The Coordinates of Loss

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘You don’t need to come check on me.’ She swallowed.

  ‘Is that it?’

  Go away and leave me alone! Leave me alone! Leave me alone!

  She stared at him, uncertain if she had screamed this aloud or only in her mind.

  ‘Well, your silence answers some of my questions at least.’

  Mentally his words and any deeper meaning were dismissed; she simply didn’t have the energy.

  She shook her head at him and pointed towards the deep blue. ‘Can you imagine what it would be like if Oscar appeared in the water, waving or calling, and I only had a second to hold him in my sights, to pinpoint him, to let him know that I am right here and that we will come and get him? Can you imagine if I missed that second?’ She finished with a nasal snort of derision – how could he not get that?

  ‘This is how you spend your days.’ It was more a lament than a statement of fact. ‘No wonder you are so very tired, my love.’ He reached for her hand and kissed her knuckles before restoring her cotton shawl, which had slipped down. He left her alone to her lookout.

  Days later, how many she did not know and it did not matter, she must have fallen asleep, as she was aware of Cee-Cee standing by the side of the bed. ‘You have visitors; they were insistent. Would you like me to send them up or send them away?’

  ‘Visitors?’ she repeated, sitting up and rubbing her eyes in a half-wakened state. There had been many callers – people from local churches, from James’s office, neighbours – all eventually dismissed by Cee-Cee, as Rachel was without the desire or energy to face anyone.

  Cee-Cee bent low. ‘It’s some of the moms from Oscar’s school.’

  ‘From school? Oh! Oh, Cee-Cee! Oh God! I have to see them!’

  Her heart beat quickly, and as she swung her legs over the side of the mattress, she felt light-headed at the possibilities; maybe one of his school friends had come with a boat and taken him for a play date! Maybe they got stranded and their radio broke! Maybe they had only just managed to get back! She jumped up from the bed, shoving her arms into her dressing gown and tying it around her narrow waist, as she raced down the wide sweep of staircase, her bare feet glancing from the edge of each step, fleet of foot like a child on Christmas morning.

  She cast her eyes over the three women standing in the hallway. She had never noticed before how they all looked remarkably similar with high, glossy, blonde ponytails; weighty diamond rings on their third fingers; Tiffany bangles that slid down on to the backs of their hands; neat, loose, gold, rectangle-faced watches; white sneakers; tanned legs; and shiny, manicured nails. She could not imagine ever going to so much trouble over something as incidental as her appearance, not when there were things far, far more important to occupy her thoughts. But of course she had. A lifetime ago.

  Swallowing the wave of nausea that leaped in her gut, she gripped the bannister, pausing on the bottom step as she pictured sitting on the top floor of Brown and Co. on Front Street where the bookshop and café with the best view in town resided. A chilled fruit smoothie in her hand, Rachel had laughed as she and these women sat with a clutch of stiffened cardboard shopping bags around their feet, filled with baubles, fluff and frippery – stuff . . . She remembered making a call to Cee-Cee: ‘Would you mind just picking him up?’ She had lifted her shoulders and widened her mouth, narrowing her eyes in mock contrition for the amusement of these women. ‘You are a star, Cee-Cee! I shan’t be too long, but the girls and I are just catching up.’

  ‘Rachel!’ Alison, Hank’s mother, stepped forward. With arms outstretched, she pulled her from the step into a hug. Rachel felt the quake in the woman’s limbs and stood reluctantly inside the loose embrace with her arms hanging down. She felt the pat of Rita’s hand on her back – her son Finlay was in Oscar’s class – and Fiona, Daisy’s mum, stood with a desperate expression, shaking her head and whimpering a little, a tissue clutched in her palm.

  ‘Oh Rachel!’ Fiona sighed. ‘How are you?’

  She shuffled back, freeing herself from their grasp, wondering if it would ever be possible to answer that question. The three stood in front of her forming a little trio of bobbing heads. Rachel was surprised by the swirl of feeling that stirred in her gut. These were the women with whom she had shared lunch, drunk wine, played sport, shopped, consoled, hugged and complimented. These women were her friends, and yet their very presence sent a lightning bolt of jealousy and hatred through her very being. She clamped her teeth together to stop from voicing all that gathered on her tongue.

  It’s not their fault. It’s not their fault. It’s not their fault.

  This mantra she repeated in the hope that it might prevent her from firing hurtful, poison-laden verbal arrows into their mouths and down their throats.

  Why do you all look so sad? So concerned? You have no idea what this is like, so don’t pretend you do. You have your children. You will collect them from school today, from a room where there is an empty desk. You will grab their coat and PE bag from a hook next to a redundant peg and you will write out party invites, recounting on your fingers because you can’t figure how twenty-eight has become twenty-seven. Then, with a momentary start, you will remember Oscar. But your thoughts of him will be fleeting, and more so as time goes on. But for me? It will never end. I don’t wish your children any harm. But a small part of me hates that you get to tuck your babies into their beds tonight and I do not.

  ‘We have called before,’ Alison began. ‘We know there are no words, but we wanted you to know that we are thinking of you. We all are. It’s all we can think about, all we can talk about. Everyone sends you their love. There have been prayers at St Ada’s – all the kids are devastated. Hank, you can imagine . . .’ Alison paused for breath.

  Rachel took a step back. ‘Did . . . did anyone pick him up?’

  ‘Hank?’ Alison questioned and looked at her watch. ‘It’s not time yet, sweetie, they don’t finish until three thirty.’ She watched as Alison and Rita exchanged a knowing look.

  Rachel shook her head. ‘No, not Hank, Oscar.’

  ‘I don’t . . .’ Fiona knitted her brows in confusion. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Did anyone take a boat out on the day he went missing? Did anyone want to take him for a play date and come and get him?’

  The women looked from one to another, their mouths flapping, lost for words. Rachel continued, ‘I think they might have. They might have moored alongside Liberté and taken him from the deck and they might have got lost or shipwrecked and maybe their radio stopped working, and I wondered if that was why you were here, to give me the details so that I can collect him, and I won’t be angry, I promise! No one will be in trouble. I will just be so pleased to have’ – her voice faltered and remerged thin and high-pitched – ‘to have my little boy back!’ She sank down and felt a pair of hands on her shoulders.

  Cee-Cee, who had come down the stairs, now stood behind her. A sentinel. She placed her hands on her shoulders while talking over her head to the women who cried and reached for each other’s hands. ‘Mrs Croft is very grateful for your enquiries. May I see you out now?’

  Rachel watched as the women walked slowly across the grand hallway, glancing back with stricken faces, shepherded by the housekeeper right out of the front door. Cee-Cee closed the door and looked back at her.

  ‘I thought,’ Rachel began. ‘I thought . . .’

  Cee-Cee nodded. ‘I know, my sweet. I know.’ The housekeeper took a seat next to her on the bottom step and wrapped her arms around her, holding her close while Rachel cried silently.

  ‘That can’t be it, Cee-Cee, it can’t be! He has to come back to me. I miss him so much and it hurts. It’s hurting me!’ She placed one hand on her heart and the other on her stomach lest there be any doubt as to where the pain lurked.

  ‘You have been cut; you have had something wrenched from you and it will hurt. It does hurt. I know it.’

  ‘Make it stop, Cee-Cee! Please! Please make it stop!’ She fell forward
until her head rested on the woman’s lap.

  ‘Shh . . .’ Cee-Cee cooed. ‘Shh . . . Just breathe. Breathe.’ She smoothed the hair away from her face.

  A few minutes later Rachel had calmed a little.

  ‘Why don’t you go back to bed? Shall I make you some tea and bring it up to you?’

  Rachel nodded and slowly made her way back up the stairs. Each step required effort, as if her feet were made of lead and the stairs were a mountain. As she passed Oscar’s room she hesitated and reached out for the handle. Twisting it slowly, she turned and pushed the door open. Scanning the room, it was instantly evident that her son was not in it, and this was less of a surprise than she might have imagined. The bed was beautifully made and his toys were, as ever, boxed or tidied by his devoted Cee-Cee.

  On his desk was a flat Lego board studded with half-built creations, free-form sculptures and towers awaiting his embellishment. His lidded Batman cup, perfect for night-time sips, was in situ on his nightstand. His trainers, school shoes and football boots were lined up by the wall next to his wardrobe. Rachel inhaled the scent of him that lingered here strongly. His hooded towel with his name embroidered on the back was slung on a hook on the back of his door, and his bookshelf, crammed with stories, looked a little forlorn, abandoned. She sat on the end of his bed and let herself slip sideways until her head was on his pillow; she inhaled the scent of him and it was intoxicating. There was a lump underneath her head. Reaching up, she felt around, until her fingers touched upon something . . . Mr Bob!

  ‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Cee-Cee! Cee-Cee!’ she screamed as she hurtled once again down the stairs, this time with a newfound energy. ‘You need to call Mackenzie! Call him right now! And James too. They have to come here right now! This is important!’ She held Mr Bob to her chest. The raggedy, knitted ted whose arms and legs had gone rather floppy over the years and who had one eye that had become unpicked.

  ‘Oh, Cee-Cee! This is incredible!’ She bounded into the kitchen, while Cee-Cee abandoned the tea-making and quietly, with a look of embarrassment, made the calls.

  A mere thirty minutes later James, shortly followed by Mackenzie and his colleague in a police car, pulled into the drive and almost ran into the house, their pace and expectant expressions matching her urgency.

  Rachel bounced on the spot with fists clenched, eagerness spilling from her as the newly arrived trio congregated in the kitchen.

  ‘Are you okay, darling?’ James looked at her with a concerned expression. She couldn’t wait to share her discovery, knowing it would change the face of everything!

  ‘James, Mackenzie, I have something wonderful to tell you!’ She took a deep breath, hardly able to hide the grin that split her face. ‘Oscar has been here. Oscar has been in the house, and this means he is alive and he is somewhere, but not out there!’ She pointed to the wall beyond which lay the Atlantic Ocean. ‘I knew it! I told you! He has been home, he was in his bedroom, he . . . he must have snuck in or someone snuck him in and we have to find him, but the good news is, we can find him, we can, because he’s not in the sea!’

  She tried to figure James’s expression, as he blinked at her and took a step forward. ‘Why do you say that, Rach, what has made you think that?’ The soft, placatory tone to his questioning irritated her beyond belief; she had wanted him to be as elated as her.

  She beamed, knowing she was about to produce the proof. ‘I found this!’ Reaching inside her dressing-gown pocket, she pulled out Mr Bob, holding him aloft with both hands for all to see. James looked a little pale and Mackenzie stared at the floor.

  ‘Mr Bob! His ted! He can only sleep with him on his pillow and I just found him under the pillow on his bed, hidden. Oscar must have brought him home and put him there! So now we just have to find him!’ She placed Mr Bob over her nose and smiling mouth, twisting her body back and forth with joy, like a child with a gift, as she inhaled the imprint of her son.

  James shook his head. ‘No, Rachel, Oscar hasn’t been here.’ Again that softened rasp that made anger ball in her gut. Was he not listening to her?

  ‘So how do you explain this?’ She shook the knitted doll in her husband’s face.

  He glanced at Mackenzie, who looked away, and she again got the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that the two were conspiring. ‘I didn’t want to tell you, but I forgot to pack Mr Bob for our trip.’ He paused. ‘When I put Oscar to bed on the boat that night, we couldn’t find Mr Bob and Oscar got . . . He got a bit upset and so I sat with him for a minute or two and then he seemed to fall asleep anyway; he was tired.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose, seemingly exhausted by having to recollect that last night, those last moments.

  ‘You forgot him?’ She was aware of her harsh accusatory tone.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why didn’t you say that to me?’ She stared at him, trying to catch up and deal with the latest blow to further sever the strands of hope that were trailing thinner and sparser with every day that passed.

  ‘I didn’t want you to know,’ James began, his voice breaking. ‘I didn’t want you to know that Oscar’s last night was spent without the thing that brought him comfort. Didn’t want that to be the thing that drags you from sleep in the early hours, like it does me.’

  I have seen you sleep . . . I have watched you . . .

  The exertion of events and the crushing disappointment of facts now revealed left her feeling weakened. Rachel leaned back against the countertop. ‘Sorry, Mackenzie, I thought . . .’

  ‘It’s not a problem.’ The man gave the briefest of smiles and adjusted his hat. ‘I wanted to come and talk to you anyway, Mrs Croft, and now is as good a time as any.’

  James instinctively walked to his wife’s side.

  Mackenzie pulled his shoulders back, as if hoping that a professional stance might aid this most difficult of tasks. ‘It has been eight weeks; I am sure I don’t need to tell you that.’ He ran the tip of his tongue over his top lip. ‘Whilst we will keep the file open, I wanted to confirm to you and I suppose ask you to prepare yourselves for the possibility that we may never recover your son’s body.’

  She stared at the man, unsure what she was supposed to do and say in response to that information. She heard the wall clock ticking overly loud in her ears. James remained still by her side. She saw him nod in her peripheral vision; he had clearly already considered this.

  ‘The ocean can be a fearsome opponent and her depths are wide and far-reaching; sometimes people just disappear into her.’ Mackenzie paused and blinked, what else was there to say? ‘But you have my numbers; please call any time. And if anything else comes to light, if there are any developments, I will of course be in touch.’

  ‘Sorry for today.’ James spoke on her behalf and again she felt powerless. I thought, I really thought . . .

  ‘Don’t be.’ The policeman held up his hand, as if directing traffic. ‘As I said, I had to come and speak to you anyway. Far from easy, I know, but I do think it is important that you set your expectations.’

  Rachel watched the policeman leave before making her way back upstairs to the balcony to continue her watch, this time with Mr Bob in one hand and her Tic-Tac box in the other.

  Sixteen weeks. Sixteen weeks. Two thousand six hundred and eighty-eight hours . . . Two thousand six hundred and eighty-two hours past the record.

  It was a rainy day, the first in a long time, and Rachel deliberated over what to wear, settling on a waterproof walking jacket, a hat James had used for fishing and a thick beach towel to cover her legs. Fat droplets of rain splashed on the balcony floor and made her view out over the ocean hazy at best. Her lack of vision frustrated her. The warm water ran in a tiny tributary from her scalp to chin, falling into the quickly sodden towel that felt quite uncomfortable against her chilled skin. She heard the door creak open and Cee-Cee appeared, the water gathering in her curly hair like tiny sparkles of glass. ‘You should come in, child. You will catch a cold.’

  Rachel shook her head
and continued to stare ahead. ‘What if today is the day, Cee-Cee? What if I see something? I can’t miss it. I can’t.’

  Cee-Cee walked forward and closed the top of her jacket under her chin. She gave her soft, crinkle-eyed smile. Rachel barely acknowledged the sound of the door closing again, thankful that Cee-Cee didn’t try to cajole or push any further. She liked how it gave reason and acceptance to her task.

  Any break in the clouds allowed her to see parts, but not all of the sea and something quite remarkable happened. It was as she focused on the small areas of blue turned green in the mist of the downpour that her brain somersaulted through possibilities previously unconsidered. This new thought process gave her a shot of energy and excitement. It was with an almost manic desperation that she ran from the terrace, into the house and down the stairs, skidding on the tiled floor in her wet socks.

  ‘Cee-Cee?’

  She turned from the kitchen sink.

  ‘Goodness, I didn’t hear you come in. You made me jump. Are you okay?’

  Rachel offered no apology; there was something far more pressing on her mind. ‘More than okay! But I can’t find my laptop, and I need it. Did James take it?’ She pulled off the fishing hat and slipped her arms from the waterproof jacket, bundling them and putting them on the kitchen table.

  ‘No, it’s in the study, I’ll get it for you.’ Cee-Cee shook her hands into the sink and wiped them on the blue-and-white checked dishcloth tucked into the waistband of her skirt.

  Rachel sat at the table, poised, as she rubbed the excess of water from her hair and face. Cee-Cee returned and placed the machine in front of her.

  ‘Thank you, Cee-Cee.’ She smiled, placing her hand on the woman’s arm. Cee-Cee patted her fingers.

  ‘I feel . . .’ She tried to explain the bubble of joy in her gut.