Forgive Me

by Susan Lewis

  Hearing a knock on the door, Claudia went to answer, and found Leanne outside in the drizzling rain.

  “I wondered if you’d like me to drive you to the hospital today?” Leanne suggested as Claudia stood aside for her to come in.

  “That’s kind of you,” Claudia replied, turning back into the cozy kitchen where she’d failed to cook or even eat very much since they’d gotten here, “but I’ll be OK. It’s going to be a bit of a performance so I’m not sure how long I’ll be there.”

  Regarding her worriedly, Leanne said, “Are you sure you’re up to this? You look exhausted.”

  “I couldn’t let her go through it on her own. Even if she doesn’t say anything, or look at me, I think it’ll matter to her that I’m nearby.” She took a breath. “Jasmine texted just now to wish us luck. I keep asking myself if I did the right thing, persuading her to go to the first night of the Proms with your mum and Abby. I don’t want her to feel shut out, but it’s going to be hard enough for my mother without worrying about Jasmine’s reaction.”

  “Jasmine understands that,” Leanne assured her, “and she’ll be back tomorrow. She can go to see her then.”

  Claudia nodded, but her eyes were fixed on nothing as she experienced a fleeting connection with the world outside the bubble she and her mother were in. Thanks to everyone’s kindness and help, the coach house, mostly under Andee’s supervision, had already been cleared and cleaned and was now being rewired, replastered, and painted. She went herself, most days, helping out where she could, but her heart still wasn’t in making decisions about colors and designs.

  She was thankful, of course, for everything they were doing, and for the way Dan had dealt with the insurance company, making sure that all costs were covered. She told her mother all about it during her visits, probably going into too much detail, or rambling off the subject at times without really knowing where she was going. She never mentioned anything about the arrests that had been made as a result of the documents in the attaché case being found. They would be of no more interest to her mother than they were to her. What mattered in their world was finding whoever had started the fire and getting him, or her, to provide the connection to Marcus. Making either of them pay wouldn’t undo what had been done, but they couldn’t be allowed to get away with it.

  MARCY HAD BEEN aware of almost everything that had happened to her since the early days of being admitted to the Burns Intensive Care Unit in Swansea. Although the ventilator tube had prevented her from speaking at first, she’d listened as each surgery was explained, from the first to clean the burns—how simple that sounded, how crucial and invasive it was—right through to the fourth, fifth, and sixth procedures that had mostly involved intricate and life-saving skin grafts.

  The early ones, she’d been told, were called cadaveric allografts, meaning they’d used skin from a donor to cover her injuries; apparently they were the best form of dressing. However, the skin had no life of its own, so it fell off within two or three weeks. By then, the surgical team was ready to begin the autografts, which meant using her own healthy skin to further the healing process.

  In order to restore her left eyelid, they’d transplanted a microscopic sliver of flesh from the inside of her right arm and apparently it had taken well. She already had partial, cloudy vision in the eye, but she’d been told it was unlikely the lashes or brow would grow back, owing to the destruction of the necessary follicles. As for the muscles required to make her blink, this was an ongoing process.

  The hair on her head was a better story, for in spite of most of it being burnt off during the fire and the rest shaved off on her admission to hospital, it was starting to come through again. She knew it was in patches, for she could feel it with her good hand, but apparently there was a chance it would grow back completely. As yet she had no idea of its color, but she was expecting it to be gray, or possibly white, and as for the texture . . . She’d have to wait and see.

  Her left hand was still encased in an enormous dressing, and everything down that side of her body to her hip was a raging, stinging river of pain in spite of the drugs. It was so intense at times that she longed to tear herself apart with knives to try and alleviate the agony and itching.

  Right now, she was raised up against pillows in her hospital bed, tilted slightly to the right to ease the pressure on her injured left side and still attached to the intravenous antibiotics. Usually at this time of day the physio came to inflict her own brand of torture, but there was another sort on the agenda today. She wasn’t ready for it, and knew she probably never would be, but she was unable to summon the words to argue against it. Easier to go along with what they wanted and not make a fuss.

  She looked up as Ruth, the senior nurse, came around the privacy screen, her fair corkscrew curls pulled back into a band, and her smooth, round face radiating health and perfection. Marcy didn’t resent her for that, only envied her. After all, it wasn’t going to help her patients if she covered her looks with a mask or drew on a clownish expression to disguise them. Marcy suspected she would, if asked, for she’d come to believe that there wasn’t much this bossy mother of three wouldn’t do to help those in her care.

  Of the many members of the burns team, Ruth was the one Marcy had developed the greatest attachment to, with the exception of her roguishly witty consultant, Rohan Laghari, whom she saw most days. He had no idea that she looked forward to his visits and held on to his every word, for she didn’t engage with him much more than she did with the others. She didn’t mean to be rude; she just couldn’t bring herself up from the depths where she languished into the full light of comings and goings around her. Not even the psychologist was having much luck in reaching her, and if the truth were told, Marcy wished he’d stop trying.

  “Are you sure about this?” Ruth asked, holding the mirror against her chest with the back of it facing Marcy. “We always prefer to do it with the full team present . . .”

  “Please, let’s get it over with,” Marcy whispered hoarsely. It’s only my face, she was telling herself, and however it looks I’ll find a way to cope with it. The fact it might make her want to kill herself when she saw what she’d become was something she’d have to decide on later.

  “I think I’ll call Mr. Laghari,” Ruth stated. “Just him. We don’t have to tell the others.”

  Marcy shook her head. She was as prepared for the shock as she’d ever be; now she needed to get on with it, but not with everyone watching. She’d already explained to Ruth that she wanted it to be as private a moment as she could make it and would have done it alone if she’d been able to fetch a mirror without assistance. She didn’t even want Claudia present—she especially didn’t want her there—for she didn’t want her daughter to see her reaction in case it was bad.

  Taking a doubtful step closer Ruth put the mirror into Marcy’s right hand.

  Marcy held it low for a moment, steeling herself, then turning the glass over, she lifted it up so that the frame was surrounding her face.

  Her heart stopped in shock. What she saw was so much worse than she’d feared. She was grotesque, a monster; how could anyone bear to look at her? How terrible it must be for Claudia and Jasmine. She couldn’t even understand how the medical team was able to bear it. She felt so sick inside, so appalled and afraid that she wanted her life to end right that minute.

  CLAUDIA SAT QUIETLY at the side of her mother’s bed and covered her good hand with her own. She knew what had happened with the mirror, Ruth had told her as soon as she’d arrived; apparently Marcy had said nothing then, or since.

  Claudia could feel her heart breaking as she looked down at her mother, face turned away to mask the devastation that she’d now seen for herself. Her right eye was open, staring at nothing, and she didn’t in any way acknowledge that she knew Claudia was there.

  “Why didn’t you wait for me?” Claudia asked softly.

  Marcy gave no answer, didn’t even move. It was as if she hadn’t heard, or had somehow transpo
rted herself to a place no one could reach her.

  “It won’t always be like that,” Claudia said, trying to comfort her. “It’s still early days . . .”

  “Please talk about something else,” Marcy croaked.

  Claudia fell silent, unable to think of anything else. Perhaps it had been too soon for the mirror—was there ever a right time?—but her mother had seemed to want it, or she hadn’t objected when her consultant, Rohan, had suggested they start preparing for it.

  Now Claudia wished that they could turn back the clock, but not to before the mirror, that would solve nothing, to before the fire.

  Useless wishes; wrenching grief; fear of the future; silent rage, with a consuming need to make those responsible pay.

  Should she tell Marcy that the police still hadn’t caught anyone, that a connection to Marcus hadn’t been proved? She pictured him in his prison cell, satisfied with what he’d made happen to her and her mother, although no doubt furious and fearful about the arrests. Maybe he was already plotting what else he could do to punish her for that. He knew where she was now and that frightened her, but she wasn’t going to run away again. She couldn’t while her mother was still in hospital, and when it finally came time for her to go home she would need to be quiet, to take whatever time was necessary to heal in both mind and body. That was going to be easier among the friends they’d come to know and trust.

  Deciding her mother wouldn’t want to hear about Marcus, or the fact that the police still seemed no closer to catching whoever had started the fire, she began talking instead about the coach house. She asked if Marcy thought she should try to re-create what had been there before—the same or similar patchwork sofas, the refectory table and colorful mismatched chairs—but she received no answer.

  She changed the subject to Henry and how much he wanted to see her. At that her mother’s uninjured eye closed, and Claudia realized it had been the wrong thing to say. She hadn’t allowed any of their friends to see her since being admitted to hospital; there seemed to be a part of her that wanted to forget she even knew anyone else.

  A while later Ruth came to check on them and Claudia gave a small shake of her head, letting the nurse know that she hadn’t been able to persuade her mother to respond to her.

  After Ruth had gone, Marcy said, in a voice that was barely audible, “Did Jasmine go to the Proms?”

  Relief rushed to Claudia’s eyes; her mother had spoken without prompting. “Yes,” she replied. “They’re staying the night, coming back tomorrow.”

  Marcy whispered, “That’s nice.”

  She spoke quietly, Claudia knew, because she didn’t want to emphasize the difficulty she had pushing words past the injured tissue inside her throat and mouth. The muscles there were still unable to work as they once had, so sometimes it was hard to understand her. It would improve, Rohan had assured them, but like the skin grafts and new eyelid it was going to take time for her body to accustom itself to the changes.

  Claudia wondered if she should mention her mother’s hair and how much better it was starting to look. Although it was still patchy, there was no longer any baldness, and maybe soon they could cut the longer strands to the same length as the shorter ones.

  No, she couldn’t go there, it was too connected to the way she looked.

  In the end Claudia said, “I’m sorry, Mum, I know this is my fault. I just wish I knew how to make it up to you.”

  Marcy’s eyes closed again and as she pulled her hand free, she said, “Have you seen Dan?”

  Claudia’s heart contracted. Her mother regularly asked this question, and though she had seen Dan it wasn’t in the way Marcy meant. Others were always around, which she was thankful for in one way, but not in another, for she still hadn’t apologized for the way she’d turned on him when he’d told her he knew the truth about her. So much time had passed since that awful scene, and while she wouldn’t deny to herself that she wished she found it easier to talk to him, she wasn’t going to admit it to anyone else.

  “You should see him,” Marcy told her. “You know he’s a good man.”

  “You’re my only concern.”

  Marcy didn’t argue, she rarely did, but Claudia didn’t doubt that she’d bring the subject up again tomorrow or the next day. It was a way of distracting herself from the awful reality that was her life now.

  They fell silent for a while after that, until eventually Claudia got up to press a gentle kiss to her mother’s unspoiled cheek. Her eyes were closed, so maybe she was sleeping.

  Marcy said, “It’s the fault of the person who did it, not yours.”

  Claudia didn’t argue. “And I promise,” she said, “we’ll find him . . .”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  Claudia looked at her and felt so overwhelmed by her own helplessness, her need to do something that might in some way help her mother to return to who she really was, that she had to leave quickly before she broke into a sobbing rage of frustration and despair.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Andee, great you’re here,” Fliss declared, rushing over to greet her as soon as Andee came into the Seafront Café.

  “I got here as soon as I could,” Andee told her, stuffing an umbrella into the stand and unraveling her scarf. “Is everything OK? It sounded urgent when you rang.”

  “I think it is,” Fliss replied, and gestured for her to go through the café to the back. “There’s someone in the office you need to talk to.”

  After winding through the tables and greeting those she knew, Andee pushed open the kitchen door and continued on past the cooks to the large room beyond, where Fliss’s desk, computer, and file cabinets fought for space among bulk packs of toilet rolls, coffee, flour, cooking oil, and any number of culinary products.

  Sitting on a spindle-backed chair in front of the desk and hunched in against a shelf of paper napkins was a tiny scrap of a woman whom Andee recognized, but struggled to place.

  “This is Maria,” Fliss reminded her. “She used to work here.”

  Andee nodded, recalling now how this nervy little woman, had slammed out of the café sometime last summer, following an altercation in the kitchen. “Hello, Maria,” she said kindly, sitting on the chair Fliss put behind her. “Fliss tells me you’re upset about something. Is it anything I can help with?”

  The woman’s ruddy, pixyish face twitched slightly as she looked first at Andee, then at Fliss.

  “Nothing bad’s going to happen to you,” Fliss assured her. “Just tell Andee what you told me.”

  Maria’s frightened eyes returned to Andee and a moment later, in words altered by a strong speech impediment, she said, “I ’ad t’come. I couldn’t go on . . . Is wrong and my duty to speak up.”

  “About what?” Andee prompted.

  “About th’ lady. Th’ one who nearly die in that fy-ah.”

  Realizing she meant “fire,” Andee became very still. “What do you know about that?” she asked carefully.

  “I know who do it,” Maria cried wretchedly, “and they goin’ to get him for not doing it right.”

  Andee said, “Who are we talking about, Maria?”

  “My boy. My Archie. He set ligh’ to the ’ouse, but he dinnow she in there. I swear. They made him do it. They say bad things happen to me if he don’. They always do that to him. He a good boy. He care for his mum, but he shouldn’t set fy-ah to that house. Those who made him do it comin’ after him. They’re goin’ to kill him, my boy, and I can’t let ’em do that.”

  Andee glanced at Fliss before saying, “I need to be sure about this, Maria. Your son Archie is responsible for the fire at the coach house on Westleigh Heights?”

  “Thass wha’ I say. Is him who do it, ’cos they made him.”

  “Who are they?”

  Maria recoiled. “No tell tha’,” she cried, her poor tongue mangling the words so badly they were almost impossible to understand. “I juss want keep ma boy way from them.”

  Realizing t
hat she must have decided he’d be safer in custody than out on the streets, Andee said, “Where is he now?”

  “At ’ome. He there when I leff.”

  “Does he know you were coming to talk to Fliss?”

  Maria shook her head so fast and so agitatedly that Andee put out a hand to steady her. “You did right to tell Fliss,” she said gently, “and you understand that I now have to contact the police?”

  Maria wailed and nodded and bunched her fists to her mouth as she started to choke.

  “I’ll take care of her,” Fliss said quietly. “You go and do what you have to do.”

  Getting to her feet, Andee touched a hand to Maria’s wispy fair hair. Life really hadn’t showered this wretched little creature with blessings, and now here she was in the middle of even more horror than she could properly cope with. “I’ll be back soon and we can talk some more,” she promised.

  Maria nodded, but didn’t look up until Andee reached the door. “Will I eff to talk to cops too?” she asked woefully.

  Andee nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  Maria howled with alarm and buried her face again in her hands as Andee let herself out of the room.

  Immediately after calling Gould she rang Leanne to warn her that an arrest was likely by the end of the day. “Do you know where Claudia is?” she asked.

  “Yes, she’s just come back from the hospital. Don’t worry, I’ll break it to her and stay with her if she wants me to. Where are you?”

  “At the Seafront Café. Gould’s on his way to talk to Maria so I’m going to stay.” After ringing off she was about to go back inside when Dan called.

  “Hi, I’m wondering if we can put our meeting back half an hour tonight?” he said.