The Day I lost You

by Fionnuala Kearney

  Copyright

  Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  The News Building

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

  Copyright © Fionnuala Kearney 2016

  Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

  Cover photographs © Vaida Abdul/Arcangel Images (front); Shutterstock.com (back).

  Fionnuala Kearney asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780007593996

  Ebook Edition © February 2016 ISBN: 9780007594009

  Version 2016-03-11

  Dedication

  For the strongest women I know – my daughters,

  Kate and Jane, and my mother, Mary.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One

  Prologue

  1. Jess

  2. Anna

  3. Theo

  4. Jess

  5. Anna

  6. Theo

  7. Jess

  8. Anna

  9. Theo

  10. Jess

  11. Anna

  12. Theo

  13. Jess

  14. Anna

  15. Theo

  16. Jess

  17. Anna

  18. Theo

  19. Jess

  20. Anna

  Part Two

  21. Jess

  22. Jess

  23. Jess

  24. Jess

  25. Jess

  26. Anna

  27. Jess

  28. Jess

  29. Jess

  30. Jess

  31. Anna

  32. Jess

  33. Jess

  Part Three

  34. Anna

  35. Theo

  36. Jess

  37. Anna

  38. Theo

  39. Jess

  40. Anna

  41. Theo

  42. Jess

  43. Anna

  44. Theo

  45. Jess

  46. Anna

  47. Theo

  48. Jess

  49. Anna

  50. Theo

  51. Jess

  52. Anna

  Epilogue

  Keep Reading …

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Fionnuala Kearney

  About the Publisher

  PART ONE

  Prologue

  There are always before and after moments. Profound instants when, one second, life is a clear, high-pixel image and the next, it’s grainy, less focused.

  The day it happened, the seventh of December 2014, had been a normal day – nothing unusual about it. A band of low Arctic pressure produced the sort of cold that froze my fingers through gloves and numbed my toes through sheepskin-lined boots. The winter sky – a perfect, crisp blue – was marred only by wispy white plane trails latticing through it.

  Theo and I were on the Irish coffee stall at the Christmas fair all afternoon – the most dreadful baristas, unable to produce a straight line of cream along the top of the coffee and a little too liberal with the alcohol. It was the season of goodwill. Fairy lights flashed: home-made crackers with loo-roll centres were snapped; high-pitched carols were sung; crumbling, puff-pastry mince pies were trodden into the polished parquet floor of the school hall, and the heady scent of festive cinnamon and cloves filled the air.

  I remember it being a fun-filled afternoon.

  When I got home, I flicked the kettle on and turned the thermostat up. I sat a while, my hands wrapped around a cup of black tea, staring into the garden in the fading light, my feet tucked up underneath me. Much as I loved her, days without Rose were precious. I had so little time to myself that merely sitting, being, just the act of doing nothing was a joy. Right up until the moment the doorbell rang, it’s the ‘ordinary-ness’ of that day that I recall.

  When the door pinged, I still didn’t stir – not until I heard Doug’s voice through the letterbox. Then I leapt from my seat.

  ‘Jess. It’s Doug. Can you open the door?’

  I made my way to the hall, heard him moving about in the porch; foot to foot. Doug has not come to my door for a very long time.

  From my jacket pocket, my mobile phone trilled. Seeing his number, I realized he would have heard it ring too.

  ‘Open the door, Jess. It’s important.’

  I answered the phone and hung up immediately.

  ‘What do you want?’ I spoke through the four solid panels.

  ‘I need to speak to you. Please.’ His voice seemed to break on the last word and I opened the latch.

  Doug, my ex-husband, the man whom I apparently ‘strangled with my love’ was standing there, shivering.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  I looked over his shoulder, expecting to see Carol, his wife, there.

  ‘What do you want, Doug?’ I repeated.

  ‘Can I come in?’ he asked again.

  And that was the moment. I made the mistake of looking in his eyes; the cobalt-blue eyes that Anna, our only child, had inherited from him. One generation later, Rose has those same eyes too. That was the split moment – between what was, and what would be. His next words tapped a slow, rhythmic beat in my head; each one etching itself on my brain like a permanent tattoo. And something happens when the body is forced to hear unwanted tidings; life-changing, cruel words. Adrenaline charges to the extremities, willing the frame to stay standing, despite the urge to fold; willing the heart to keep beating, despite the urge to snap into hundreds of tiny fragments.

  My knees buckled at right angles – my entire body felled. An instant sweat oozed from my pores, seeping through to my fingertips. Fear choked me, as I fell into Doug’s arms, as his familiar scent washed over me. And, in an instant, the world, as I knew it, was different.

  1. Jess

  Ten Weeks Later – Friday, 13 February 2015

  I wake to the taste of salt on my lips. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the early morning light; my mind takes a little longer to realize that I’ve been crying in my sleep. With a glance at the neon clock by my bedside, my damp lashes blink. It’s useless – I won’t fall asleep again.

  My limbs stiff, I climb slowly out of bed before crossing the landing to check the room opposite. She’s there, fast asleep. I resist the urge to touch her, to rest the back of my fingers on her forehead. It’s a habit; a throwback, I think, to when she had pleurisy as a baby and we failed to spot the temperature early.

  Her breathing is soft, regular and rhythmic as a slow beat on a metronome, her chest rising and falling under the duvet. She turns onto her stomach, faces away from me, one hand stretched in a curve above her head, the other falling over
the side of the bed. I take her arm and tuck it in beside her.

  Next along the landing is Anna’s room. I grab a pillow from her bed and, clutching it tight to me, take the stairs down slowly. Soon, the coffee machine clucks, promising my morning nectar.

  I fill Rose’s lunch box. It’s the last day of school before the half-term break and something tells me she’ll wake early, excited at the fact that today means no lessons, lots of playtime fun, not to mention the holiday … School closes early, so it’s just a snack; just one slice of bread, lightly buttered and sliced in two, a piece of ham inside. Crusts removed. She hates crusts. A satsuma – the easy-peeling sort – and a bottle of water.

  I stop my hands moving; wonder, if I turn the television on, will it halt the onset of what I just feel in my bones is a bad day. Before I know it, my hand is on a nearby photo frame. I don’t even look at it, instead raise my arm and hurl it across the room. It takes on a Frisbee-like flight, landing, where I must have hoped it would, on a sofa three metres away. I walk from the kitchen to the other side of the room that stretches across the back of my narrow house. There should be a dining table here. Instead, there’s a leather armchair and a frayed, unloved, tatty two-seater that Anna and I rescued from a skip with great intentions of reupholstering it. Slumping down into it, I run the palm of my hand over its ancient fabric, feel its bobbly surface. I reach for the tossed frame, clutch it to my chest, before releasing it to my lap – image facing down.

  I pick up the phone and dial a familiar number. ‘Tell me not to smash the photos. Remind me I would really regret it.’

  ‘Jess, it’s six a.m.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Tell me. Please.’

  ‘Ok-ay.’ Leah clears her throat and I imagine her sitting up in bed, Gus grunting an objection beside her. ‘Leave the photos alone, do not break anything; you will regret it.’

  ‘Right.’ I clutch the silver frame tighter. I don’t need to look. It was taken on a camping holiday in France the summer Anna was fourteen, the summer she discovered boys.

  Leah tries hard to stifle a yawn. ‘I would’ve called you in another hour.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Happy Birthday, big sis. You going to be okay?’

  I giggle, a small ironic sound. ‘Sure I will. I’m sorry for waking you. Apologize to Gus. See you later.’

  I hang up the phone, stroke the back of the picture frame. Today is my forty-eighth birthday. It is also her twenty-fifth birthday. Twenty-five years ago, she shot into this world with the speed of a firing gun. But for a midwife with advanced catching skills, she would have flown off the bed, hanging by the cord that still joined us.

  ‘Happy Birthday, baby.’ I talk aloud, but there’s no one there.

  ‘Nanny?’ I turn quickly. Rose is walking towards me, her arms outstretched. She seems to move in slow motion and I remember to take it in; to commit this image of her sloping towards me to memory, her curls all awry and bouncing as she moves. I bend down to her as she reaches me and pull her up to my chest. She puts her arms around my neck, her fingers lacing through my own twisting locks. And I’m cast back to when she was a toddler and she had barely any hair yet. What she did have was downy-fine and corkscrew. She would find mine and pull it, gently unravelling the coil, fascinated by the spiral twists. I was captivated. She was not my child, but through the twists and turns of shared DNA, we had the same twisting, turning hair.

  And now, here I am, my fingers laced through her mane, massaging her head in a way I know she loves.

  ‘I had a bad dream,’ she says, gripping me tighter.

  Me too. I dreamt that your mummy had left us. Every night I dream your mummy has left us. Then I wake up and smell her pillow and tell myself it was just a dream.

  ‘Don’t worry, love.’ I kiss her hair. ‘It was just a dream.’

  ‘Who were you talking to?’

  ‘Nobody, I was just talking to myself.’

  ‘Daddy says people talk to themselves when they get old.’ She pulls away and peers directly into my eyes. ‘Are you old today, Nanny?’ Her mouth smiles, yet it’s her eyes, lined by long curving lashes, that seem to laugh. The wonder of that almost makes me gasp.

  I tickle her under her arms. ‘Cheeky,’ I say. ‘Not that old. C’mon, let’s get you showered before breakfast.’ She squeals and runs up the stairs ahead of me, shouting that she has a card for me. At just five years old, she has no memory that today is her mother’s birthday too and, all in all, perhaps that’s a good thing.

  At the school gate, I’m joined by Leah, who sidles up beside me. After I’ve held onto the child for an irrational length of time, I let go, and together we wave Rose into school.

  Before she gets to the door, she runs back to me and whispers, ‘Love you, Nanny.’

  ‘To the stars and beyond.’ I blow her a kiss and she catches it in one hand, then tosses it back to me and I tap my heart. It’s a thing we have; something we started when I first dropped her at ‘big’ school. It’s something Anna and I used to do when she was little too.

  She darts off, her friend Amy linking her arm at the door to their classroom.

  It feels strange for me not to join her, but having managed to wrangle a rare day off by swapping shifts with Trish, the other teaching assistant for Year Six, I’m not hanging around in case someone changes their mind. My break for the half-term starts now. From the yard, Finn, Theo’s son, gives me a small wave. He’s tall for his age, his head hovering above his classmates, and I can tell he’s wondering why I’m still on this side of the gate.

  ‘You checking up on me?’ I ask my sister, as my fingers curl a return wave to Finn and I walk back to my car.

  ‘Yep.’ Leah isn’t known for subtlety.

  ‘I’m all right.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, none of us are all right. Here …’ She hands me a small package and a card and I put them straight into my bag. ‘I know you won’t celebrate your birthday … her birthday,’ she says. ‘But nor should we forget the day.’ She reaches for me and gives me a squeeze. It’s not a hug. Leah doesn’t do proper hugs. I take advantage anyway and close my eyes briefly.

  ‘Sean is picking her up straight from school, right?’ she says.

  I nod. He came around last night to collect her bag after she’d gone to bed.

  ‘It’s only for ten days. She’ll have a wonderful time with her daddy and it’s good that his parents are on hand to help.’

  I pull away. The thought of Sean, Rose’s father, playing Daddy with her on holiday in some all-inclusive resort in the Canaries doesn’t fill me with the joy everyone seems to expect. He doesn’t even really know her; doesn’t know that she likes mini-yogurts after dinner; doesn’t know that she wakes up three nights a week calling for her mummy; doesn’t know that she likes to choose her own clothes every day; doesn’t know that she needs cuddles at night to help her sleep. He knows none of this.

  ‘He doesn’t even know her.’ I say it aloud.

  ‘He’s trying. Even before Anna died—’

  My head snaps around. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘I’m just trying to point out that you and Anna together were a force of nature. Let him be her father, Jess. Rose is going to need him too.’

  I wrap my arms around myself.

  ‘Let’s go for breakfast,’ she says.

  ‘No.’ I will her to stop talking, wonder why she’s not already on her way to work.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She knows what she’s done. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘You shouldn’t.’ No one. No one is allowed to say that Anna is dead. No one. I don’t care if it’s denial. I don’t care if the chances of her being alive are nonexistent. I have no body to bury.

  Leah reaches out, wraps her arms around my neck. ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeats. ‘Today of all days, that was insensitive.’

  ‘I miss her so much,’ I whisper softly, then bite my bottom lip so hard that I taste metal.

  ‘I know,’ she says, her
squeeze lingering, her grip unusually tight on my sleeve. ‘I’m here. I love you.’

  I don’t tell her that it’s not enough.

  ‘Breakfast?’ she repeats.

  ‘What in Christ’s name am I going to do?’ I ask on the way back to our cars.

  Leah shrugs. ‘Just keep breathing in and out.’

  ‘That’s it? That’s your advice?’

  ‘You don’t—’

  ‘I don’t what? Tell me, Leah. What is it I’m not doing? You have no bloody clue.’

  I walk away yelling behind me, ‘I don’t want breakfast. If you hurry you can catch the nine ten to Waterloo.’

  ‘Jess, stop. Wait.’

  I’m already in the car, strapping myself in. She doesn’t get it. She has never had children, and it has left her remote, detached from real life. As the engine revs into life and her form disappears in the rear-view mirror, I justify leaving her there in my head, even though I know I shouldn’t have. I curse myself. She’s doing her best. We all are, but Leah doesn’t know what unconditional love is. Leah doesn’t know how the pain of a missing child takes over and has a heartbeat of its own.

  I drive the short journey from the school to home, and when I get there try to busy myself with housework. On the way upstairs, I pass by a pile of Anna’s shoes in the hall. They’re stacked on top of one another. There are heels and flats all lumped in together – a knee-length suede, high-heeled boot embraces a brown brogue. I don’t touch them. I’m afraid if I touch them, even move them to her room, that she won’t come home. So, I leave them there. I try to forget all the times I shouted at her to remove her pile of crap from the front door. That’s what I called them, these things of Anna’s – a pile of crap.

 
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