Unfollow Me

by Charlotte Duckworth

  They’re on time, and I feel that familiar tingle of joy at seeing Archie again as I push the buzzer and tell them to come up. My little man.

  “Mummy, Mummy!” he calls from the stairwell as I open my front door. “Look!”

  He’s waving something in my face. As he draws nearer, I see it’s a new plastic truck. Bright yellow.

  “It has batteries!” he squeaks, shoving it at me.

  “Don’t I get a hug?” I say, taking it from him and laughing as I fold him in my arms.

  “No, Mummy,” he says, wriggling from my grip. “Get off.” He pushes me away, then stares at me for a split second, frowning at me in irritation. He’s not a cuddly child, never has been. I blink, turning away, and Archie rushes towards the fish bowl.

  “Spike!” he says, reaching for the pot of food next to it.

  “Not too much!” I say, as he opens the lid.

  After giving Spike a three-course meal, he turns back to me, grinning.

  “Granny said there might be cake.”

  “Granny might be right,” I say, smiling at Sylvia. “He remembers everything.”

  “Oh yes, he does,” she agrees, nodding. “Come on then, young man, let’s hope it’s Battenberg.”

  * * *

  There’s a deep scratch on one side of Archie’s face. I only notice when he’s in the bath, and his hair, sodden from splashing, is stuck to the side of his ear.

  “How did you do this, Arch?” I say, fingering the angry red line that runs from his temple almost to his chin. Sylvia has been telling me to cut his hair for ages, saying he looks girly with it hanging down by his shoulders, and I suddenly wonder if she’s right. I would have noticed this sooner if it was shorter.

  “Dunno,” he says, lifting up his plastic rocket and splashing us both again.

  “Is it sore?”

  He stops, rocket mid-air, regards me thoughtfully. A finger lifts to his cheek in exploration.

  “No!” he says, smiling.

  Children get injured all the time, Lily. I think of Anna, the bumps and bruises that she records for me almost weekly in her accident book. He’s got a boisterous personality.

  “I’ll put some magic spray on it before bed,” I say, rummaging around in the bathroom cabinet for the Dettol. “You’ll be right as rain in no time.” But I realise I’m reassuring myself, not him. He doesn’t care.

  Later, as I’m tucking him into bed and turning to leave his room, Archie pulls on my arm.

  “You did it, Mummy,” he says.

  “Did what?”

  He shifts himself on to his little elbows, looking up at me with huge eyes, and pulls his hair to one side.

  “The scratch,” he says, as his chubby fingers fumble to find the mark.

  I stand back.

  “Archie,” I say, horrified. “No, I didn’t.”

  He gives a small sigh, and lies back down, rolling over and grabbing his toy dog.

  “Yes, Mummy, the other day, before I go to Granny’s,” he says, softly. “It’s OK, you didn’t mean it.”

  “Archie,” I say, firmly. “I would never hurt you.”

  “It was when I was naughty. I should have been in bed.” He pauses, considering. “Sorry, Mummy.”

  I swallow, leaning down beside his bed, and stroke his hair away from his head.

  “Darling, you’re confused,” I say, the words sticking in my throat. “Mummy would never hurt you. It’s time for sleep now.”

  I kiss his head and stand up, watching as his eyes gently flicker shut.

  * * *

  Later, I lie on the sofa, my laptop on my lap. I Google all my usual comforts, but of course, Violet has abandoned me, and I can’t find anything to distract me. I watch a few vlogs from other YouTubers but they’re boring, inane. If Violet is in hospital, what exactly has happened to her?

  I wish she knew how important she was to me, the sense of hope she had brought into my life.

  That night when I realised James had blocked me across everything was the turning point. It had been months since I’d got in touch with him, but I was feeling particularly low that evening. January blues, I guess. Up until then he had tolerated my attempts to contact him over the years. He’d even replied a few times, although he never took me up on my suggestions to meet up, saying he couldn’t give me what I wanted. Just before Christmas, he’d told me he’d met someone else, and that she wasn’t happy about us “being in touch.” That evening, I called him fifty-eight times in the space of an hour, and it went straight to voicemail each time. He was a salesman, he never switched his phone off. Then I tried texting him, but my messages weren’t delivered. That’s how I knew for sure he had blocked me. I went out the next day and bought a pay-as-you-go phone but as soon as he worked out that number was also mine, he blocked that too. His new girlfriend had won. And there was nothing I could do.

  It was the worst week of my life, but then I saw a job advertised as Violet’s assistant, and it was like a small crack of light flooded into my pitch-black existence. I spent hours carefully crafting my application, detailing all the reasons why I would be the perfect candidate.

  As I sent the email, I made a vow to put James behind me. I thought it was all going to be OK. I was going to get a job with Violet, and everything was going to work out.

  But it didn’t. And six months later, when the hopelessness of my situation threatened to engulf me completely, I made the worst mistake of my life.

  Archie had climbed out of bed after his lunchtime nap, somehow managing to open our front door and walk down the stairs. I suppose I must have forgotten to deadlock it. I’d always cursed the fact I’d rented a flat on the first floor. The stairs didn’t seem to matter when I was young and carefree, but as soon as I found out I was pregnant, I knew they were going to be the bane of my life. And they were.

  After making his way down the stairs alone, Archie tripped on the bottom step and toppled face-first on to the filthy stone floor of the communal hallway.

  There was only an egg on his forehead, in the end, but I fell to pieces when I found him, my sobs mingling with his. His cries were so loud that our neighbor upstairs had come out to see what was going on. She drove us to hospital, all the while staring at me out of the corner of her eye. Judging me. Wondering how I could have let such a thing happen.

  Archie was fine. My nerves, however, were not.

  The nurse looked at me as I sat in the cubicle, clutching him as though somehow I wanted to meld him to me permanently.

  “Sorry, we have to ask this,” she said, her voice neutral. “Has anyone in the family ever had any contact with social services?”

  It was like she’d struck me with a whip.

  “No, no,” I’d stuttered. “Nothing like that.”

  “It’s OK,” she said, patting me on the leg. “We just have to ask.” But then she wrote something down on his notes, and wouldn’t let me see.

  I made a promise then. To never let it happen again. I went straight home and ordered a stair gate to put in front of the door to his bedroom.

  Archie was fine, but I never quite recovered.

  YVONNE

  I didn’t expect the guilt about Violet to return this quickly. I didn’t expect it to return ever, if I’m honest. But there’s something about getting what you want—getting everything that you want, even after all this time, and all this pain—that makes you reassess.

  I’m driving back from my latest family shoot—three kids between the ages of two and eight, and I’m sure that hasn’t helped. It’s a beautiful winter’s day, the trees covered in a delicate layer of frost that makes them look as though they’ve been dusted with icing sugar. The setting for the photoshoot couldn’t have been better: a blissfully empty patch of the south downs. The children were in matching knitted hats, made for them by their grandmother. The parents were getting on. The dad was especially enthusiastic about the pictures. But the whole thing was overshadowed by that familiar feeling that I couldn’t ignore.

&
nbsp; Guilt. Responsibility.

  It’s so unfair. Nothing that has happened to me has been my fault, and yet I am the one who suffers.

  I pull into our driveway, looking at the miniature Christmas tree in the bay window of our living room. It’s wonky, the branches on the left pulling it to the side. It looks naff, on reflection. Like a poor woman’s attempt to do Christmas with style. I don’t have the right-sized bay window for this kind of thing. I don’t live in Violet and Henry’s house. Their bay is the same size as my entire living room.

  Christmas. Why did it have to happen just before Christmas? I didn’t plan it that way, I really didn’t. It was just the way the dice fell. It was never my intention that anyone—least of all her—get hurt.

  I pull my phone out from my handbag and scroll to find Katie’s number. I want to tell her everything. My finger hovers over the Call button but I can’t bring myself to do it. She’s too good, Katie is. She’ll try to talk me into telling Simon. She won’t make me feel better, no matter how much I want her to. She’ll make me feel worse.

  There’s only one way out of this mess. I have to know what’s happened to her. Ignoring my rumbling stomach, I type the hospital address into the satnav on my phone and rest it on the dashboard. Then I put the car into reverse, and I leave.

  * * *

  There’s a queue to get into the hospital car park. I wait in the car, my engine idling, and ignore my usual lunchtime phone call from Simon. Instead I text him that the shoot over-ran, and that I’ll call him later. He replies with a heart, tells me to look after us both, and signs off with a kiss.

  Look after you both. My hand flies to my flat, firm stomach. I haven’t thought about the baby today at all. I used to think that was all it took to keep them safe. I thought so long as I was thinking about them, then everything would be all right. But it didn’t work with Nathan. I never stopped thinking about him, from the second I found out I was expecting him, but my thoughts couldn’t save him. Nothing could.

  I do four laps of the tiny hospital car park before giving up and stalking an elderly couple who are shuffling slowly back to their car, waiting for them to leave. Then I look up at the hospital, wondering what kind of reception I’ll get.

  I take my phone again and Google the details of the intensive care unit, committing them to memory. Then I straighten myself up and climb out of the car. I wish Henry had just told me how she was when I asked him outside his cabin, but I should have known I wouldn’t get a straight answer. Even if he had been willing to talk to me, he would have exaggerated for effect, played it up, made it sound worse than it was. He’d have done anything to hurt me.

  As I walk towards the hospital entrance, I find myself saying a little prayer that when I get there, they’ll tell me that she’s been discharged. Or that she’s been moved on to a standard ward. So I can make some silly laugh about being confused, plaster some relief on my face, and head off, conscience clear.

  But somehow, I don’t think that’s the news I’ll be getting. The image of the last time I saw her flashes through my mind. It has been haunting me for seventeen days now.

  I take a deep breath. I’m ready to see her again. She’s going to be fine. Once I see her, and I know it for sure, I’ll be able to move on. We’ll all be able to move on once and for all.

  * * *

  I had expected it to be more difficult, but the nurse at the little desk at the front of the ward smiles at me as I ask where to find her, claiming I’m Violet’s cousin, Caroline. Her mother had commented that we looked alike at her wedding.

  “Of course,” she says. “She’s in bed seven on the left.”

  She’s speaking softly, as though preparing me for what I’m about to see.

  “I haven’t seen her since…” I say, my voice low. “Since the accident. Will it be very upsetting?”

  She frowns a little and I kick myself. People don’t ask these kinds of questions, Yvonne. Genuine people don’t say things like that.

  “I’m a bit phobic of hospitals,” I say, smiling and giving an embarrassed shrug. “I know that’s pathetic.”

  “She’s sedated but peaceful,” the nurse replies. “Talk to her, though—we always encourage talking to patients, and don’t mind all the machines.”

  I smile and shudder slightly at the thought of her lying there, all wired up, breathing through a ventilator.

  “Is there anyone else with her? I don’t want to disturb anyone.”

  “Mr. Blake is with her at the moment,” she says and a dagger of panic plunges into my chest. But it’s too late to back out now. “I wouldn’t be able to let you in otherwise. Security … And they’re a particularly cautious family, as I’m sure you understand.”

  I nod. She turns back to her computer.

  “Thanks for your help,” I say, and she smiles briefly. “Appreciate it.”

  Could I be arrested for this? Am I breaking the law? I make my way down the hospital corridor, the scent of disinfectant burning my nostrils. I seize on it—a symptom of my pregnancy, or just an inherent sensitivity of mine? Some people say music is the most powerful thing for bringing back memories, but for me it’s always been smells. The smell of my father’s pipe first thing in the morning, telling me he was awake, that my day of disappointing him was about to start. The smell of Henry, the sweat underneath his armpits as I buried my face against him … And then this smell, the smell of the hospital the day after I gave birth to a sleeping baby.

  The ward is decorated with murals, which seems a shame when most of the patients here are unconscious, and unaware. My hand settles on my stomach and I stroke it, trying to communicate with the tiny embryo within. The size of a chia seed, the type that Simon sprinkles over his breakfast. We laughed about that this morning, held one in each of our hands, trying to imagine how something so tiny could be something so huge at the same time.

  As I walk, I wonder what kind of reaction I’ll get from Henry when he sees me. Whatever he does to me, it will be worth it for the peace of mind.

  I keep walking, knowing that the next patient I see will be her. But before I see her, I spot something else: her name in colorful letters, hung above her bed.

  I know without being told that this is Skye’s handiwork, that she will have sat there determinedly after school, making it for her beloved little sister.

  To help make her better.

  * * *

  Henry is not by her bed. He’s nowhere to be seen. There’s a nurse close by, but she’s staring at the machines, writing something on a sheet of paper. I shut my eyes, breathing deeply for several seconds before truly looking. Lula’s bed is covered in teddies, forming a little circle around her impossibly still body. She’s lying on the bed, a nappy on, even though she was potty-trained months ago. Her head is positioned on one side; there’s a tube coming out of her nose, taped to her face with plasters. One of her hands is a mass of wires, while the other is draped limply over her favorite teddy bear. Andrew. A present from her uncle, named after him. I remember the video, the way Violet laughed about how attached she was to him.

  Other than all the wires and tubes, she looks utterly perfect. Not a mark on her. Not a scratch. Her crazy curly hair is spilling out across her pillow, matted in places. Her eyes are closed.

  My hand goes to my mouth as I edge a little closer to the bed. I want to say it was all her mother’s fault. She should never have invited me round. But I know that’s unfair. That’s twisting the truth to suit me.

  I think of Nathan, when I held him. My tiny, imperfect baby. And then I look back at Lula.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, the tears falling on to the linoleum floor in fat splashes. The words are inadequate, but they’re all I have. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Seconds later, I feel a hand grip my shoulder and my body freezes in fright.

  “Get out,” Henry’s voice hisses in my ear. “Get out and leave my family alone.”

  HENRY

  Violet and I had had a row. She’s strong, Vio
let, but she has a temper too. We screamed at each other and she threw a plate at my head, collapsing in angry sobs as it broke against the wall behind me.

  I stormed off to work that day, telling Violet that I’d had enough of it all, that she should damn well give up the whole bloody vlogging business. That we didn’t need the free fucking holidays and the endless deliveries of gender-neutral baby leggings. That we didn’t need strangers who thought that the way we cut up grapes for the kids was wrong leaving us shitty comments criticising our parenting, and approaching our kids for long chats in playgrounds.

  What we needed was privacy. But she told me I had no idea what it was like for her, that the positives far outweighed the negatives, that she wanted to make a change to the way mothers with PND were treated, and that this was the best way to get people’s attention.

  So when I got into work, and opened my email, and saw one from Yvonne, I was in the right frame of mind. The subject line said simply Lunch?. I read it straight away.

  Hey, I’m working in town today, wondered if you were free for lunch? No worries if not. Yx

  It had been well over a year since I’d last seen or heard from her. I occasionally wondered if the crazy emails Violet had been receiving had come from Yvonne, but she had seemed so together when we’d last met, that it felt unlikely. But then again, you never knew what was going on under the surface with Yvonne—there was always a chance. After all, I’d hardly expected her to turn up to my wedding, had I?

  If I’m honest, there was a sick part of me who wanted the emails to be from her. Violet was annoying me, our relationship fracturing further each day. I had always been drawn to Yvonne’s craziness, liked the fact she didn’t care what people thought. And a lot of what was said in the emails was right, after all. I mean, that Mandy was a moron.