by Leah Mercer
His disappointment echoed down the line as he said goodbye, his formality a million miles from his usual jovial tone. I knew I’d let him down, but that was the least of my worries. I’d let myself down by risking my child. And even worse, I’d let Anabelle down.
As soon as I hung up, I yanked all my work clothes from the wardrobe, shoving them into an empty suitcase we keep under the bed. Out of sight, out of mind – I couldn’t bear staring at them, as if they were responsible for betraying my daughter. I could hardly even touch them, and I heaved a huge sigh of relief when they were safely zipped into the case.
I don’t know what the future holds for me now, or if I’ll ever go back to wearing those clothes. But one thing is clear: I’ll never put my daughter at risk again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Charlotte closes the flat door quietly behind her and leans against the solid wood. This is home – this is the world she existed in with her daughter, and the space she must now inhabit while frantically praying she’ll remember everything. If the consultant said to live her daily life, she’ll do just that . . . with bells on. Anabelle’s laughter floats from the lounge, and Charlotte pushes off the door.
‘I’m back!’ she calls out, forcing a bright and energetic note into her voice, though her heart drops when she spots Miriam and Anabelle at the table with the watercolours – the very last thing on earth Charlotte wants to contend with.
No, she tells herself firmly through gritted teeth. I love watercolours! I absolutely adore them! It’s my favourite thing to do with Anabelle. Shame repeating the words doesn’t make them feel any truer. Still, she needs to try.
‘Hi, guys. Can I join in?’ She leans over to examine Anabelle’s painting . . . Surprise, surprise, a giant slug, with definitely no antennae.
Anabelle glances up at her with a face like pure sunshine. If Charlotte hadn’t been cursing the coming paintjob, Anabelle’s joy at seeing her might have made her feel a little bit better. ‘Mummy! Yes! Come sit.’
Miriam pushes back her chair and Charlotte can’t resist looking at what her mother-in-law is creating. To her surprise, it’s actually an accomplished painting of the view from their window . . . quite a feat, given the shoddy brushes and paints.
‘Wow! That’s great!’ Charlotte says, unable to keep the disbelief from her voice.
Miriam shrugs. ‘I’ve been doing some watercolour classes for the past few years, you know, just to pass the time and meet a few people. The days can seem very long when you’re on your own.’ Her face softens from its usual brisk expression, and Charlotte catches a rare glimpse of vulnerability. For once, she can relate to how long the hours can be – time has never dragged more than this past week, when she was alone in the flat. Is that what Miriam’s life is like all the time? She lives for her sons, and even though they adore her, they have their own worlds now that she’s not part of, despite her best efforts. She has nothing of her own . . . except watercolours. God, how depressing.
A stab of fear goes through Charlotte. Is that what she has in store, too?
‘I can’t wait to have you lot all with me, all the time,’ Miriam continues. ‘It’ll be so nice to have noise in the house again.’
Charlotte nods, her mind whirling. Does diving back into the life she was living mean having to embrace all her previous decisions, good or bad? She can see that Miriam is lonely, but living with her . . . ? Maybe they could take Anabelle over to visit a bit more; perhaps a sleepover every once in a while. Had Charlotte ever done that, or had she been too fearful to let Anabelle be with her grandmother, too? She may have thought she knew best, but it seemed she was denying her daughter relationships with other people in her life.
‘Anyway.’ Miriam clears her throat, staring hard at her daughter-in-law. ‘How was the appointment?’ An alarm on her phone goes off, and she glances down in horror. ‘Oh, goodness. My parking time’s up. I’d better run – they’re like vultures here. Give David a hug for me and call me later to let me know how it all went. Bye!’ She rushes out and the door slams shut before either Anabelle or Charlotte can even say goodbye.
‘Well.’ Charlotte forces a smile at the little girl – at her daughter, she needs to drill that into her head – and sits down in Miriam’s spot. ‘What shall I paint?’ She darts a glance at the clock. One more hour before she can start making supper, then a half-hour until bath, then bedtime . . . she might be able to clock off around eight? This is not a job, she reminds herself. This is your life. A life you chose, and that you will remember eventually.
‘Can you paint a giant leaf? A giant purple one? Slugs like purple.’
‘Well, I’m not sure leaves are purple,’ Charlotte says, unable to resist reality. ‘I could do a green one?’ She points out the window. ‘See? The leaves are green.’
Anabelle’s bottom lip comes out and her brow furrows. ‘No. Purple. Slugs like purple.’
‘But Anabelle, slugs don’t see colour.’ Do they? Goodness, her slug knowledge is truly lacking. ‘They don’t care. They just want to eat.’ Why is she even bothering to explain this? Why can’t she just paint the bloody leaf purple and get on with it? She sighs. ‘Okay, purple.’
Thirty minutes later, she’s painted about fifty hideous purple leaves while Anabelle has created an army of slugs. Charlotte’s hands are covered with purple paint, Anabelle has brown streaks across her face, and the table resembles a Jackson Pollock canvas. Charlotte can’t help laughing as she surveys the paintings in front of them. It’s like a psychedelic Planet of the Slugs, and against all odds, she actually had fun helping her daughter create it.
‘What are you two up to?’ David’s head pokes around the corner of the lounge, his eyebrows rising in surprise as he spots Charlotte and Anabelle at the table. ‘Charlotte?’ he asks tentatively. ‘Did the consultant help you?’
Charlotte shakes her head, the same fear and dismay running through her. ‘No, unfortunately not.’ She pushes back her chair and wipes her hands, then crosses to where David’s taking off his tie. She smiles, thinking that some things never change. It’s still the first thing he does when he gets home. ‘The MRI couldn’t pick up anything wrong with my brain. The consultant said the memories may return or they may not – I just have to live my life and see.’ She watches him for any sign of reaction, but his face is like a mask.
‘They’ll come back,’ he says, turning away and heading into the bedroom to change. ‘If there’s nothing wrong, then I’m sure they will. It might take a bit more time, that’s all.’ He sounds like he’s awaiting an execution rather than getting the last version of his wife back. Given how they ended things before the accident, she can understand he might be anxious, but . . .
Charlotte follows him and sits down on the bed, desperate for something – anything – to help her get through this. Even if she does understand David’s coolness now, it’s so hard to reconcile this distant man with the affectionate husband she remembers.
‘Look, the last thing I want is to push you and Miriam away again,’ Charlotte says. ‘It’s been great to see you and Anabelle connect, and I know Miriam’s really enjoyed spending time with her, too.’
David meets her eyes and, for the first time since he came home today, she can see some warmth and happiness on his face.
‘But . . .’ She swallows. ‘If I am going to remember, then I should do things now exactly as I did before the accident.’
‘Right.’ David’s face closes up again and he turns to hang up his suit. ‘Sure. I’ll tell Mum that we won’t need her to look after Anabelle.’
‘Okay.’ Charlotte plays with a thread on the duvet, hating the tension between them. ‘So I guess I’ll do the bath and bedtime routine, and . . . everything else?’
‘Fine.’ David pulls on a pair of trackies and Charlotte can’t help noticing that his butt is as cute as ever. They still haven’t made love, and a shag would definitely do David some good. He’s coiled so tightly he’s going to implode if he clenches any harder.
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br /> ‘David . . .’ She shifts on the bed. ‘I might have been really angry when you told me about Anabelle’s condition, but you know . . . I wasn’t myself. I mean, I wasn’t who I am now – the person I am today. I can’t remember that person.’ She sighs in frustration at the confusion on his face. She’s getting confused herself.
‘It’s not what I feel right now,’ Charlotte says, desperate to get her meaning across. God, when did it get so hard to communicate? It sounds a cliché, but they used to know how the other was feeling just by looking at each other. ‘I’m not angry, not at all. I love you. And we’ll be fine. Right?’ Her voice cracks and every muscle in her body tenses as she waits for his response.
David looks down at her and her heart lurches at the sadness in his eyes. ‘I love you, too, Charlotte.’
She waits for him to add that they’ll be fine; to reassure her that of course they’ll make it. Instead he jerks a T-shirt over his head, obscuring his face, then turns to the wardrobe once again.
Does he think we won’t be fine? she wonders, staring at his back. That she’ll be so angry she can’t have more babies that she might actually leave him? Or that she really will blame him for faulty genes?
No. No way. If he thinks that, then he doesn’t really know her at all.
She freezes as it hits her that she doesn’t know the person she’d become.
Well, at least he still loves me, she tells herself. That’s something, anyway. She’ll hang on to that.
‘Mama!’
Anabelle’s shout interrupts her thoughts. Charlotte gets to her feet and heads back into the lounge, her mouth dropping open at the sight in front of her. Anabelle is sitting in the middle of the floor, happily slathering purple paint across the wooden floorboards.
‘Anabelle!’ Charlotte’s voice rises to a shriek. ‘What on earth are you doing?’
Anabelle’s head swings around. ‘Painting more leaves, Mama,’ she says in a tone that makes it clear there must be something wrong with Charlotte’s eyesight if she can’t figure that out.
Charlotte takes a deep breath to try to quash the frustration and anger, then picks her way across the floor, dodging paint. ‘Right.’ She lifts her daughter – for a small thing, she’s certainly heavy – from the floor and, ignoring the kicks and protests, carries her to the bathroom and dumps her in the tub. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up.’
And as Charlotte runs a bath, she realises she may have just learned the most important lesson to help her get through the next few weeks: never ever leave a three year old alone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Just over a week has passed in Charlotte’s new life . . . a life in which her world revolves around one thing: her daughter. From morning (very early morning) until bedtime, Charlotte takes care of Anabelle full-time. No more Miriam, and no more David coming back from work early to put their daughter to bed. It’s a crash course in parenting, squeezing three years of knowledge into seven days, and it’s very often by trial and error, but she’s getting there. She knows now, for instance, that letting Anabelle eat a chocolate lolly is like injecting sugar straight into her daughter’s veins. That taking a toddler out for a ‘relaxing coffee’ is the farthest thing from relaxing you can get, and that pulling wellies on to a child’s foot burns more calories than a 10k run. Charlotte’s amazed how much she’s learned, but then, when you’re working 24/7, of course you pick things up quickly.
Right now, despite going through all the motions, taking care of Anabelle still seems just that: a job – something she needs to do to reach the end goal of actually feeling like a mother. This child belongs to her and she knows that, after all they’ve been through, she should feel incredibly lucky. But she still doesn’t . . . doesn’t feel the depth of emotion that would make this new life meaningful. She misses a job she remembers choosing . . . misses having adult conversation between the hours of eight and seven.
And she misses David most of all. Despite her attempts to prod him out of his shell – kissing him when he’s home from work; babbling on about her day with Anabelle – he seems as distant as ever. He skirts around her, eating the meals she’s cobbled together (she may have been a cook extraordinaire in the past, but one step at a time – at least she knows how the oven works now) while staring at the telly. And even though she knows their argument is hanging over his head, every time he turns away it is still a slap in the face. He did say he loves her, right? Surely he’d want to try to bring them together again, even if he is afraid of what might happen when her memories return . . . if they ever do, that is.
It’s only been a week, she tells herself, when despair and frustration threaten to overwhelm her. When you’re stuck in a life you don’t want, though, that week seems like forever. That same restless urge to do more burns inside her, increasing her determination to emulate the mother she once was. To that end, she’s going to make a big meal tonight if it kills her – and it might do just that. David’s going to be home at a reasonable hour for once, and they can all eat together before Anabelle’s bedtime. Charlotte has decided to cook a roast chicken and potatoes, one of David’s favourite meals when they go to visit Miriam. How hard can it be to stick a chicken in the oven and boil some potatoes?
‘Come on, Anabelle. Let’s hit the supermarket!’ The huge Sainsbury’s on Cromwell Road is nearby, and while Charlotte’s managed to get by this past week using what’s already in the cupboard, right now the kitchen resembles an empty wasteland. In the past she used to rely on the off-licence to plug any gaps between the takeaways, but she doubts it sells the horrible pig-shaped biscuits her daughter keeps whining about, not to mention a whole chicken. God knows the last time she actually visited a supermarket.
Anabelle looks about as enthusiastic as if Charlotte had suggested beheading her Barbies. Her lower lip juts out and her forehead lowers, and Charlotte’s heart sinks. Uh-oh.
‘No. Not going.’
‘Come on! It’ll be fun!’ Charlotte’s tone sounds false, even to her. Who is she trying to kid? She used to avoid the megastores like a plague: the flickering fluorescent lights, the screaming kids who run trolleys into the back of her heels, the people who block every aisle, staring at spaghetti as if it contains the secrets of the universe . . . She shudders. Actually, she can remember being Anabelle’s age and dreading trips to the shops with her father. He used to bribe her with an ice cream every time. Not a bad idea, she thinks, raising an eyebrow.
She crouches down to meet her daughter’s eyes, trying not to smile at her stubborn expression. As annoying as it is right now, Anabelle’s determination will serve her well in life. ‘How about we both have an ice cream once we’re finished at the shop?’ she asks.
Anabelle’s eyes light up instantly. ‘Two scoops?’
Charlotte shrugs. ‘Sure, why not!’
‘But Mummy, you never let me have two scoops! You always say one is enough.’ Anabelle hurls herself into Charlotte’s arms. ‘Thank you, Mummy. Thank you!’
Charlotte hugs her daughter back, thinking how wonderful it is that such small things can provide so much happiness – and how nice it is to be hugged . . . to be loved with such abandon. Things might be tricky with David, but at least she’d never doubt Anabelle’s affection – even if she doesn’t share her strength of emotion just yet.
After wrestling with the car-seat buckle for well over ten minutes while fielding fifty million and one questions from Anabelle about every subject under the sun, they’re finally on their way. Charlotte jams the gearstick into first, sighing as the unfamiliar car judders in protest, then reluctantly shifts. The mechanic deemed it ‘good as new’ after the accident, and it feels bloody new to her for all she remembers driving it. She can barely recall driving, actually: it’s been years since her dad coaxed her into the family car, despite her protests that taking the Tube was faster than being stuck in endless London traffic. He’d paid no heed, telling her that one day she might need to know how to drive.
She never could have
imagined that she’d do so with her three year old, on the way to the supermarket for the weekly shop in the middle of a workday. She couldn’t have imagined doing a weekly shop, full stop – let alone trying to make a roast dinner. Like driving, making a meal feels about as familiar as swan-diving off a cliff. In fact, she’d definitely find that more enjoyable.
She parks the car, unclips Anabelle from her car seat, finds a pound coin and secures the trolley, all the while trying to insert appropriate responses to Anabelle’s steady stream of conversation. Does that child ever keep quiet? Steering the trolley with one hand (harder than it sounds – it keeps veering right) and clutching Anabelle’s wriggly fingers with the other, Charlotte crosses the car park and into the huge, brightly lit supermarket. Right, where to begin? She stops, ignoring Anabelle pulling her forward. Ugh, she should have made a list. That’s what people do, right?
She lunges for a nearby packet of romaine lettuce and chucks it in the trolley, then grabs some organic peppers despite having no idea what to do with them. Well, she has to start somewhere and Anabelle’s definitely not one to linger, tugging her along at the speed of light. Ah, potatoes – she swipes some as they pass, her eyes widening as she spots the different varieties. Who knew there were so many kinds of potato?
Half an hour later, Charlotte pushes her heavy trolley towards the till. Anabelle trails behind, her face smeared with the remains of the chocolate bar Charlotte said she could eat if she stopped grabbing everything from the shelves. God knows what Charlotte will do with half this stuff (smoked sardines, anyone?) but at least they have food – and wine, although ten bottles might be a few too many. Her Mother Goddess self probably doesn’t drink, but that’s one area where Charlotte is willing to deviate. She might have gone overboard with the food for just one weekly shop, but perhaps she can avoid coming back here next week.