In Too Deep

by Samantha Hayes

  I turned to Jennifer.

  ‘Please. Please tell me anything you know.’

  I grabbed her wrists, stumbling down a step; a step lower than her. I wobbled, staring back up.

  Jennifer took a breath and held it. Her eyes turned dark and frightened as she looked above and beyond my head, as if she wasn’t actually addressing me, rather that she was talking to someone else.

  ‘Rick was torn,’ she said quickly before stepping back inside and shutting the door.

  Then she turned the lock.

  Gina

  That night, after I’d banged on the therapist’s door until my fists were bruised and hot, after I’d spotted Jennifer coming out of the rear entrance and called out to her, chasing her through the rain until she scurried away to her car, after I’d dialled her office number a thousand times, choking up her message service, I finally accepted she wasn’t going to speak to me again.

  I went over those words until my mouth stung and burned, until my lips were dry and cracked and my tongue cramped against the roof of my mouth. I fitted them into different sentences, all kinds of scenarios, playing with them, changing their meaning, twisting and contorting the syllables and emphasis until, in the end, the words meant absolutely nothing.

  Rick was torn.

  It was tattooed on my mind.

  In the literal sense, it could have meant he was having a hard time with a decision. Blue shirt or white? Pasta or rice? Overseas holiday or stay in the UK?

  Perhaps it was to do with a client at work. Occasionally he’d get offered two jobs at the same time with coinciding deadlines, meaning he couldn’t possibly take both. Cash flow didn’t allow him to take on an employee yet, and even a graduate would have been out of the question until he’d made more of a name for himself. I wondered if this was what he’d been torn over.

  That night, after seeing Jennifer, I went home to an empty house and sat in the dark for hours contemplating what the three words meant.

  I fumbled my way into the kitchen, refusing to turn on lights in case they interfered with the thoughts I’d held on to since I’d left Jennifer’s office. I cupped the sentence in my mind as if I were holding a fragile bird.

  I opened the fridge door and a cold light spilled out, highlighting the breakfast things still on the table. Last night’s dinner plate and pan crusted with dried food were stacked in the sink. There were two bottles of wine in the fridge door, one half empty, the other full. I took out the open one and fetched a glass from the cupboard. I sat at the table, sliding the old coffee mug and plate away with my arm.

  Rick was torn.

  To me, torn meant worried, confused, anxious, undecided.

  Ripped in two.

  It didn’t make sense. Rick hadn’t seemed any of those things. Surely he’d have spoken to me if he’d been troubled by something.

  I drank.

  Rick would only have sought help from a professional if the thing he was torn about was big. What had Rick told Jennifer that prompted her to go against her professional boundaries?

  Was he already torn? Or did Jennifer tear him up?

  Or perhaps he’d been more affected by the rift between me and his parents than I’d realised. He’d never said anything, but it was possible.

  Was Rick torn about losing our son?

  The thing is, I thought as I drained my glass, losing a son isn’t something that you’re torn about. Gutted, bereft, slashed down, numbed, wrung-out, emptied, and changed for ever are a few words that came to mind as I sank down into the sofa.

  Rick was devastated. Rick was beyond sad. Rick was a shell . . .

  Rick was torn.

  Not the same thing.

  ‘I can’t decide, Mum.’

  Torn.

  Hannah’s face is a picture of teenage indecision. ‘This one or this one?’

  I look at the two tops she’s holding up, my eyes flicking from left to right.

  Fabric gets torn. The fabric of life.

  ‘To be honest love, neither is very flattering.’

  Hannah scowls. ‘It’s all I’ve brought with me.’

  ‘They’re very . . . loose,’ I say, trying not to laugh. Tent-like is what I want to say, but resist. ‘What about this? You can borrow it if you like.’ I pull a hanger from the wardrobe and hold up the top I was going to wear tonight.

  ‘Mum . . .’ Hannah says, rolling her eyes.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ The top is black and low-cut with three-quarter-length sleeves. It’s clingy but with a cowl neck and tiny beads sewn around the hem. ‘It’s a bit short for me, to be honest.’

  Hannah turns away. ‘It’s not really me, sorry. It’s a bit mumsy.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  She disappears back into the bathroom, coming out a moment later wearing the top she originally suggested. It looks a lot better on than I imagined. ‘You’d make a potato sack look pretty,’ I tell her, giving her a hug. She flinches slightly.

  She’s been doing that recently – shying away from touch when she was once so affectionate. I looked online to see what it could mean, but some of the things I read were too troubling to contemplate. Unreported rape, especially involving teenage girls or younger, often makes victims feel so dirty, so wretched and ashamed, that control in other areas of their lives sometimes manifests in order to combat low mood and destroyed self-esteem. Eating disorders or lack of personal hygiene, as well as loss of interest in work or study and relationships, are common.

  But what caught my eye was a comment about someone’s daughter changing the way she dressed, making herself appear unattractive to lessen the chances of being attacked again. The site then gave statistics about most women being raped by someone they knew, inside the home.

  I was shocked and disturbed and stopped myself looking. It wasn’t helping. I knew Hannah. If something bad had happened, she’d tell me.

  ‘No sign of him,’ I say, winking at Hannah. Before we left the room, she put on some make-up, transforming her tear-stained face into a youthful and pretty young woman. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ I tell her, linking my arm through hers.

  The hotel is busy tonight, and I hear the low thrum of chatter and people as we near the bar. I almost feel good, almost grateful to Rick now for giving us this time together, though I’d do anything for him to be here.

  As we walk through reception, I imagine him beside me, the width of his arm through mine, wider than Hannah’s. Stronger, tauter. There’d be something commanding yet gentle about the way he’d lead me along – nothing superior or controlling – just Rick being a protector. My man and me out for the evening. Then later in bed, maybe just talking, maybe something else.

  ‘Susan has reserved this table,’ the waitress says, leading us over towards the French windows. She is young though competent, and I wonder if this is her weekend job, if she’s studying like Hannah.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, stopping short a few feet. ‘But we only need a table for two.’ The restaurant is filling up and I see tables are at a premium.

  ‘Susan and her son will be joining you shortly,’ she says with a smile, almost as if we’re privileged to be dining with the owner. ‘They won’t be long. Can I get you some drinks meantime?’

  She pulls out my chair and hands me a menu, doing the same for Hannah. We slip into our allotted places, giving each other a quick glance and a little smile.

  ‘Gin and tonic for me, please. A double with ice and lemon. Hannah?’ I fold my hands primly in my lap.

  ‘Just water, thanks.’

  ‘That was unexpected then,’ I say, once the waitress goes off to fetch our order. ‘Dining with Susan.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Hannah says quietly.

  ‘You OK, love?’

  ‘I think it’s the bug again. I’ve not quite shaken it.’

  She leans forward a little, giving me a smile, but I see it’s tight and forced. Neither of us was expecting company for dinner, though it’s fine by me. I’ve promised Hannah an upbeat evening, a chance
for us both to let go a bit, maybe even persuade her to have a glass of wine or two, or at the very least have a heartfelt chat about the future. Nothing heavy. Perhaps something hopeful.

  ‘I need to go and get some air,’ Hannah says suddenly, standing up.

  I reach out for her hand, but it slips out from under mine. ‘Want me to come?’

  She doesn’t look at me, rather angles her gaze down and to the side. Her shoulders are raised and tense.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I just feel a bit sick.’ Then she looks at me with a genuine grin, the first one I’ve seen in a while. ‘But I’m actually looking forward to tonight, so don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m here if you need me.’

  Hannah nods and walks off.

  ‘And he’s lush by the way, by the way,’ I call after her, winking, making her roll her eyes at me.

  Hannah goes out of the French doors. I watch her in the dusk as she walks down the gravel path and out of sight. After a few breaths of fresh air, I’m sure she’ll be fine. She’s always been prone to feeling faint, or having ‘dramatic turns’ as Rick called them. He wasn’t far wrong.

  Rick . . .

  Slowly, disbelievingly, I reach across the table to take his hand. It’s resting just beside Hannah’s napkin.

  ‘Hey,’ I say in a low and quiet voice. His hair is slightly damp from the shower, though he didn’t bother to shave as his jaw is speckled and dark. He looks as handsome as the day we first met – all long limbs and strong features, wayward hair and eyes that would never settle, as if he was missing out on something.

  ‘Hi,’ he says lovingly, returning the squeeze. ‘How are you doing?’ His eyes narrow to familiar and fond slits, the look that told me he was mine. Rugged and deep lines, etched in by our lives.

  ‘Not so good, Rickie. I’ve missed you. Life’s not the same without you.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, tightening his grip. ‘It must be really hard for you.’

  I can’t ask him why or where or anything else. The questions are lodged in my throat and if I disturb them, I know I’ll choke.

  ‘It’s hard for Hannah too,’ I add, wanting him to remember his daughter. For a moment, there’s the nip of a frown on his face, telling me he’s not sure who or what I mean.

  ‘Hannah, yes . . .’

  ‘Harder than you’ll ever know,’ I continue, though I’m not sure he hears. His head is turned, as if by magic, to face out of the window and he’s gazing into the red-streaked sky. Dusk reflects in the blackness of his pupils. It’s as if he doesn’t even know me.

  ‘I can’t get through to her, Rick. It’s as if part of her is missing. As if part of her went with you . . . Rick?’

  I shake his hand. Tugging at his wrist, his arm. Trying to get his attention.

  ‘Rick,’ I say loudly. ‘Can you hear me?’

  I shake him, desperate for him to respond. My arm reaches further across the table. I feel something cool bump against it, then something cold seeping around my skin.

  ‘Rick, oh God, listen to me! Please don’t go!’

  I’m shaking his hand, pulling harder but he doesn’t hear . . .

  ‘Let me clear that up for you,’ the waitress says, suddenly appearing beside me.

  I watch her. Simple round face. Clear skin. Another woman’s daughter.

  ‘Mrs Forrester? The spilt drink? I’ll clean it up for you . . .’

  I look at the table. At my arm resting in the puddle of gin and tonic.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ I move my hand out of the way, covering my mouth, and look at Rick again, hoping he’ll answer, desperate to hear his story.

  But as the waitress wipes the table, my husband has gone.

  ‘This is such a lovely idea,’ I say to Susan as she settles down at our table. As ever, she looks well turned out in an enviable and effortless way. There’s nothing contrived about her outfit – a floaty dark grey tunic in a sheer fabric with a strappy fuchsia top beneath. The black denim skirt is short, but not overly so, and anyway, her legs can take it, especially with the flattering shoes she’s wearing. I tell her that Hannah will be back shortly.

  ‘And it’s good to see you again.’ I touch his arm, then pick up the water jug, offering him some.

  Equally well turned out, the young man nods and thanks me but I spill some on his hand as I pour.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ I say, embarrassed. ‘I’m so clumsy tonight.’

  Tom convinces me not to worry, that it’s fine. In many ways, he reminds me of Hannah – mild-mannered and well brought up, yet not at all perturbed by adult company. He pushes his dark floppy fringe off his forehead.

  Hannah still isn’t back when the waitress comes to take more drinks orders, followed shortly by our food requests. I glance anxiously out of the French doors. There’s no sign of her, though I’m trying not to imagine her being sick or passed out.

  I pass the closed-up menu to the waitress. ‘Hopefully Hannah will like what I’ve chosen for her,’ I say. ‘She seems to have caught a bug,’ I explain to Tom. ‘I suppose university must be one long round of new bugs.’

  Tom laughs in agreement, while Susan tastes the wine she’s ordered for us all. She tells the waitress to go ahead and pour.

  ‘Freshers’ flu goes round most of the year,’ Tom says. For some reason he blushes.

  ‘How awful,’ Susan says, feigning disdain followed by a big grin. ‘Thank God my student days are a distant memory.’ She shakes her head. ‘Anyway, Tom’s far too busy to get caught up in a serious relationship, aren’t you?’ I can’t help thinking she sounds defensive.

  ‘It’s not for me right now,’ he says, stretching out his arms, though there’s something wistful about the way he says it, as if there was once someone but not any more. He looks out of the window.

  For another few minutes we chat about Tom’s course, how he’s finding the workload, what he’s going to do when he graduates in another couple of years. I steer away from discussing Hannah, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate being talked about while she’s not here. She’s been so guarded recently.

  I sneak a look at the clock on the dining-room wall. It’s been fifteen minutes now. Long enough to get some air. I can’t stand it any longer.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to make sure Hannah’s OK. She’s been gone a while.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Susan says quite vehemently, stopping me with a hand on my arm as I’m halfway standing up. ‘Tom will go, won’t you?’

  He gives a single, purposeful nod and rises immediately.

  ‘I think she went round towards the rose garden,’ I tell him, really wanting to go myself. But in another second he’s gone, just a brief waft of cool air in his wake as he shuts the French doors behind him.

  Hannah

  The air is cool and fresh with the scent of oak and pine. I’m glad to be out of the dining room with its close-together tables and cloying smells, the deep layers of conversations clawing at me, and the well-meaning yet choking concern from Mum. I wish she’d stop asking stuff, just let me figure things out for myself. Not that I ever will. Disappearing from dinner for ten minutes is hardly going to change that, but I couldn’t help it. It was that or throw up all over the tablecloth.

  If only I could go back in time, change the past.

  After I left the table, I was half tempted to sneak upstairs and fetch Cooper, take him for a three-hour trek to avoid having food altogether, but I can’t do that to Mum. Everything she does is well intentioned, yet everything she does is also based on lies.

  It’s not her fault. She can’t help it if she doesn’t know the truth.

  I tramp around the side of the hotel, aware of the dark windows watching me – or rather the faces behind the windows watching me. That’s how I’ve felt since we arrived, as if we’ve been under observation. I can’t explain why.

  ‘You’ve got a sixth sense, you have,’ Dad used to tease, and Tom said the same thing once as we lay in bed one Sunday morning after a late night out. I’
d predicted what he was going to say at least three times, though that was hardly difficult. I was able to read him easily, picking up on little nuances that he didn’t know he was giving off, noticing tiny and delightful things about him, allowing me to peel back deeper and deeper layers of him. It was a joy to discover more of the decent person I already knew him to be.

  I sensed he was doing the same to me.

  In those first couple of months of term, we became closer than I’d ever dared come to anyone before. Spending all our time together, probably unhealthily so and at the expense of our other friends. Karen seemed a little distant because of it, I thought, though I couldn’t blame her. I was rarely in the flat, and the things we used to do together – studying in the library, having a weekly session at the gym, taking the bus into town to go charity clothes shopping – had fallen by the wayside since things had become more serious with Tom.

  I felt addicted to him.

  And I knew he was addicted to me.

  Life was good and I didn’t care who knew it.

  ‘Thank God I have such beady eyes,’ I’d said a thousand times, and he’d agreed. ‘Imagine if I hadn’t spotted your dad’s phone.’

  ‘And thank God that my dad’s so careless with his stuff. Though his company would have just bought him a new one.’

  We often talked about how unlikely it was that we’d met, how it had made us believe in fate. Or something even bigger than that. So many random choices and decisions had caused us to be at the same campus at the same time, and we puzzled over it on many nights while sipping cheap wine.

  ‘I reckon it’s written in the stars,’ Tom said. ‘You know, like logged in a cosmic book or something. Even if things had been wildly different in our pasts, I doubt that would have stopped us meeting.’

  ‘You really think that?’ I tracked back through the milestones of my family. ‘We nearly moved to another area, you know. After Jacob died, Mum hated the house so much she couldn’t wait to get away from it. She said it vibrated with him, as if he was trying to come back to life everywhere she looked.’