The Perfect Son

by Lauren North

  Six long strides and I’m at the door to the kitchen. It’s ajar but not closed. With a trembling hand I push it open an inch and peer through the gap.

  In the kitchen I see three large church candles sitting on the worktop near the oven—the ones I bought after the power cut last winter. Shelley must’ve unearthed them from the larder cupboard, but it’s not the flames slow dancing their light across the room that my attention is drawn to, but the nook and the open side door.

  “You have to understand that these things take time. I’m not making any promises,” Shelley says, her voice harder than I’ve heard it before. Her body is blocking the space in the open doorway like a gatekeeper, or a nightclub bouncer, going by her tone. So I can’t see the person she’s talking to.

  “I’m not asking you to,” the man says.

  The recognition is instant. It’s Ian.

  Ian sighs and I picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m only asking you to give this to Tess. Look, why don’t I come in for a minute—”

  “Are you crazy? Have you not listened to a single word I’ve said? You need to leave now.”

  “OK, I’m going. Just give it to her, please.”

  “Fine.”

  Shelley slams the door shut. It’s only when she turns the key and the bolt locks with a clonk that I breathe again, drawing in a long, shaky breath and push open the kitchen door.

  Gratitude swells inside me, a warm bubble welling to the surface, and all I want to do is hug Shelley. She has saved me today in more ways than I can think about; saved Jamie too. She didn’t give in to Ian’s persistence. She knew there was no way I could cope with him this evening and she protected me like a lioness protecting her cub.

  Shelley turns, stepping out of the nook, and jumps when she sees me in the doorway. “Tess,” she gasps, throwing a hand to her chest. “You scared me. How long have you been standing there?”

  “Not long.”

  “I just met your brother-in-law.” Shelley runs a hand through her hair and smiles. “He’s a piece of work, that one.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Shelley pulls a face and moves to the oven. She lifts a lid, and steam billows out of a saucepan on the hob. The scent of chicken and tomatoes is stronger now and my stomach growls a long, hollow rumble, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since last night’s pasta. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but he seemed a bit put out that I was here. I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

  “I think he’s put out that I’m here to be honest. This used to be his mum’s house, and he grew up here. Mark and I bought it when his mum passed away. Ian didn’t say anything at the time, but I don’t think he was happy about it. He still treats the place like it’s his.”

  “Ah, yes, I got that impression.”

  “I’m sorry if he was pushy with you. He’s like that with me too,” I say.

  “Don’t worry. I’m used to bullheaded control freaks. I married one.” She laughs as if she might be joking, but I’m not sure she is.

  Shelley replaces the lid on the saucepan and reaches out her arms, pulling me into a hug. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  “Empty,” I say, hugging her back for a moment before we both let go.

  “Have you been taking your antidepressants?”

  “They don’t work. I thought I was feeling better but I’m not. If anything I’m worse.”

  “Well, when did you start taking them? They take at least seven days to kick in. It can be up to six weeks before they’re fully effective. You have to keep taking them, Tess. It’s the only way they’ll help you. Didn’t your doctor explain that to you?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure. Maybe. I wasn’t really listening.” All of a sudden I feel like a naughty child. A silly, stupid, naughty child.

  “Take one after dinner then, OK?”

  “OK.” I nod.

  The kitchen is warm from the heat of the oven, and cozy in the candlelight. The window, black from night, acts as a mirror, making the gloomy place seem large and welcoming, as if it isn’t our kitchen at all.

  My eyes are drawn to the fridge door and the bare space where the photo magnet of Jamie should be. I can’t remember when I last saw it. I clamber to the floor and rest on my hands and knees.

  “What are you doing?” Shelley asks as I push my fingers into the small gap between the bottom of the fridge and floor. I feel the tickle of dust balls and crumbs and bits of who knows what, but I can’t feel the magnet.

  “I think I knocked the photo of Jamie off the other day. It must’ve got kicked under the fridge,” I say, leaving out the part about the spilled milk and screaming at Jamie. I stretch my fingers further until the top of my knuckles press painfully against the bottom of the fridge.

  “Leave it for now,” Shelley says, resting a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll get a spatula and flashlight and look later. Ian brought you chili,” Shelley adds. I look up and she nods to a Pyrex dish on the worktop nearest to the nook.

  “Oh . . . did he want anything else?” I ask, giving up my hunt for the magnet and dusting myself off.

  “He wanted me to give you this.” Shelley steps around me and picks up an envelope from beside the dish and hands it to me.

  It’s white, A4-sized, and there’s no name written on it, no markings at all. I guess Ian was planning to give it directly to me.

  “Dinner isn’t for ten minutes,” Shelley says. “Why don’t you open it now and get it out of the way?”

  “OK,” I mumble.

  Shelley ushers me toward a chair.

  The old oak table has been cleaned and shines in the dim light. Cutlery and plates have been set at one end and so I sit at the other, not wanting to destroy Shelley and Jamie’s work.

  As Shelley busies herself with stirring saucepans I open the lip of the envelope and peek inside. There is one sheet of paper. Renunciation of Probate is printed in bold across the top of the document. Your name is on it, and mine too, and there’s an orange tab at the bottom where I think I’m supposed to sign.

  “Everything all right?” Shelley asks as she sits down beside me.

  “I have no idea.” I slide the paper toward her. “It’s something to do with Mark’s will.”

  There’s a short pause as Shelley scans the document. “I’m guessing you’re the executor?”

  I nod. “We made them together. A joint thing. I was his and he was mine.”

  “Do you want to be executor? Because if you sign this then you can hand over the responsibility to Ian.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m guessing by your face that you didn’t ask for this?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I didn’t even know I could ask for it. Ian is a solicitor. He wants Mark’s estate sorted out because . . .” I pause for a second, wondering how much to say before remembering that Shelley understands, and unlike Ian, she doesn’t have an ulterior motive for helping me. “. . . Mark borrowed some money from Ian. Quite a lot. I didn’t know anything about it, but obviously Ian won’t get it back until I sort through our finances.”

  “Well, if you sign this, then it would mean you wouldn’t have to deal with all the estate stuff. It’s not an easy task. There’s a lot of paperwork and following up with different companies and people. You can sign this form and not have to think about it anymore until it’s all done.”

  “That’s true.” I nod. Shelley makes it sound so appealing, and a part of me wants to grab a pen and sign it straightaway.

  “But . . .” Shelley prompts.

  “But I’m just not sure how much I trust Ian.”

  “Ah, well, the thing is, you don’t really need to trust him. Ian will be bound by law to follow the instructions in the will.”

  “True.” I feel myself waver. “What do I do?”

  Shelley smiles and reaches
out to squeeze my hand. “You’ve had a tough week. Don’t make a decision today. Think it over and see how you feel next week.”

  “You’re right,” I reply, relieved Shelley has made the decision for me, even if that decision is just to put something off for a few days.

  I tuck the form in the drawer below the microwave. The drawer is overflowing with bits of paper and take-out menus we’ll never use. I press my hand against the mass, squashing it down and forcing the drawer closed.

  “Right,” Shelley says with a wide grin. “I’ll just wash up and then let’s eat. You must be starving.”

  My stomach growls an answer and I find myself smiling when Shelley laughs.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” she says. “Back in two secs.”

  I lean back against the chair and close my eyes, allowing the warmth of the room to seep through me. I don’t feel half as cold inside when Shelley is here.

  When I open my eyes again Jamie is standing in the doorway, all wide-eyed and tired. His hair is sticking up at funny angles as if it hasn’t been brushed for days. It hasn’t.

  “Has Shelley gone?” Jamie asks, his eyes scanning the kitchen.

  “No, baby. She’s just washing her hands,” I reply, moving chairs and sitting down opposite Jamie, where the plates have been set.

  His face breaks into a large grin and he slides into a chair. “Good.”

  “I’m sorry about today,” I say to both of them when Shelley returns. “I’m feeling better, I think.”

  “I didn’t mind. It was fun,” Jamie replies, beaming at Shelley.

  “It’s fine, Tess.” Shelley smiles too as she places a steaming casserole dish on the table between us. “You’ve had a setback, but you’ll get there, I know you will.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper. The two words don’t feel like enough.

  “I’m sure some food will help you to feel better,” Shelley adds, scooping a large chicken breast onto my plate before adding a helping of carrots, mushrooms, and sauce until my plate is swimming in a light orange liquid. Then potatoes—white and fluffy and glistening with butter—and broccoli.

  Jamie and I tuck into our food as if neither of us has eaten for a month. The casserole is delicious. Wholesome. The sauce salty and warm; the meat and vegetables tender. For a few minutes none of us speak, and the only sound is the clinking of our cutlery on the plates.

  I try to think of something to say, something normal—a neutral territory—that won’t lead back to thoughts of you, but my mind is blank. “This is lovely,” I say in the end. “Perfectly chopped onions.” I smile at Jamie.

  Shelley laughs; Jamie too. The pair sharing a private joke from earlier, I guess, and the time they spent preparing the dinner. I want to ask what it is, but Shelley speaks first.

  “Did I tell you I’m training to swim the English Channel?” she asks us.

  Jamie and I shake our heads.

  “I’m going to swim all the way from Shakespeare Cliff near Dover to Cap Gris-Nez in France. It’s a crazy idea, especially as I was never much of a swimmer until a few years ago. But Dylan loved the water. He was a water birth baby, so he started his life swimming.”

  Shelley pauses for a moment and touches a hand to the locket around her neck. “After he died I found myself going to the local pool and just sitting on the benches in the humid heat and listening to the sounds of the swimmers and the children playing. Until one day I decided to actually swim, and now I swim almost every day. It’s the one place I feel most connected to Dylan.”

  Something changes in Shelley’s face, her whole body in fact, as if a light is being dimmed inside her. I can’t begin to understand the energy and joy Shelley exudes from her every move, but I do understand the pain cutting through her body at the mention of Dylan.

  “How far is the channel swim?” I ask.

  “Twenty-one miles.”

  “Wow,” Jamie says between mouthfuls.

  “It works out as over a thousand lengths in a normal-sized pool. I’m building up slowly though so I don’t get injured. I’ve got until August, so I’m not panicking yet, but I might feel differently when I start practicing in the sea in a few months.”

  “That’s so amazing.”

  “Thanks.” Shelley nods. “It’s good to have something positive to focus my energy on. I’m raising money for a leukemia research charity and Grief UK. There’s the Big Bash BBQ happening in the summer to raise money too. There’ll be live music and a great raffle. You should come.”

  Jamie’s head bobs up and down and he grins, staring at Shelley with wide-eyed awe.

  “Maybe.” I take another mouthful of food, but it’s lost its flavor and tastes bitter in my mouth. My stomach hardens and I fight an urge to spit it back out. My eyes are flicking between Jamie and Shelley. Jamie has been so quiet recently, so withdrawn, but with Shelley he seems so much like his old self.

  I should be relieved, happy even, that Jamie has found a friend in Shelley, just like I have. And I am, but I can’t help wish Jamie would look at me with the same shining eyes and think I am amazing. The problem is that I’m not amazing, am I? I’m broken. You’ve broken me, Mark.

  The tiredness hits like a punch and suddenly it’s all I can do to stay awake. The gray fog is slinking over my thoughts.

  CHAPTER 15

  Transcript BETWEEN ELLIOT SADLER (ES) AND TERESA CLARKE (TC) (INPATIENT AT OAKLANDS HOSPITAL, HARTFIELD WARD), TUESDAY, APRIL 10. SESSION 1 (Cont.)

  ES: Did Shelley and Ian know each other before they met through you?

  TC: (Shakes head) Maybe. It’s so hard to think straight with this pain medication. What are you doing to look for Jamie? You keep saying that you’re doing everything you can, but what exactly are you doing? He’s really shy. The officers looking for him need to know that. He could be hiding somewhere. Has anyone checked the tree house in the wood in our garden? It’s not really a wood, more like a dozen oak trees and a few pine trees, but Mark built a tree house for Jamie really high up. The only way to see if someone is up there is to climb up or look out the window of the study. Jamie spends a lot of time there.

  ES: How was your relationship with Jamie after Mark’s death?

  TC: (Pause). It was (pause) it was hard for both of us. Jamie was very quiet most of the time.

  ES: When was the last time you saw Jamie?

  TC: On his birthday.

  ES: What happened?

  TC: I think Ian was working with Shelley. I think that’s where you need to focus.

  ES: I understand, but first I want to focus on the events of two nights ago. Can you tell me what you remember?

  TC: (Silence)

  ES: Let’s stop here for today. You should rest. We will talk again tomorrow morning.

  TC: (Cries). Please find Jamie.

  SESSION END.

  CHAPTER 16

  Sunday, February 25

  42 DAYS TO JAMIE’S BIRTHDAY

  The phone in my hand is slick from the sweat coating my palms. I stare at the display, willing it to ring. It doesn’t.

  Where are Shelley and Jamie?

  What if they’ve had a car accident?

  I don’t know what to do, Mark.

  Stop, Tessie.

  I can’t let anything happen to him.

  My eyes flit between my phone and the window in the second living room, where the sky is turning all kinds of pink and orange. The room is only a little smaller than the main living room we use every day. Boxes and furniture are scattered across the floor. It’s cold in here and smells of your mum’s sickly perfume and the mold from the curtains I ripped down the day we moved in. But if I push myself against the wall in the far corner then I can look out of the window and see beyond the entrance to the driveway and half a mile down the empty lane.

  Still no car.

  I don’t even k
now what type of car I’m looking for. What kind of car does a woman like Shelley drive? Something flashier than my dilapidated Ford Focus, that’s for sure. Why didn’t I notice Shelley’s car?

  I lean my forehead against the cold glass and feel it shift from my touch. Cool air blows against my face and I shiver, hugging my arms to my body. What is Shelley thinking? You can’t say you’ll be back at three and then not turn up, not answer your phone. She must know how worried I am. She knows Jamie is all I have left.

  My heartbeat jitters at the noise of an engine. Please be Shelley, please be them. It isn’t. The car—a red Nissan Micra—drives straight by.

  I check the time again. It’s past five now, Mark. Two hours late. That’s not a “we got held up in traffic” kind of late or a “we lost track of time” kind of late. Over two hours is a “something’s wrong” late. I can feel it.

  I press redial on Shelley’s number. Twenty-two is displayed in parentheses on the screen. Twenty-two times I’ve tried to call her. Twenty-two times it’s gone straight to her voicemail.

  What was I thinking? I let a woman I’ve only met twice in the space of a week take care of Jamie.

  I know what I was thinking. I was thinking of Shelley’s voice when she bounced through the door yesterday. “I’m here as a friend, one I think you need right now.” I was thinking of how close I feel to her, this woman I barely know who sees my pain and isn’t scared of it. And however crazy it sounds, I trust her, Mark. At least, I thought I did.

  Should I call the police, or the hospitals? Should I drive off looking for them? Except what if they come back while I’m out?

  Stop, Tessie. It’s OK.

  You don’t know that, Mark.

  I force my mind back over the last twenty-four hours. The memory is there, but it’s patchy, like a moth-eaten coat, frayed and almost unidentifiable as the piece of clothing it once was. I remember the three of us eating dinner. I remember offering to tidy the kitchen and listening to Jamie’s laughter carrying from the living room as he and Shelley played a game of FIFA on the PlayStation. I remember wishing it was me sitting beside Jamie, me making him happy.