How I Lost You

by Jenny Blackhurst

  “It was touch and go, love. The baby wasn’t responding well. We had to get him out as quickly as possible. He’s fine, though, he’s in recovery. Why don’t I fetch the doctor?”

  “He’s beautiful, Susan, I’m so proud of you. Do you want to see a picture?” Mark pulls out his phone and hands me a picture of the tiniest baby I’ve ever seen. Why is he showing me this? Surely he isn’t trying to say . . . ?

  “Mark.” My voice is harder now. I need him to stop messing around, showing me stupid photos and grinning like an idiot. “What’s going on? Whose baby is that?”

  I see his face drop, the creases at the corners of his eyes—his happy lines, I call them—disappear. “Susan, that’s our baby. You had a Caesarean and our son was born. This is him.”

  He pushes the phone at me again and I feel the wave of anger and confusion crash to the surface. I fling out my arm, batting his hand. I catch him off guard, his grip loose, and the phone skitters across the room, crashing against the wall.

  “Stop showing me that! That’s not my baby! It’s in here, I can feel him in here!”

  “Jesus, Susan.” Mark jumps up to retrieve his precious iPhone, turns on me, his face red and eyes narrow. “What did you do that for? Can you hear yourself? That’s our baby, your baby.”

  He’s lying. I’d know, I’d know if I’d given birth! He’d have held my hand while I pushed and screamed, I’d have heard my baby cry, felt him against my chest. I would know.

  “You’re wrong. That’s not my baby. That’s not my baby.”

  It took three nurses, a doctor, and a large dose of sedatives to calm me down, and it wasn’t until four hours after I’d first woken that I saw the baby they claimed was mine. When I stared into the small plastic box they wheeled into my room, I felt no connection between the little boy in front of me and the life I’d grown so carefully inside me for the past thirty-five weeks. I felt like I’d been robbed, the precious first moments with my son stolen from me by these people. I was allowed to hold him, the nurses took pictures and made encouraging noises and I began to feel it, the love I’d known since finding out we were having a baby, yet still that sense of unfairness didn’t dissolve. I’d been cheated, first of a natural conception and now of a natural birth. I remember feeling then like maybe I wasn’t meant to be a mother at all.

  I’d thought that all new mums experienced the same as I had; research and the powers of Google helped me to understand. I worked garbage duty and cleaned toilets after that, desperate to earn enough credits to spend whatever time I could in the library—and pay Cassie back for that first day—until one afternoon one of the warders came to my room to offer me a lifeline: a job, just a few hours a week, in the library, in return for unlimited access.

  What I’d never done, however, was type my son’s name into the search engine. I had no idea how difficult it would be to press enter, and wait the agonizing few seconds it takes for the results to flash up.

  My cursor hovers over the small cross in the top corner of the screen, ready to close down the page if anyone comes too close. And then there it is. A whole page of references to Dylan’s death, each time his name in bold indicating the search subject. The first few are stories about the trial, newspaper articles I saw at the time, but even now it’s hard to face the fact that they’re about me. Snippets of headlines like MOTHER WITH POSTPARTUM DEPRESSION SENTENCED FOR SIX YEARS and MOTHER WHO KILLED BABY—“I DON’T REMEMBER” stand out from the Facebook and LinkedIn profiles for other Dylan Websters. Every article bears the same photo, the photo that is in my hand. My heart pounds painfully against my chest as I scan the search results, each headline a reminder of a time I’ve tried so hard to push to a dark place in the recesses of my mind.

  There are a few articles in there that don’t look at all related to Dylan, but his name must have come up somewhere. I send them all to the printer and promise myself I’ll read them at home, where I can get upset in peace. All the time my mind is running over the clipping that Carole tells me fell from my handbag. Who put it in there? Why? Was it me? Have I lost my mind again? I push the uncomfortable thought away.

  On a whim, I type in my ex-husband’s name, Mark Webster. All that comes up is a design service—not my Mark—and a professional darts player—definitely not my Mark. Then I come across an article I have seen before. Mark’s photo stares proudly out at me from the screen as Durham University declares to the world how successful its alumni have been. I remember how pleased with himself he was the day this went out in the Guardian. A “Where Are They Now?” piece that announced to the whole country that Mark Webster was a partner in a leading IT firm, the Mr. Big of the IT scene. I’d smiled at how puffed up it made him; I always loved that he was ambitious and was fiercely proud of all he had achieved. The piece in the Guardian was like a stamp of approval, a sign that he’d made it.

  Without even realizing it, I’ve been in the library for two hours, and the warmth of the day has dropped away, leaving a chill in the air. Back outside, I shiver, wrap my thick-knit cardigan around my chest, and up my pace, eager to get back to where I’ve parked the car. I don’t realize how little attention I’ve been paying to where I’m going until I hurry headfirst into a woman who has stepped out from the side of the library.

  “Oh God, sorry.” I glance up and find myself looking at the blonde woman who caught me staring at her earlier in the café.

  “My fault.” She looks unnerved at our surprise meeting and smiles uncertainly. I want to say something funny to lighten the mood—she seems very tense—but I’m aware that it might make me sound like a crazy stalker so I hold my tongue.

  “No worries,” I reply instead. She looks for a second as though she’s about to speak, but after a moment’s awkward silence she simply tucks a strand of her wayward hair behind her ear and walks past me.

  I’m bloody glad to get home and settle down in front of the fire with a mug of hot chocolate and the newspaper articles fanned out on the floor in front of me. The ones about the trial are still too hard to face, so I shuffle through to the last ones, the ones that just featured the name Dylan Webster somewhere in the text, and hope they aren’t about some Olympic swimmer with the same name as my son.

  They aren’t. The first headline is useless, a random news piece about a university reunion.

  The second makes me sit up and pay attention.

  FAMILY OF MISSING MEDICAL EXAMINER SPEAK OF CONCERN FOR WONDERFUL FATHER

  By Nick Whitely. Published 11/20/10

  Three days after Dr. Matthew Riley was reported missing, his family have spoken of their frantic concern for a “wonderfully reliable husband and father.”

  Speaking from Dr. Riley’s home in Bradford, his cousin Jeff Atwater, 34, said, “This is an incredibly difficult time for Matthew’s family. Matty is a wonderfully reliable man, an amazing husband and loving father. He would never willingly abandon his wife or two lovely girls, so we are obviously very concerned. Everyone here is frantic.”

  Kristy Riley, Matthew’s wife, is expected to speak at a press conference later today. Dr. Riley, 36, has been in the spotlight recently for his part in the conviction of Susan Webster, the mother found guilty three weeks ago of smothering her son Dylan to death. He was last seen on 17 November coming out of Waitrose in Bradford with a carrier bag thought to contain wine and chocolates to celebrate his eighth wedding anniversary. Anyone who has any information on his whereabouts should contact West Yorkshire Police via the hotline number on their website.

  Matthew Riley, do I remember him? My mind searches hazy images from a trial I attended in body only, and then I see him. A doctor who looked too young to be an expert on anything but according to the newspaper article was older than me. I remember struggling to focus as he took the stand, knowing this would be important. I didn’t know if it was the stress, the lack of food and sleep, or the antidepressants the doctors at the hospital had prescribed me, but focusing on anything was a struggle after Dylan was gone. Grief, my father
said; he’d been the same when Mum had died. I’d grieved the loss of my mother too, of course, but this was different, this was an all-consuming black hole, hovering just out of my line of vision but still I knew it was there, waiting for me to step too close and slip in. It took all of my energy not to just step in voluntarily.

  The doctor was sworn in and the prosecutor stepped up to the box, a horrid little man who reminded me so much of the great and powerful Wizard of Oz that I had to try not to giggle and prove what they probably all thought anyway—that I was crazy. I tried to concentrate on what the doctor—Matthew Riley, I know now—was saying.

  “. . . was unresponsive. I checked for a pulse, heartbeat, signs of breathing. I declared him dead at sixteen-oh-six but the postmortem found the time of death to be approximately two hours previous.”

  “And Susan Webster was . . . ?”

  He’d been looking at the jury throughout his initial testimony, but at this question I saw him look at me and he cleared his throat uncomfortably.

  “The emergency team had taken Mrs. Webster through to the operating room. From our encounter in the parking lot I had believed her to be deceased; however, it was discovered fairly quickly that she was simply unconscious.”

  The prosecution paused for a second, allowing time for this information to sink in, although, I thought, it was hardly news to the jury.

  “What were your first impressions of how Dylan Webster had died?”

  Dr. Riley looked back at the jury once more and resumed his professional stance.

  “It appeared that Dylan had been a victim of SIDS.” He glanced at the prosecutor, who nodded at him to continue. “That’s sudden infant death syndrome, otherwise known as cot death.”

  My vision blurred. I had no clear memory of that day. Dylan was alive and then they told me he was dead. All I knew was that he was gone and I hated this man. I hated that he was talking about me and my son and saying the word “death.”

  “Could you tell us why you presumed this to be the case?”

  “Well, unfortunately SIDS remains one of the biggest causes of death in children under one year of age and so it’s natural to consider it a possibility when a baby has died in his crib with no outward signs of abuse or cause of death.”

  “And what did the postmortem evidence suggest?”

  “During the postmortem I found fibers from Mr. and Mrs. Webster’s sofa cushion inside Dylan’s mouth. There was acute emphysema and edema of the lungs.”

  You didn’t have to be a medical expert to know what Dr. Riley’s testimony was building up to.

  “And when you added up all this evidence, what did you determine to be the cause of death?” the prosecution asked with what I was certain was a perverse glee. Dr. Riley didn’t even look at me as he gave his damning testimony.

  “It was my professional opinion that Dylan Webster died from homicidal smothering.”

  “And in plain and simple English?”

  “Dylan Webster was smothered to death with a cushion.”

  Did they ever find Dr. Riley? Does his disappearance relate to the picture at all? Sighing, I rub my hands across my face and sit back on my heels. That’s when I hear the noise.

  There’s no denying that I heard it. It is a loud crashing sound from the back garden, like someone knocking into the outside bins. Jumping to my feet, I quickly scan the front room for something I can use to defend myself. The poker. Clichéd, I know, but probably for good reason, and it’s got to be better than a rolled-up newspaper article.

  After a good few minutes of waiting behind the living room door, I’m starting to feel a little foolish when I hear something else. A rattling, almost definitely the back door handle, and a scratching, like someone is trying to jimmy the lock. Oh shit. I’ve spent the last three years keeping out of trouble in a psychiatric institute and I’m about to meet a sticky end in a quaint Shropshire town. If I wasn’t so scared I could probably have found the funny side of the situation.

  The kitchen is in darkness and with the blinds closed I’ve got no chance of seeing who’s outside the back door. Shit. My only hope is the element of surprise. Whoever is trying to break in is clearly no expert at it—they’ve been out there making a racket for about ten minutes and the door has remained firmly closed. I debate throwing it open and thrusting the poker at whoever’s behind it, Pirates of the Caribbean style, but on reflection, the last thing I want is to end up on another murder charge for offing some confused drunk who’s stumbled upon the wrong house and can’t get his key in the door.

  The rattling has stopped. Maybe they’ve given up and gone away. Poker still in hand, I creep over to the kitchen window and peer through the blinds. The darkness outside is thick, and I can see nothing more than my own reflection. A sudden thump against the glass makes me scream out in shock, and it takes me a full minute to realize what’s caused it. My scream turns to a laugh of nervous relief. A huge black cat sits on the window ledge, pawing to be let in—none other than my resident stalker, and local stray, Joss. Taking a deep breath, I open the window and he slinks in.

  “You bloody dumb animal,” I chastise affectionately, adrenaline giving way to the relief coursing through me. Joss purrs and rubs his face up against mine, unaware of the fuss he’s caused. I lay out a bowl of Weetabix—his favorite—and, checking the back door is still locked, return to the comfort of my living room. Joss follows faithfully, curling up in front of the fire and promptly falling asleep.

  I’m annoyed at myself for reacting so foolishly. The only thing creeping around my back garden in the middle of the night is a stray cat, desperate for his Weetabix fix and a warm place to sleep. What a fucking idiot. Still, I make a check of all the doors and windows: better safe than sorry.

  6

  JACK: 24 SEPTEMBER 1987

  Yo, Shakespeare, catch.” Jack flung the chocolate bar through the air and laughed as it hit the other boy square in the chest. “Too slow.”

  “Cheers.” He frowned. “What time are the others coming?” He’d looked at his watch three times since arriving at the house just fifteen minutes ago. The third time Jack had had to stop himself from laughing out loud.

  “Soon. Why, you nervous?”

  “No.” He said it quickly but Jack could tell he was lying. He’d dressed for the occasion, wearing what Jack was sure were his coolest clothes, but still his ASICS trainers and unbranded navy joggers weren’t going to cut it with the rest of the group. These were boys who, even at the age of twelve, were wearing Nike and Fred Perry—Billy probably thought Fred Perry was the bloke who ran the newsagent’s.

  “Just chill out. They don’t bite. Well, not unless I tell them to.” Jack frowned as his Street Fighter lost yet another life. He threw the controller at the console, scowling. “Fucking boring game. We need some new stuff to do.”

  “You’ve got way more here than I’ve got at mine.” Billy was gazing around Jack’s room, soaking in every detail. Remnants of previous hobbies littered every available space: the guitar he’d pestered for weeks to learn only to give up after six sessions; last year’s absolute must-have trainers caked in mud, lying on top of a jacket that probably cost more than the other boy’s entire wardrobe. It was quite amusing to watch.

  “Pile of junk. When Adam gets here he’ll want to go out and play Tracker. You might get your nice new trainers dirty.”

  Jack grinned as the boy tried his best to look unconcerned. Likelihood was he’d spend hours scrubbing them clean before going home. It must be absolute shit to have parents who were ever present, constantly asking you where you were going, who you were with. Then again, he’d seen Billy’s house—from the outside, of course; he was certain he’d never be asked in—and in a place the size of a postage stamp he could imagine it would be hard to avoid each other.

  When the doorbell rang, Billy flinched. Jack laughed and jumped up.

  “I’ll get it,” he yelled to whoever might be in the house. He hadn’t seen Lucy since he woke up at eleven. She’d
probably gone out to do the weekly shopping and wouldn’t be bothered if he wasn’t here when she got back. His parents were the kind of people who thought teenagers should be given their freedom to grow—and who hoped he didn’t notice when Lucy went through his school bag to check his homework diary.

  Billy hung back in the bedroom as the others traipsed up the stairs. The first boy to enter was Riley. Jack watched Billy’s shoulders sag with relief. He nodded towards Matt. “All right?”

  Matt grinned. “All right.”

  The second boy through the door screwed up his nose. “Who’re you?”

  Jack shoved his arm. “Don’t be a twat. This is Shakespeare. He’s hanging out with us.”

  “What kind of a name’s Shakespeare?” The second boy grinned. “Your mum drunk when she gave you that name?”

  “It’s a nickname, dumbass. Because he’s good at English. Shakes, this is Adam Harvey.” The two boys nodded at one another but neither looked pleased about it.

  “You look like shit, what happened to you?”

  Jack spoke again before his new friend had a chance to answer. “You shoulda seen the other guy. Shakes kicked the crap out of them.”

  “Them?”

  “Yeah, three of ’em, from Westlake. He kicked their asses, it was wicked. I got him back here before they could bring more of ’em around. Right, Riley?”

  Matt nodded and Adam gave a look of grudging respect. “Fair play. You coming with us for a game of Tracker?”

  “Course he is. Where’s Peterson?”

  Matt shrugged. “Dunno. Haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows as their new friend gave him a nervous look. He pulled him aside as the other two went down the stairs. “Don’t worry about it,” he whispered. “I won’t tell anyone you dropped Mike in it.”

  7

  Cassie and I have volunteered the last three Sundays at the KIP Project for the homeless in Telford, twenty minutes from Bridgnorth, where Cass lives. I volunteer as a way to give something back, to atone for my sins. Cassie volunteers because I asked her to. Despite her insistence that she gets nothing out of the work we do and is only there “to pass the time,” I know that deep down she enjoys the thought that she’s doing something good. Deep, deep down. This Sunday, however, she turns up looking a little sheepish.