charity and I’ve got heaps to do still.’
‘You work too hard.’
‘It’s the least I can do. I just think of all those kids without families, or who are vulnerable and hurt, and it breaks my heart. I’d feel guilty knowing all that and not doing anything to help.’
‘I’ll go after work. Let’s hope he doesn’t come out with any other bizarre statements this week.’ I laughed.
‘Yeah, I felt quite an idiot going to see the police. I’m sure they’ve got plenty of real work to be getting on with and don’t need people wasting their time with ludicrous wild goose chases like that.’
‘You see that purple flower?’ Tom pointed to a large bush on the edge of the grounds.
I stopped walking and he stopped, too, since my arm was linked with his.
‘It’s a tiger’s eye iris.’
‘Very pretty.’
‘I had one of those in . . .’ he trailed off, staring at the plant, frown pinched as if he were waiting for a memory to come flooding in. Eventually he shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
We sat on a bench at the far end of the garden that looked back onto the home.
‘I found out who Georgia Walker is.’ I chuckled. ‘You gave me the run-around there, for a while, let me tell you.’
‘Georgia.’ He looked at me and frowned again for a moment, as if rolling the name around in his ravaged brain. Then he smiled and nodded, glancing off in the direction of the flowers again. ‘She was kind. Very nice. I built an extension for her, you know.’
‘Yes, I know.’ I didn’t tell him that I’d found that out from Sergeant Downing.
‘It had been a long time since Eve died and I was going through a bad patch. Things were getting on top of me. You know how it is?’ He glanced at me. ‘I was lonely.’
‘You were seeing her?’ My eyebrows shot up.
‘Yes.’ He smiled, and for a moment he looked like the old Tom. Loving, strong, kind, happy. The patriarch who had kept the family together after Eve’s death.
‘I never knew.’
‘Neither did the kids. We didn’t tell anyone.’
‘How long did it go on for?’
‘Only about six months. She . . . she didn’t want children. She was set in her ways and wasn’t maternal or interested in taking on someone else’s children.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I squeezed harder. ‘You deserved some happiness and love.’
He shifted in his seat, his eyes rheumy. ‘Oh, but I did have that, Olivia. My family gave me that. They were the most important thing in the world. I’d do anything for them.’ He squeezed my hand tighter. ‘Wouldn’t you do anything for your family?’
I thought about Ethan and my precious, miracle daughter. ‘Of course I would.’
‘That’s why I had to do it, you see.’
I nodded. ‘Of course. You had to stop seeing her. I understand. Your family came first.’
He stared at me blankly. ‘I had to do it. She wasn’t supposed to be there. No one was.’ He gripped my hand so tight it began to hurt. Tears in his eyes glistened in the sunlight. ‘It was an accident, you see. But I buried her.’
I swallowed hard, kicking myself for bringing up her name again. For some reason, whenever he thought about her, he got confused and agitated again. ‘No, you’re getting mixed up, Tom. There was no accident. Nothing happened to Georgia: she’s fine. She’s alive and well.’ I pulled my hand from his and laid it on top, patting his cold skin. ‘You couldn’t have buried her.’
He shook his head angrily, a spray of spittle flying from his mouth. ‘No, no, no. Not Georgia!’
‘What are you talking about? I don’t understand,’ I said, trying to keep my voice calm and even.
‘It wasn’t Georgia, it was Katie.’
‘Katie?’
‘Yes. Katie. You know her. Your friend.’
I dropped my hand from his and sat upright. ‘You’re talking about Katie Quinn? Are you . . . You killed Katie? Is that what you’re saying, Tom?’ A bitter taste washed through my mouth.
‘Why did you think it was Georgia?’ He gasped and tears fell from his eyes. ‘It was Katie. I had to do it, though, don’t you see? I buried her.’
Despite the hot sun beating down, my core temperature dropped. Goosebumps broke out on my skin.
He wiped his eyes with the cuff of his shirt and nodded, looking shrunken and shrivelled and broken, like a seventy-five-year-old child.
His words snatched my breath away for a moment before I forced myself to breathe. ‘Where did you bury her, Tom?’ My voice came out a gravelly whisper.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I had to do it. It was an accident. It was—’ He clutched his chest and fell sideways on the bench.
‘Tom?’ I crouched over him.
His eyelids fluttered as he rasped for breath. ‘It . . . hurts . . . chest.’
‘Tom!’ I patted his pale cheeks gently. ‘Stay with me, Tom. You’re OK, do you hear?’ I put my arms around him and sat him up. ‘There. You’re going to be more comfortable sitting. Now, breathe.’ I stared him in the eyes, taking exaggerated breaths for him to copy. ‘That’s it. Just keep breathing. You’re doing great.’
He moaned.
I felt his pulse for rhythm and strength. His skin was grey and sweaty. There was a blue tinge to his lips. I was pretty sure he was having a heart attack. ‘I’m going for help now. Keep breathing. Just keep breathing.’
He moaned again, clutching his chest.
‘I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry. You’re doing all right. We’ll get you sorted in no time.’ I ran across the garden and burst through the front doors to reception. I knew that we couldn’t resuscitate him if his heart stopped. Tom had a DNR attached to his medical records – a ‘Do not attempt resuscitation’ order to tell his medical team not to perform CPR should the need arise, although it didn’t affect other treatment. It was Tom’s choice, one he’d made when he was first diagnosed, and it supported his autonomy past the stages when he could no longer clearly express his own wishes. But at least we could get him into bed and make him more comfortable and hopefully pain-free.
‘I think Tom’s having a heart attack. We need to get him into bed and start him on oxygen and Aspirin NOW,’ I shouted at Kelly and rushed back outside. At least if he did go, I’d be by his side at the end.
Kneeling on the grass beside him, I monitored his breathing which was slow and laboured. ‘Tom? Can you hear me? Tom?’
His eyes opened. ‘I’m . . . s . . . sorry.’
‘Shhh. Don’t talk. Just breathe, all right?’ I brushed his hair off his sweating, chilled forehead. ‘You’ll be OK. You’ll be fine.’
Chapter Eight
I’m so sorry, Ethan, but Tom’s had a heart attack,’ I said down the phone.
‘What?’ He gasped over the noisy office sounds in the background. ‘Hang on; I was just about to go into a planning meeting. Give me a sec.’ The noise grew quieter until I could no longer hear it. ‘Dad’s had a heart attack? Is he OK? Is he still alive?’
‘Yes, he’s OK. It was only a mild one. I was with him at the time. He’s on some anticoagulants to thin his blood, Aspirin, and medication to reduce his blood pressure. They’re monitoring him closely at Mountain View, which is the best thing in the circumstances. With the DNR order, the staff felt it was better to keep him in familiar surroundings, and I agreed. There wouldn’t be much to gain by taking him to hospital.’
‘Shit.’
I pictured him running his hand through his h
air, pacing up and down.
‘I should come back. It’ll take me hours, though, before I get there.’
‘Chris and Nadia are with him now, but he’d love to see you, I’m sure.’
‘Christ. How did .. . . ? Oh, never mind. I’m leaving now, OK? I’ll go straight to Mountain View.’
‘OK. Text me when you’re on your way back to the house and I’ll sort something out for you to eat.’
‘Will do. Love you.’
‘Love you, too.’
With everything that had happened I’d forgotten to go food shopping again so I grabbed my keys, which surprisingly were where they should be in the pottery bowl.
I put my head round the door to the lounge. Since Nadia was with Tom, her dinner plans for the girls had backfired and I had them here instead. Anna was painting Charlotte’s toenails a glittery purple colour while she asked her history revision questions for an exam Charlotte had tomorrow. They both looked up with glum faces when they saw me.
‘Is there any more news about Granddad?’ Anna asked, mouth turned down.
‘Is he going to be OK?’ Charlotte gave me a sheepish look, as if somehow this was all her fault.
I kissed Charlotte on the head before sitting down next to Anna on the sofa and drawing her close. Anna was a sensitive girl, taking on other people’s pain and anguish as her own.
‘Is he, Mum?’ Anna’s eyes welled up.
‘Come on, now.’ I stroked her hair. ‘He’s fine at the moment. He’s resting and they don’t think he needs to go to hospital.’
She sniffed and nodded. ‘I want to go and see him, but . . . he kind of scares me now. He’s not the same as he used to be.’
‘I know, darling.’ I sighed sadly. ‘But inside he’s still the same man who loves you both very much. He’s probably had a bit too much excitement for one day, anyway. Your Dad’s driving back now so he’ll see him tonight. We’ll go soon, OK?’
Another sniff. ‘OK.’
‘I want to go, too.’ Charlotte glanced up. ‘But I feel a bit like Anna. And I never know what to say to him anymore. He doesn’t even know who we are now,’ she said.
‘I know. It’s very difficult to see someone you love change like that.’ I gave them both a solemn smile. ‘Let’s just see how he’s feeling in the next day or so and then we can talk about you girls visiting him again, OK? I’m going food shopping now. Is there anything you fancy for tea?’
‘Pizza?’ Charlotte asked.
‘We had pizza the other day when you forgot to go shopping,’ Anna said, an edge of accusation to her voice.
‘Sorry, sweetheart, I’ll hand in my notice as your mum on the grounds that there was no butter in the fridge and I made you eat pizza for tea. OK?’ I forced a smile. ‘You can get a new mum from MumsRUs who’ll do a better job, although most kids would love eating pizza twice in one week.’
That got her smiling again. ‘How about spaghetti Bolognese?’ She was a pasta addict.
‘Sure.’ I glanced at Charlotte, who looked so pale she could probably do with a hefty dose of red meat. Maybe she was anaemic. I made a mental note to get Nadia to test for that, too, when they went into the surgery. ‘That OK with you?’
‘Yep.’
I drove to the supermarket with thoughts jumping around in my head.
Would Tom be OK? One heart attack didn’t necessarily mean he’d have another anytime soon. He could go on for years, but was it fairer on Tom if he did slip away quickly before the Alzheimer’s interfered with the part of his brain that made his lungs and heart stop functioning? Wasn’t it better not to suffer like that?
What did he mean about Katie, though? How could he possibly be telling the truth?
He couldn’t be. It was a simple as that. Yes, Katie had run away from home when she was eighteen, and no one had heard from her since, but she’d left a letter. A goodbye letter. So Tom couldn’t have killed her, could he?
What was it he’d said? It was an accident but he’d had to do it. Those two statements completely contradicted each other. He was confused. Delusional. Maybe even hallucinating. He obviously remembered that Katie had run away but had distorted things in his mind. He was getting mixed up again. His memories were lying to him, that was all.
I walked round the supermarket, flinging the usual things into the trolley. Wholemeal bread − I kept trying to like it since it was supposed to be healthy − orange juice with no ‘bits’ in as Anna hated that one − milk, ham for sandwiches, butter, plus another butter since I obviously couldn’t have enough in my house and needed a spare, potatoes.
A picture of Katie swam before my eyes. It was during a netball lesson one day when we were about thirteen. She’d just dived to her side to catch the ball but misjudged it and went crashing to the floor, landing awkwardly on her arm and breaking it. She sat on the ground, staring at the bone which was actually poking through the skin. The teacher almost threw up when she saw it, as did several other girls, but Katie just stood up calmly, supporting her injured arm with the other and asking the teacher if she could have a lift to A&E. She never cried. I would’ve been screaming in agony, tears streaming down my face, but she never did. Not then. Not ever.
Katie usually hid her feelings well, whereas I wore mine on my sleeve. If she was upset about something that had happened with Rose or Jack, she never really talked about it; she kept it all inside. The only way I could tell things were really bad would be if she turned up at my house late at night after a row with her parents or something. She’d throw gravel up at my bedroom window to wake me up, not wanting to go back home, and I used to make up a bed for her on the floor with a couple of huge beanbags I had. The next morning she was always gone before I woke up. Even though I had repeatedly asked her over the years about her home life, she always refused to tell me.
She didn’t seem able to hide her grief about splitting up with Chris, though. They’d been together for nine months, and although she never told me she was in love with him, I guessed she was. It seemed obvious to me by how she acted around him. Whenever she looked at Chris she softened around the edges. Her face lit up. She was happier, freer, lighter somehow. He had loved her, too, but it just wasn’t meant to be. When he’d finished with her, she was devastated. She’d refused to come out anywhere with me, preferring to cry and mope around at home, which I’d never seen her do before. Katie was usually strong, resilient and independent − she had to be. She always had a strength that I envied − although I’m sure some people would call her hard, bitchy and selfish. The thing is, you can never understand someone until you’ve walked in their shoes, and even then it’s probably impossible. No one’s perfect, are they? So maybe she had a reputation, for a lot of things, but maybe it wasn’t her fault. Anyway, she was my friend, and I was nothing if not loyal. I tried to get her out of the house when she split up with Chris. Tried to get her to do things with me again, take her mind off the break-up, but she wasn’t interested. The last time I saw her, after weeks of being heartbroken, she’d looked like her old self again, like there was a kind of determination about her. A new resolve. I’d thought it was just that she’d made a decision to herself to go out and get on with her life again, but it wasn’t that at all. She’d decided she was leaving the village. Running away from Rose and Jack and her broken heart.
I studied the freshly made pizzas under their shiny cellophane wrapper. Ham and cheese or roasted veg?
Who cared? Who cared what pizza I bought if what Tom had told me was true?
But, of course, it wasn’t true. Couldn’t be.
So why hasn’t anyone ever heard from Katie again? In twenty-five years, why hasn’t she contacted you?
Because you were a bad friend. A friend who obviously ignored her when she was in need and she felt the only thing to do was run away. A friend who was too busy with her nursing diploma and her fabulous boyfriend to notice how much she wa
s hurting. Yes, a selfish friend who never stopped to think what was really going on in Katie’s life.
I chewed on my lip and put both pizzas in the trolley.
But plenty of people ran away and were never heard from again. I googled it once, a long time ago. Of course, there was no Internet when Katie went missing, but one day, oh, probably about six years ago now, I thought about her out of the blue and actually looked up how many people go missing a year. I was shocked. It was thousands. About 300,000, if I remember rightly.
And Katie had been eighteen. An adult. The police said at the time that they couldn’t do anything. It was her choice. And, of course, there’d been the letter she’d left, addressed to her mum and dad. The village policeman had been satisfied that Katie had just run away and she’d probably turn up again.
I picked up a packet of minced beef and flung that in the trolley.
So, really, it was Katie’s choice not to get in touch with anyone and tell them where she was. She’d left for reasons that none of us ever really knew for certain. But Tom couldn’t possibly have killed her because of the letter.
There. That letter was complete proof that Tom’s memories were just distorted with Alzheimer’s.
I shook my head to clear the thoughts and grabbed a bottle of dried oregano and basil. Did we need salt? I got some, just in case.
I couldn’t tell Ethan what Tom had said. Not after the last time when he’d got so angry. Not after the whole thing about Georgia had been proved to just be the ramblings of a mixed-up mind and we’d wasted the police’s time. Not after Tom’s heart attack when everyone was so upset and worried. It would sound like my imagination was going into overdrive, neurotically piecing together events that couldn’t possibly be true. I couldn’t tell Nadia, either. She was devastated about Tom’s heart attack, too, as well as worrying about Lucas’s affair. She didn’t need any extra stress now. Plus, it was all completely crazy because of the goodbye letter.