by Rosie Walsh
Jo couldn’t stop laughing, which did little to diffuse the situation.
Still, everyone is here, except Hamish and, of course, Eddie’s mum. Jenni, Javier, my sister and her family, Alan and Gia, who have been so warm and welcoming to me—and Tommy and Jo, who are all wrapped up in a love story of their own. They are both the happiest I’ve ever seen them, although things with Shawn have been messy since Jo told him about Tommy. But she’s got something she never had before: a real partnership. She’ll deal with it.
And, of course, my parents are here, watching with great delight every last interaction between their two daughters. They still can’t quite believe that I’m back, that Hannah and I have managed to become friends again, that we can be together as a family. And of course they’re obsessed with Alex. Dad wrote a cello piece for him. I have a bad feeling he’s going to play it later.
I take another piece of quiche, while I still can—Alex is going to wake any minute—and look for Eddie.
There. He’s on his way over to us, hands in pockets, smiling. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of this smile.
“Hello,” he says. He kisses me once; then he kisses me again. He peers down at our tiny little son. “Hello, Bruiser,” he whispers. Sure enough, Alex is beginning to wake. He half opens an eye, screws up his face, then headbutts me in the chest, fast asleep again. His father kisses him on the top of his head, which smells like the most perfect smell in the world, and takes a crafty bite of my quiche.
Alex wakes again, only this time it looks like he’s going to stay with us. He stares blearily at his father, whose face is like a ridiculous, beaming pumpkin looming into view, and—after a few moments’ consideration—smiles. And Eddie falls to pieces, just like he always does.
He begins to extract his son from the sling, and I see us suddenly, the two people who watched each other over an escaped sheep last year. The gusts of hope and expectation, the unstoppable unraveling of a past of which we weren’t even aware. A lot has changed since then; more is yet to come. But there is nothing to hold me back anymore. No dark corners, no pending avalanche. Just life.
And who would have thought that Eddie Wallace would have been the solution? That Eddie, of all people, would be the one to stop me running? Who made it possible for me to sit still, to breathe, to like myself? Who would have thought that it would be Eddie Wallace, from whom I’d hidden so many years, who would make me want so desperately to come home? Who would allow me to spread my roots and belong somewhere at last?
When I look up, I see Carole Wallace.
She’s standing at the edge of our gathering, her arm tucked into that of a man whose other sleeve hangs empty by his side. It must be Felix. My body goes still, and my heart goes fast. I’m not sure I’m prepared for this. Selfishly, I’m not sure I even want it. I can’t cope with a scene, not on Alex’s day.
But here she is, and she’s already picking her way across the gathering, making straight for me.
She’s heading for Eddie, I tell myself. She won’t even look at me. Eddie’s lifting Alex above his head, laughing at his son’s expressions of wonder and confusion. I watch as Carole and my mother see each other at the same time. My mother stops her, puts a brief hand on her arm, says something, smiles. Carole just looks really shocked. She blinks at Mum, stands awkwardly still, and then manages to reply. There might be a smile, although if there is, it’s brief. Mum says something else, points toward the picnic, and Felix smiles warmly at her, nods, and thanks her. He looks at Carole, but she’s turned back toward me and Eddie, and she’s walking again.
“Eddie,” I say quietly. He’s still talking to his son. “Eddie. Your mum’s here.”
He swings round and I feel his body switch to high alert. There’s a febrile pause as he works out what to do. For a second he starts to move away, to intercept her before she gets to me, but then he stops. He stops, stands firm, and takes hold of my hand. With his other, he holds Alex close to his side, a thumb moving across the soft cotton of Alex’s miniature dungarees.
I look up at him. His temple is pulsing. His neck is strained, and I know he wants very much to bolt, to waylay her. But he stays. He holds my hand more tightly than ever. We are a couple, he’s telling her, and I love him for it. I’m not just me anymore. I’m us.
Carole is looking only at her son. As she approaches, the man, Felix, drops back. He smiles warmly at me, but it’s not enough to make me believe that this will be okay. Over his shoulder, my parents are watching. Jo is watching. Alan is watching. In fact, everyone is watching, although most of them are pretending not to be watching.
“Hello, Eddie darling,” she says, arriving in front of us. She seems only at this moment to realize that Felix isn’t with her. She glances back nervously, but he doesn’t move, and she seems to decide to stay put. “I thought I’d come and see Alex on his special day.”
Eddie holds my hand yet tighter. It’s beginning to hurt.
“Hey, Mum,” he says. Cheerful and relaxed, as if everything’s okay. And I think, You are so kind. You’ve done this for years. Made her feel safe, no matter what’s happening inside you. You are an extraordinary man.
“Alex!” he whispers. “Alex, your grandma’s here!”
Alex is getting hungry: he keeps diving toward Eddie’s chest, even though he’s not going to find much milk there. “Would you like a cuddle?” Eddie asks his mother. “I think he’s going to want feeding soon, but you may get a few minutes of peace.”
Carole doesn’t look at me, but she smiles and opens her arms. Carefully, gently, Eddie hands her our baby. He waits until she’s got him; then he kisses his son on the top of his head.
He steps back and takes my hand again. Carole breaks into a smile I never imagined seeing on her face, the face that sat at the edge of my mind for so many years. “Hello, my darling,” she whispers. Her eyes fill with tears, and I realize that Eddie’s lovely ocean eyes are hers. “Hello, my lovely boy. Oh, Granny loves you, Alex. Oh, she does!”
Eddie reaches out to squash one of Alex’s chubby little feet. Then he glances sideways at me and squeezes my hand.
“Mum,” he says levelly. “Mum, I want you to meet Sarah. The mother of my son.”
There’s a long pause, during which Carole Wallace murmurs at Alex, as he begins to wriggle down her chest. Eddie drops my hand and puts his arm around me. Carole doesn’t look up. “Aren’t you a good boy,” she murmurs at Alex. “Aren’t you such a good little boy.”
“Mum.”
Then slowly, uncertainly, Carole Wallace looks at me. She looks at me, across my son’s head, across two decades of pain that I can only now, as a mother, begin truly to comprehend. And for a second—a lightning crack of a second—she smiles. “Thank you for my grandson,” she says. Her voice trembles. “Thank you, Sarah, for this little boy.”
She kisses Alex and then moves away from us, back to the safety of Felix, and conversation resumes. The wind has slowed; the sun is warmer. People are taking off jackets and jumpers. The cow parsley sways violently as a child burrows through its stems, and a tiny shower of butterflies flickers over the wild grass that surrounds us all, screening us off from the past, from the stories that we told ourselves for so many years.
I slide my arm around Eddie’s waist, and I feel him smile.
About the Author
Rosie Walsh lives in Bristol, England. Ghosted is her U.S. debut.
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