The Perfect Son

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The Perfect Son Page 11

by Lauren North


  I guess I should speak to Ian. I’m sure he looked through the house soon after your mum died, but I can’t just throw it all away without checking. What do I want with old ornaments and photo albums of your uncles and aunts and people I’ve never met?

  I drop into a chair in the kitchen and sigh. The notebook is open on the table and I stare at the address from the phone company again. Your death certificate is stuffed in the drawer in the kitchen, buried amidst the take-out menus and the old phone chargers we’ll never need. I can take a walk to the post office and get a copy to send off today, get some fresh air too.

  My eyes fall to the window and I watch the rain rolling down the glass. Or tomorrow. I can do it tomorrow after I’ve dropped Jamie at school. My gaze moves to the draining board where our breakfast bowls from this morning are sitting, turned up and clean.

  Panic shoots like bullets through my body. I don’t remember washing them up this morning. Are they even from this morning? Or are they yesterday’s? It has to be this morning. I wouldn’t have sent Jamie off to school without any breakfast.

  How can I not remember, Mark?

  The blue cardboard box from the doctor’s is sitting on the window ledge and I reach out to grab it. I can’t remember if I’ve taken my tablet this morning. I usually do it first thing with my breakfast, but I don’t remember breakfast.

  My hands shake as I pop out a tablet and wash it back with a gulp of water.

  It’s tiredness, that’s all. You’ve always been forgetful, Tessie. Remember when Jamie was four weeks old and you hadn’t slept for days? You drove to the supermarket and forgot where you parked the car?

  That was awful. It took an hour to find my car, and that was with the help of two shop assistants. I’d forgotten the car park had been full and I’d parked on the street nearby instead.

  You’re right. It’s tiredness.

  I flip to the back page of the notebook and draw a grid. The lines are wobbly but it will do. I write the days of the week down the side and put a tick in the box next to Thursday. I’ll put a tick each day when I take a tablet; that way I can check back if I forget.

  It feels good to take control of something, and I wonder what else I can write down. At the front of the notebook, underneath the address for the phone company, I write: Hang-up calls. Who are they from? Call center or person?

  On the next line down I keep scribbling. I write the date and the time of the call from the man. Thinking about it makes the pen shake in my hand, but I carry on writing, adding the little things that don’t make sense.

  I continue to write: Flowers on my birthday without a note—from whom? Owe money to Ian—where is £100K? What is the money for? Why did we need it? Someone walking around our driveway in the middle of the night.

  I look up and catch sight of the two white envelopes leaning up against the microwave—the ones Shelley left me to open after her first visit.

  Before I can think too much about it, I pick them up and rip open the first one with such force that the letter inside tears too. It’s a solicitor’s letter. From Clarke & Barlow. At first I thought it had something to do with the form Ian dropped in at the weekend, but it doesn’t.

  Dear Mrs. Clarke,

  RE: Last Will and Testament of Mr. Mark Thomas Clarke

  Further to my voice messages left on January 31, February 8, and February 19, I am now writing to request that you contact our offices at your earliest convenience. As you are Executor of your late husband’s Last Will and Testament, it is imperative that we arrange a meeting to discuss arrangements for the distribution of his assets.

  Please call the number at the top of this letter to arrange an appointment.

  Kind regards,

  Jacob Barlow

  The letter was sent weeks ago but it still causes a weight to drop inside me like a cement block. I barely have the strength to get through the day. I do not have the energy to handle your estate stuff.

  I think about the form Ian dropped around at the weekend. Renouncing the job or whatever fancy word he used. Shelley made it sound so easy. Maybe I should sign it. I add a line to the notebook: Ian wants to be executor of the will—I need to decide what to do!!!

  I move on to the second letter. It is from a bank but it’s not a statement.

  Dear Mr. Clarke,

  Thank you for your loan application dated December 18, 2017. We are writing to inform you that unfortunately you do not meet the requirements for a loan at this time.

  Regards,

  Dimitri Lipov

  Loan Officer

  The pen drops from my hand, clattering to the floor and rolling out of sight under the table.

  What the hell, Mark? You applied for a loan and didn’t think to tell me? I don’t know why I’m surprised. You never told me anything.

  That’s not true, Tessie.

  I force my mind back to mid-December, searching for any conversation we might have had about money, but of course there isn’t one. You were stressed about work, you said, and I believed you. Late home every night, spending hours in your study, unable to sleep. Those whispered phone calls you thought I didn’t know about.

  First the hundred thousand pounds Ian says he loaned us, and now a loan rejection.

  What did we need the money for, Mark?

  Ian’s words spin through my head. “If you knew your husband so well, why didn’t he tell you about the money he borrowed from me?”

  We didn’t live extravagant lives, didn’t drive flashy cars; we didn’t take all-inclusive cruises in the Caribbean like some of the sales team you worked with. I thought we were doing OK.

  I stumble up the stairs, the solicitor’s plea forgotten. The loan rejection letter is gripped in my hand.

  It’s too much. The phone calls—all those hang-ups and then the horrid voice of the man, and now this.

  Suddenly I don’t want to think about it. I go into Jamie’s room and lie on his bed. It’s easier to be in here than in our room and the double bed with the side that’s always empty.

  I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of Jamie’s bedsheets. Underneath the Spring Fresh fabric conditioner is Jamie’s smell. Something soft I can’t quite hold on to, but I breathe it in anyway and close my eyes.

  * * *

  —

  The phone is ringing again. There’s a wet patch on Jamie’s pillow from my tears. I must’ve fallen asleep. Paper rustles when I move—the loan rejection letter is still in my hand. It hits me all at once—a baseball-bat wallop—pounding the events of the past six weeks back into my consciousness. Everything—the plane crash, the funeral, Shelley coming, Ian’s money, the voice of the man on the phone—hits with a thwack and I’m wide awake.

  The answerphone clicks on by the time I’m in the hall.

  “Hey, Tess,” Shelley’s voice says as I reach your study. I quicken my movements and reach the phone before the next words are out of her mouth.

  “Shelley, I’m here,” I reply, pressing the phone to my ear and sinking back to the worn green carpet in the exact spot where I sat last night.

  “Hey,” she says again. “How are you?”

  I pause for a second and think of the fear I felt last night, in this very spot, in fact. I want to tell Shelley, but it seems so unreal now, and I’m not sure what it all means.

  “OK,” I say in the end. “I’m not sleeping great, but I’m feeling clearer. Less fog, if that makes sense?”

  “That’s great, Tess. I’m so pleased. Have you thought any more about signing over the executor role to your brother-in-law? Might be a weight off your shoulders if you do.”

  I find myself nodding, although there is still something off about the whole thing that I can’t put my finger on. “Maybe.”

  “Good. One less thing for you to worry about. Hey, did I tell you at the weekend that I’m plann
ing to redecorate our living room?”

  “No.”

  “Have you got your mobile there? I’ll send you some colors. I need help deciding.”

  I hurry down the stairs with the phone in my hand and find my mobile. I move to the nook where I can get one bar of signal and sit on the floor.

  Shelley and I talk for ages about mundane things—cleaning and decorating. I don’t have the first clue about color schemes but I like that she asked. I like that she called.

  “What are your plans for the weekend?” Shelley asks after we decide on Royal Berry—a deep reddish purple—and Frosted Steel—a light gray.

  “I don’t know.” After what happened with Jamie and my suggestion of going to the indoor playground this week, I haven’t thought about the weekend. Maybe the cinema.

  “I’m free on Saturday. I could swing by after my swim and hang out for a bit.”

  “That would be great. If you’re sure you’ve not got anything better to do?”

  “Don’t be daft. I want to see you.”

  We say our good-byes and when I hang up I feel so much better. The notebook is still open on the kitchen table. I close the cover and tuck it back beside the microwave. I don’t want to think about the call anymore. The rain has stopped and it’s time to get Jamie from school.

  * * *

  —

  Jamie is quiet on the walk home. I gnaw at the skin on my bottom lip so I don’t scream at him to talk to me, to tell me he is OK.

  “Is there anything you want to do this weekend?” I ask.

  He shrugs a response.

  “Shelley’s coming over on Saturday. I thought we could go for a walk along the river. What do you think?”

  Jamie’s face lights up and there’s a bounce to his step. “Yessssss.”

  When he looks up at me his smile stings like the brightest sunlight in my eyes. I push the feeling away before it can take hold. It’s good that Jamie has a friend in Shelley, someone he can talk to when he doesn’t want to talk to me.

  I’ll bake a cake tomorrow, I decide. Not fruitcake, that was your favorite, but a lemon drizzle. Something easy.

  CHAPTER 21

  Transcript BETWEEN ELLIOT SADLER (ES) AND TERESA CLARKE (TC) (INPATIENT AT OAKLANDS HOSPITAL, HARTFIELD WARD), WEDNESDAY, APRIL 11, 9:15. SESSION 2

  ES: Good morning, Tess. How are you feeling today?

  TC: Is there any news? Have you found Jamie?

  ES: Not yet. We’re still trying to find out what happened.

  TC: Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. This is my fault. I never should’ve trusted her.

  ES: Who shouldn’t you have trusted?

  TC: Shelley, of course.

  ES: Tell me about your friendship.

  TC: Um (pause). I don’t know what to tell you. She came to visit as a grief counselor that my mum organized for me, but we became friends. She and Jamie became very close. We’ve spent a lot of time together over the last few months.

  ES: Did Shelley spend a lot of time with Jamie?

  TC: Some, yes, enough for them to become close. They seemed to have this unspoken bond. Jamie and I were both struggling with losing Mark. It was hard. I wasn’t being a good mother. I thought it was nice for him to have someone like Shelley around. She has this energy that seems to just pour out of her, like she just walks into a room and a light switches on. I’m sure Jamie felt it too. Compared to me I think he found Shelley a relief to be around.

  ES: Did you keep taking your antidepressants during that time?

  TC: Yes. What’s that got to do with finding Jamie? What has any of this got to do with finding my son?

  ES: So in the buildup to Jamie’s birthday you would say you were coping better?

  TC: Yes. It’s hard to remember everything that’s happened. I was struggling with my memory. I still am. I’m not sure if it’s the grief or maybe a side effect of the antidepressants, but it’s like I can remember a memory of Mark from years ago word for word, like I’m watching it back as a film, but my memory of yesterday, last week, basically since Mark died, has holes in it. Sometimes little holes and sometimes the whole day is just black. So much has happened in such a short space of time.

  ES: But you and Shelley developed a strong friendship during this time.

  TC: (Sigh) Yes. I guess in part it was because I didn’t have anyone else to turn to and in part because Shelley sort of pushed the friendship. It’s hard to explain but it was as though her spending time with me and Jamie was something she needed as much as I did.

  ES: What about your mum and other friends, and your brother? Why do you think you cut yourself off from them but formed a close friendship with someone you barely knew?

  TC: (Silence) She made it easy to be her friend. She was so confident, like Mark in so many ways. She always seemed to know the right thing to say and got how I was feeling. Mark was good at that too. Like I said, Jamie was drawn to her. We both were. Of course, I didn’t know at that point just how far she was willing to go to get what she wanted.

  ES: Do you think Mark is still alive?

  TC: (Shakes head)

  ES: You told one of the nurses when you were brought in that Mark was still alive.

  TC: Did I? Oh. I was in a lot of pain then. With the morphine I was on I probably said Elvis was alive too.

  ES: So you don’t think Mark is alive?

  TC: (Silence)

  CHAPTER 22

  Saturday, March 3

  36 DAYS TO JAMIE’S BIRTHDAY

  The sun is out today. Its rays stretch through the house, lighting the corners—the gloom—in a way I’ve never noticed before. In the garden, daffodil stalks have sprung out overnight—at least a hundred of them—an army of green stalks standing to attention.

  The air is cold and there’s a freshness I haven’t felt in the house or the village before. But I wonder how much of that is to do with the sun and how much is to do with Shelley. From the moment she strode through the side door this morning, her energy has infected us both. Jamie has been brimming with it all day, skittering around Shelley’s feet and hanging off her every word. Always with a smile on his face, always big blue eyes wide, gazing at her. I’ve felt it too.

  “Right, come on,” Shelley says as she marches along the downstairs hall, past the main staircase to the parlor.

  “Can’t we sit in the garden and eat more cake instead?” I pull a face, half joking, half not.

  Jamie gives a giggling squeal and Shelley laughs too. “Nope,” she says. “We’ve done quite enough cake eating for one day.” Shelley pats her flat stomach as she turns around and flashes me a grin. “At this rate I’ll be sinking in the pool tomorrow.”

  It’s as if we’re off on an adventure, a bear hunt, a search for buried treasure. We’re not, of course, but Shelley is making it feel that way and even I smile as I follow after them with a roll of black bin bags in my hand. The last thing I want to do right now is go through the boxes in the second living room. It was your job—the unpacking and the sorting. Half our stuff, half your mother’s, dumped and forgotten since moving day. If I do it, then it’ll be one more reminder that you’re not here. I won’t be able to pretend that you’ve just put it off for another week.

  I was happy sitting in the garden with our winter coats zipped up, watching Jamie charge around the garden with his football. I was happy drinking cups of tea and eating giant slabs of the lemon cake I made and talking about nothing and everything. I didn’t mention the phone call or the hang-ups though. I didn’t mention my fight with Jamie either. The thoughts were there, but the words never formed. Shelley makes my fears seem so distant, and I couldn’t bear to drag them to the surface.

  It was Shelley’s idea to go in. “It can’t be doing you any good living in a house full of boxes,” she said. “Let’s make a start together now. It won’t feel like such
a big job once we’ve started.”

  I don’t know how, but I found myself nodding along.

  “You take those ones,” she says as the three of us step into the parlor. She points Jamie toward a stack of boxes resting on your mother’s floral sofa. “And I’ll do these.” Shelley steps up to a box and pulls at the cardboard top. “We’ll make three piles. One over there”—Shelley points to the window where I stood last weekend waiting for them to come home—“for things we think are valuable or want to keep. Things we’re not sure of can go over by that wall, and the third pile can be rubbish and go straight in the bin bags. OK?”

  Jamie and I nod and we all get to work. I help Jamie lift out a vase. It’s chipped at the top and there’s green mold growing in the bottom where it hasn’t been cleaned properly. “Rubbish,” I say to Jamie and we share a smile.

  We’re about halfway through the job when Shelley finds the photo albums. I watch her from across the room, the walls shrinking in as she opens the first one. She’s found the baby photos, I guess, by the look on her face. Tears shimmer in Shelley’s eyes and she touches her hand to the locket around her neck, like she always does when she is thinking of Dylan.

  All at once the mood changes; the sun goes in and the gloom is back.

  “Mark did them,” I whisper, hopping over the pile in the middle and reaching her side. I flick a glance over to Jamie. He’s stopped unpacking and is playing with a set of wooden Russian dolls, opening the middles and lining them up before putting them all back together again.

  I count the albums. All eight of them are there. Each one labeled with Jamie’s age. Jamie 0–1 years old is written on a white label on the album in Shelley’s hands.

  I loved that about you, Mark. How you printed the photos we took every month and tucked them away in an album. You never forgot, never skipped a month. I wasn’t allowed to look until Jamie’s birthday. “A special present for Mummy,” you used to say to Jamie. “For being the best, most amazing mummy in the world.”

 

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