And then just as I was about to stop, to shout for him to get down, he did it again. He had both hands off the post. Then I knew – right at that point, I knew he was going to fall.
I haven’t forgotten that look on his face. The moment he realised he was going down. Awful. Truly awful. I couldn’t shut my eyes for a couple of nights after that.
His legs seemed to lose their grip and that was it. I screamed and then I heard the most awful thump on the ground. It was loud. Much louder than I would have expected because – well – he seemed so tiny. For a second I thought there’s no way he can get out of this alive, but at that point he was the other side of the fence so I couldn’t see him. The rest is a blur. But I know someone opened up the gate to the cricket pitch and we all gathered around. His eyes were open at that point and then his mother came.
I was going to get in touch with her – the mother of the little boy, I mean. I still might do. But in truth, I’ve been reading some of the Facebook pages surrounding it all – and all the forums on those mum sites. She really needs a break. That poor woman being vilified by all these people who have no idea of the surrounding circumstances. But that’s how it goes, isn’t it? Especially around there. Everyone has something to say about everything. It’s exhausting, frankly. I think it’s fear. Fear that as a parent, you’re doing something wrong, so you end up judging everyone else for their behaviour. So that – you know – you can justify to yourself that your way is the right way. Fear that if you make a mistake – say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, be yourself even – your kid might get ostracised. Everyone’s just always on edge, all the time. And so when something like this happens – everyone just well, explodes.
Anyway, I’m not a mother myself. I was just out the back of the playground having a look at the new tennis courts – so I don’t truly know what it’s like. But anyhow, I feel sorry for her. And I don’t really want to say too much more. I have made my statement to the club and, as far as I’m concerned, the incident is being dealt with. But – whatever happens – I hope something good comes out of this. I hope that people stop sniping, gossiping. Everyone’s in this together – parents or no parents. I hope that people can take a long, hard look at themselves.
Anyway, I do thank you for your call.
Interviewee hangs up.
LIZA
‘Time out.’ Katy looks over at Sarah, who’s stuffed the sleeve of her jumper into her mouth to stifle her own sobs. ‘Look, this is no good for Jack. It’s meant to be a peaceful time for him – there are already too many people in here, and now – Sarah, are you OK?’
Sarah’s sobs continue. What on earth is going on? She barely seems to register that Katy’s spoken to her.
‘She’ll be fine.’ I glance over at Sarah. ‘Won’t you, Sarah? You’ll be OK. In five minutes?’ I’m keen for this all to be over and I’m still gobsmacked that she’s rung social services. Furious in fact, and I have no idea why she’s the one crying. ‘Come on now, Sarah. You need to pull yourself together. For Jack.’ My voice sharpens. ‘All right?’
‘Shhhh,’ Gav walks through the front door. ‘I’ve seen our friend Mr Travers out.’ He throws me a look. ‘And been for a quick breather. So now you just need to let Katy take charge and do her job. She knows what she’s doing.’
For some reason, this sends me wild – the implication that Katy knows what’s best for me. For my son. For any of us.
‘I don’t even know where you two met,’ I shout, ‘and I’m trusting you coming into my home. Doing this with my son. You’re bloody seeing each other for all I know.’
Katy coughs.
‘Seeing each other?’ She combs her perfect fingernails through her ponytail. ‘Me and Gav?’
‘Don’t you dare,’ I shout. ‘Don’t pretend. Enough pretending.’
‘Gav, maybe you should tell her the truth? If you don’t mind? Clearly I’ve been a source of something. I’m not sure what. But I think it would be best.’
I look around the room. Ella and Sarah – both of their eyes shut for just a millisecond and they’re both exhaling.
‘Do you want me to ask everyone to leave?’ Gav asks.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Just tell me what the heck is going on.’ I don’t want to lose any momentum or derail the conversation.
‘Fine.’ Gav stands, smoothing his hands over his trousers. ‘I’ve been seeing Katy. I mean, she’s been helping me.’
For a minute, I don’t understand. Gav? Seeing a therapist? Of course not. He would always laugh at people who paid for help. It was part of the reason I’d never told him I’d seen someone.
‘She’s been helping me with various repetitive memories,’ he continues. ‘Trying to make them have less of a hold over me.’ He stares at Jack, then at me. And finally, I understand. I understand everything. He’s been scrambling his own trauma over what had happened just after Jack had been born. My God.
‘She’s been helping you? That’s good. That’s great. You seemed better in the past few days. Less …’
‘Anxious? Yes. We had a breakthrough. I’ve been seeing her for a bit. But I had to accelerate our sessions after Jack’s fall. It brought stuff back. But she’s helping. It’s taken a while. But with the double time in the past week I feel that something’s shifted. That I don’t need to be in as much …’ He looks up, searching for the right word. ‘Control. And that’s why I was so adamant that she help Jack.’
But something still doesn’t make sense.
‘But she said she owed you one? Surely it’s the other way around.’
‘Oh, I took Sally, her sister—’ He looks over at Katy and she nods. ‘It’s OK,’ she mouths. ‘I don’t mind.’ ‘I took her to an emergency scan. The morning after Jack’s fall. I was with Katy. Having an emergency PTSD session because I really thought I was losing it. Anyway, halfway through, Sally banged on Katy’s office door. Desperate. She was bleeding. Pregnant. She had no car and she’s a single parent. So I left the session. Got Sally an Uber to the nearest place we could find for a scan. I sat and waited with her. It all turned out to be absolutely fine. Sally and baby are in fine health.’
The old Gav. I feel something lift. This is what the old Gav would have done.
‘And he followed it up after that,’ Katy says, looking at Gav. ‘He sat with her for two hours whilst they went through everything with her.’
‘So that’s where you were. When you were meant to be at the hospital with Jack.’ I try and keep the accusation out of my voice. I don’t even mean to sound like that. I am pleased that he’d been with her. I think of Sarah and how relieved I’d felt that I could be there for her last year.
‘I know. I didn’t know what to do but when you told me Jack was asleep, that he was OK, I thought it would be fine for me to do this. I actually rang the hospital. I spoke to Dr Qureshi just to be sure. She told me I’d be fine not to be there for a couple of hours and that it was you who needed the support. I thought – well, I can give that to you, but right at that moment, when it was all happening, I just couldn’t tell you all this.’
‘Oh,’ I cry. ‘I wish you had.’
‘Anyway,’ Katy says. ‘I’m totally indebted to him for helping us out. As luck would have it I had to go and take our mum to the hospital just after our session, so I couldn’t go with them.’
‘He’s a good dad,’ Jack pipes up.
All of us had forgotten he was there, listening, but he looks like a different little boy even from five minutes ago. He must have sensed my relief that Katy and Gav aren’t seeing each other. Like that anyway. I feel bad he’s been privy to this part of the conversation – but when I look at him, his limbs are relaxed, his dimples out in force. I feel like weeping. I’ve got my boy back. I want to clap and shout and jump. He’s back. I’ve got my boy back. And then I look over and I see Gav is crying. I’ve never seen Gav cry in my life. I lead him into the bedroom, leaving everyone watching, open-mouthed. We sit quietly. Waiting for him to catch his breath.
He wipes his eyes. ‘Jesus. Liza. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to apologise. How to make it up to you. The way I spoke to you after Jack’s fall.’ He doesn’t look at me. His huge frame shuddering up and down as he tries to stop crying.
But then something doesn’t add up. ‘You got so much worse,’ I say. ‘After Thea was born? Why was that?’
‘It was something Sarah said. Jack had been playing up. Thea had a bit of a cold. Sarah was joking around and said you’d probably throw in the towel if things didn’t get better. That you were pulling your hair out and that you’d probably just walk out one day. She was laughing as she said it. But it brought all the trauma with Jack back and I hated you for it. I absolutely hated you. I couldn’t even look at you. Or talk about it. It was like that moment you wake up from a dream where your partner’s been cheating on you and, all day, you can’t separate fiction from reality. I knew Sarah didn’t mean it and I knew you wouldn’t. But I suppose I was ill myself. Postnatal depression. But for fathers. If that’s a thing. I hated you for being ill when Jack was a baby – when all that time I should have helped you. And myself. But neither you or I had anywhere to turn, did we? I mean, if they’d found out …’ I squeeze his arm. ‘So anyway, that’s when I decided I had to leave. But of course, I couldn’t. I was too fucked up. Too frightened that if I ceded control for one second, something would go wrong. I became hyper vigilant. Over everything. It’s been awful. I’m so sorry.’
‘Shhhh,’ I put my hand over his. ‘It’s over now. It’s over. OK? It’s finished.’ I remember now how Sarah had made a joke about me wanting to up sticks and get trashed just after Thea was born. I remember that exact moment; how Gav’s face had turned and he had told me he was leaving me that night.
We sit in silence, holding hands. My Gav. Deep down I’ve always wondered if I can ever forgive him for the way he’s been behaving.
‘Katy,’ he continues, sniffing. ‘She does couples’ counselling too. For traumatic things that have happened.’ He looks over at me. ‘Will you?’
Both of us are crying now. ‘We can’t let things slide without trying. Can we?’
He shakes his head. ‘It’s going to be a long, long road,’ he says. ‘And this conversation has only scratched the surface. Come on then. Let’s go back out.’ He follows me, hand on my back, ready to face the rest of the day.
‘Oh hi, both,’ Katy says. ‘Thank you. For being here. Jack is ready. So shall we carry on then? We’ve just got this tiny bit left. Sarah? Are you feeling all right now? Have a few more moments.’
I feel much clearer about things after having spoken to Gav. ‘We can go on now, Sarah.’ But she’s still looking at Ella, frozen. And then out of nowhere, my entire body tenses. That bloody look. Again. The one I’d seen just minutes ago when Sarah had been looking at Ella. Where have I seen that look? It feels like déjà vu. Where? Where? Wh— and then my entire world shrinks. I know exactly where I’ve seen it before. I waved at him. He’s absolutely fine. And I think, right now, I’m about to throw up absolutely everywhere.
I replay the memory in my head. It appears, fragmented and distorted, as though it’s been stretched and spliced with other unwanted memories.
Everything shifts into sharp focus. And then I remember the fall. The grey day. Thea, restless. Jack in the sandpit. Ella and Sarah walking towards me. My heart sinking. And then, the screaming. The sound of my parka jacket as it fell to the floor. And then, the look. I’d told myself that I would dissect it later. I had read it, in that heart-stopping moment, as a look that said: Oh my God. Look at her. Look at the crazy bitch overreacting. But now, in the cold light of day, I see it for what it is.
Guilt.
I have a nasty sinking feeling and everything feels blacker than black. And then suddenly, everything crystallises into sharp focus. Sarah’s reluctance to answer Katy. Her look of total fear whenever I spoke about Jack reliving the memory for his therapy sessions. Her look of fear right this minute, skin soaking up her tears. Like she’s turned into glass and could shatter at any given moment. Her strange behaviour. Us, living in her flat. Oh God, I realise, this is why. This is why.
I could do one of two things at this very minute. I could step in. Let her off the hook. Or I could confront her, and see what she says. I look over at Ella, who looks totally in control and calm. And then I think about Ella. Why had she answered for Sarah? Why had she covered up for her? Or was she just thinking that I was being an overprotective parent? Silly Liza. Of course my son was fine and no one needed to check on him at all. Or had it been me she’s been trying to protect?
I start to shake, thinking of Jack. Could it have been prevented? If Sarah had told me she hadn’t checked on him, would my little boy be here, in a neck brace, lying on the bed?
Or worse – had she checked him and he’d already been up the post? I dismiss that thought as quickly as it enters my head.
‘Liza?’ It’s Katy, but I can’t answer. ‘Are you OK? You look …’
‘I’m fine,’ I say. I’m frozen. Because of course, whatever I choose, it’s all tied up with my own parenting mistakes. I look over at Sarah whose hands are clamped right over her mouth. She’d been doing that exact pose last time we went on a PTA night out. ‘I’m going to vomit, let me out!’ she had shrieked in the back of the Uber. How we’d laughed.
I think about Jack. And ultimately I have to do what is best for him. I’ve failed him once already, and I’m not willing to do it again.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘But I need to speak to Sarah.’ I catch her looking at Ella again, who gives her the tiniest nod. One that says, Don’t worry, I’m here.
‘Alone.’ My voice comes out as barely a whisper. ‘I need to speak to Sarah alone.’
SARAH
Montages of American real-life-crime series keep flooding her brain: the executioner’s chair; dead man walking. Liza wants to speak to her. Alone. No hiding behind Ella now.
She has a mind to lie down on the floor and wish for some horrendous catastrophe to consume her, right then and there. But then Casper would be without a mother. And Tom would probably marry that accountant from his old work who she’s always secretly thought more suited to him than her – his pathetic excuse for a wife and a human being.
My God, she’s failed spectacularly at everything.
‘Fine.’ She sounds surlier than she means to. If she’s going to have to tell the truth now, she’s going to have to own it. ‘Fine,’ she says again, softening her voice. ‘Ready when you are.’ But she can’t hide the shakiness in her words. It’s too late now, she no longer looks at Ella. She blinkers herself from Katy. ‘Where would you like to go?’
‘Outside.’
Liza’s arms are crossed. Her arms are never crossed.
‘OK.’ Sarah starts to grab her coat and bag but then decides to leave it all. This is her house, after all. She can come back. She starts to shiver. She holds an arm out signalling for Liza to go first. And then she thinks about their friendship – the fact that there was always a good balance of power between them, and that was what had made it so comfortable, so easy. She starts to cry.
‘One minute.’ Liza turns to her son. ‘Jack? Mummy loves you so much. I’m just going to talk to Sarah. But before I go, I want to let you know that you deserve only good things in life. OK?’
> Sarah’s stung as she feels Liza’s glare on her. She knows she can’t expect anything else, but even when Liza’s stressed, or upset, it’s always Aunty Sarah. She now knows that things will never be the same again.
She isn’t aware of herself, climbing the metal steps on the stairwell. She is aware, though, that her body feels like someone’s trying to erase her insides. She steps over a small stick on the middle step. She’s not sure why. She thinks it’s because she doesn’t want to hurt anything else – even an already broken piece of wood. When they reach the top, she grips tightly onto the metal railing. It’s OK, she tells herself; maybe Liza wants to speak to her about something else? But she knows, deep in her gut, that’s not the case. She wonders how she found out. It can’t have been Ella. Sarah knows, though, it was in those few moments just passed that Liza had worked it out. The look of dawning on her face, crossed with pure rage. They stand there for a minute. She’s still shivering.
‘You lied, didn’t you? You lied when you said you saw Jack, that you’d checked on him.’ Liza’s chin juts forward. ‘Why? Why did you do it?’
Sarah rocks back slightly, half expecting a slap around the face. Some shouting. Some aggression. But there’s nothing. A flat, resigned voice, which makes her feel even worse.
‘I hate you for it,’ says Liza, almost matter-of-factly, as if the realisation of it is so final that to convey it with emotion would be pointless. ‘In the past few minutes I’ve gone from loving you like a sister, to hating you. You lied to me. About my son. He broke his neck, Sarah. And I’ve only just realised the truth of it. The look you and Ella gave each other – I realised you’ve been lying to me, all this time. How could you?’ Liza sounds so disappointed, so deeply let down. Sarah feels hollowed out with anguish.
The Fallout Page 30
