by Leah Mercer
‘I’ll call as soon as I hear anything. Don’t worry, Anna. We’ll find him,’ he says. ‘We’re both on the case now.’
I nod, then say goodbye. The air is crisp and leaves glide from the trees as I walk to the railway station, feeling almost dizzy with hope and relief. Now that I understand why my husband left, the distance between us has narrowed. The endless questions have stopped, too, replaced once again by determination . . . and certainty. I quicken my pace, eager to get back to London now and resume the search – to find Mark and bring him home.
Home to me, and to the new world we will create together.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mark
I move like a robot in the cold, dim light while pulling on my clothes. I’m desperate now for my energy to return – to sink into the past and find my sister’s child, the tiny girl that was taken away when Margo slipped back into the clutches of anorexia . . . the baby only I and her father know about, and the baby I could have – should have – tried harder to keep in our family, although I was consumed with the daily struggle of helping my sister recover.
The baby that might have saved her life, if only I’d helped her get her back.
I know it’s too late to change things. My sister is dead and the child is gone. But if I can somehow know that she is all right – that she went on to have the life her mother would have wanted for her and that she’s loved and cared for – then maybe, just maybe, this hole that’s burned into the fabric of me might finally fill in.
I lower myself on to the bed again, my eyes sinking closed as I try to picture that squalling, bald bundle as a proper person. Would she be like her mother at thirteen, filled with boundless energy and surrounded by a gaggle of giggling girls? My chest squeezes as I remember Margo throwing her arms around me, introducing me to all her friends as ‘the best brother ever’. I’d roll my eyes and feign embarrassment, but secretly I loved it – loved having a little sister look up to me, loved playing the role of the older, protective brother . . . even if she was barely two years younger than me.
So much for that, I think, pain slicing through me, because it was me who set her off on the path to her destruction, right from the start. I introduced her to running when she was barely a teen, laughingly urging her to go faster and faster, to do everything she could to beat me. I encouraged her obsession, timing our runs and planning our training sessions. I thought I was helping – I was so proud when she made the cross-country team at school – but I hadn’t realised it had gone so far. Not until it was too late. Not until Margo had collapsed one day while out on yet another run. Our neighbour brought her home, and I’ll never forget seeing my sister’s pale face as she hobbled in, her legs moving so slowly . . . She sank on to the sofa, her chest heaving, her voice shaking as she reassured me – over and over – that she was fine. Just a touch of the flu, that was all. She begged me not to tell Mum and Dad, since they’d keep her home from school and she needed to go to one of the endless activities she was involved in.
I believed her. Why wouldn’t I? Sure, she’d lost some weight, but anyone would with the same amount of training. With all that exercise, she was in great shape. Give her a few days and she’d be back to normal.
But she wasn’t – she never was again. And I’ll always remember that as the day anorexia entered our house, even though I didn’t know it then.
I shake my head, wishing for the millionth time that I had told Mum and Dad. They picked up on it as time wore on, of course . . . as my sister got thinner and thinner, as their pleas to eat grew louder and louder until they finally dragged her off to a specialist. But if Margo had started treatment sooner, maybe it would have stuck. Maybe it would have stopped the disease from taking over her life, blotting out everything except her obsession with calories – even the art she loved. Despite being so social, she used to spend hours in her room, sketching everything from the obligatory ponies and rainbows to fantastical, otherworldly scenes. I shudder to remember the last drawing I saw in her sketchbook right before she went into treatment for the first time: the page was slathered in charcoal with a skeletal face leering out from the black.
She never sketched again, although she was always drawn to artistic people . . . like the father of her child, the man who abandoned both her and his baby when the anorexia returned.
My eyelids fly open as a thought enters my mind. Would he know anything about where the child might be? Surely the father would need to sign something to allow the adoption to take place. Ben – I can barely even bring myself to think of his name, that’s how much I’ve tried to block him from my thoughts. I vowed never to speak to him again, but it’s not like I have many other options to investigate or much time to do it in.
I grab my new cheap mobile and connect to the hotel’s painfully slow wireless Internet. Then I google his name, as snippets of memories ping into my head. Ben was an ‘artist’, or so he said . . . if you can call scavenging skips and fashioning strange objects from rubbish ‘art’. He spent half his time combing building sites and the other half crashing trendy east London art shows, getting drunk on warm white wine. I remember this because the first time I met him he told me he’d done just that.
My eyes widen as I see that now he’s considered one of London’s most respected artists specialising in ‘found objects’, at least according to his website (which he appears to have written himself). I click on the ‘Contact’ tab, noting that his art studio is at the same address where he used to live with my sister.
I can still picture so clearly the one-bedroom place above the chicken shop that Margo moved in to, full of hope and optimism as her belly swelled. It was strange to see her frame take on added weight as the baby grew – strange to see her happy. She’d been doing so well and her weight had been steadily creeping upwards. After years of recovery centres, counselling and relapses, I was finally feeling hopeful. Maybe now – maybe after all this time – I could start to worry less and relax a bit. Maybe now the lingering guilt that I’d started this whole thing by encouraging her to run would fade. Maybe I could start to form a life, too.
And then she told me she was pregnant.
‘Are you sure you’re ready for a baby?’ I asked her, feeling terrible as the smile faded from her face, but knowing that no one else would ask the question. Mum and Dad had stepped back from managing her illness years ago after endless conflicts over sticking to treatment plans. Margo was over eighteen by then, and our parents had become increasingly frustrated by her lackadaisical attitude towards recovery. They’d had a huge bust-up one night after she’d skipped yet another counselling session – they told her to commit to a programme or to move out. She’d chosen to leave, turning up at my door with a rucksack slung over one shoulder.
My heart had sunk as I’d beckoned her in. I’d never seen her look so frail, shoulders hunched as if she was staggering under the weight of her bag. Her hair was limp and lifeless – her eyes sunken into her head. In an instant, every tiny joy I’d managed to accumulate in the past couple of years since leaving home vanished, like they’d never existed in the first place. Illness had found me – had invaded my home yet again.
But that hadn’t mattered, because this was my sister standing in front of me and needing my help. I was her big brother, the one who should have been able to make everything okay.
‘What happened?’ I’d asked, sliding the rucksack from her shoulder and guiding her into a chair. Her shoulder blade was sharp beneath my hand, like a rudder for a captain to steer.
She sank down, pulling her cardigan even closer around her. ‘Mum and Dad have had enough, I guess,’ she’d said, her face contorting with anger. ‘Can you believe they told me to get out?’
I’d raised my eyebrows. Could they have asked her to leave? I hadn’t talked to my parents about Margo’s treatment since moving out – not the all-consuming, hours-long discussions we used to have, anyway. I’d heard a few things from Margo here and there and I was always keen to help if I could
, but Dad assured me he had things perfectly under control. It was his default position, although almost every visit home proved the opposite: my parents constantly arguing over the best way to get Margo to eat; my sister locked away in her room; the house falling down around us as repairs were neglected to pay for any and every possible solution to my sister’s illness. I’d told myself things would get better when I left – that Mum and Dad could then focus solely on Margo – but if anything, matters seemed to get worse.
I’d wanted to believe my father, though. I’d wanted to believe he could help her, that Margo would be well again. And – I swallow, guilt sweeping through me – I’d wanted to live a life with illness no longer dragging me down.
But now . . .
‘I’m better off without them, anyway,’ Margo had said, her face tightening. I winced as the skin stretched across her bones. ‘They don’t know the first thing about helping me. Not like you.’
I’d nodded, thinking that maybe she was right. Maybe I could help her in a way my parents couldn’t. After all, when I’d lived at home, I’d usually been the one to convince her to eat in the end. Maybe she’d be better off with me.
‘Can I stay here?’ she’d asked. ‘Just for a bit?’
‘Of course.’ The answer had been automatic. Just a few months, I’d thought, and then she’d be well again. I focused all my energy on her, rushing home from work to make sure she’d eaten something during the day and spending hours each night coaxing her to eat another bite. I knew every website on her illness inside out – visited every counsellor within a mile radius of our flat, only for Margo to proclaim them ‘useless’. She’d have a good couple of months and I’d be elated, certain that this was the moment she’d conquer anorexia, but then she’d stop eating again. Frustration and despair latched on to me wherever I went, constant reminders that I was useless.
Months turned into years, and Margo and her illness became my world. Sometimes, when the weeks spun by on a carousel of worry and fear, I’d encourage my sister to reach out to our parents once again . . . hoping – praying – that they’d agree to step in. My sister would have none of it, though, bitterly saying that they only wanted her if she was well. And my father held firm against my pleas for help, too, telling me in our final conversation that nothing else had worked and that by giving her a safe place to crash, I was only preventing her recovery.
‘What am I supposed to do?’ I’d asked, shaking with rage. ‘Kick her out on the street?’ I’d always got on with my father – always admired his confident authority, how people would naturally follow his instructions. Everyone but Margo, that is. But at that moment, I couldn’t have hated him more. He must have known Margo would go to me – that she’d seek my support. He must have realised I’d take her in. Is that how he could chuck her out so easily, because he knew I was there to shoulder the burden? He understood how difficult things were with Margo. How could he just leave us alone like that?
Time ticked on. My parents got divorced – I’m surprised my mother even had the strength, since Margo’s illness had shrunk her, too. My father remarried, and neither Margo nor I went to the wedding, both too angry and bitter to wish him well. Margo was my family now – anorexia the place we lived in.
Until she met Ben and started building her own life.
‘I’m lucky I was even able to get pregnant, given how I’ve treated my body,’ Margo responded, with the defiant look I knew so well. ‘Okay, so I’m young and it wasn’t planned, but what is in life? Look at the past few years.’ She made a face. ‘Ben’s happy. I’m happy. And I’m feeling better than I have in ages.’ She put an arm around me, drawing me close, and I had to admit she did feel much more solid – much more alive – than the bird-like woman I’d grown used to and was scared would snap in two. ‘I’m ready for this – I really am. And God, you must be ready to get rid of me by now, too! When’s the last time you had a shag?’ She pulled away and smiled, almost glowing with joy. Despite my misgivings, I couldn’t help smiling back. ‘You’re going to be an uncle! Uncle Mark. It has such a nice ring to it. And I know that you’re going to be the best uncle ever, watching over this child and making sure nothing bad happens to them. Just like you have with me.’
Pain floods into me now and I press my hands against my eyes, desperately trying not to let it overwhelm me. Because I wasn’t the best brother ever, and I wasn’t the best uncle – not by far. I let down my sister. I let down my niece. I couldn’t be a worse uncle if I tried.
Tomorrow, when I can walk further than the shower, I’ll head to east London. I’ll start my journey into the past, and I’ll try to reclaim a bit of the faith my sister once had in me . . . the faith that she lost in the end.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Anna
I practically run from the Tube back to Sophie’s flat after visiting Mark’s father, itching to hit the spreadsheets and track down my husband. Energy and hope burst inside me as I recall Richard saying there’s a very good chance Mark will be all right. And with Richard on the case, hopefully it won’t be too long until we find him.
I fit the key in the lock and push my way inside, standing in the kitchen as voices drift from upstairs. Angry voices: my sister and Asher are arguing about something I can’t make out. Whatever it is, it certainly sounds heated. Asher doesn’t even see me as he rushes down the stairs, slamming the door behind him.
‘Soph?’ I call, wanting to let her know I’m here.
She comes downstairs a few seconds later, shaking her head. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Well, I couldn’t hear what you were saying, but . . . Is everything okay?’ Sophie and Asher always argue – or ‘discuss’, as Asher puts it – but this seemed like more than that.
‘It’s fine. He’ll be away on business for a few days, so at least we won’t have to talk.’ Sophie rolls her eyes and I bite my lip. He’s going to be away for a few days and that’s how he left? What on earth is going on with them? Sophie and Asher have never been the world’s most together couple – they’re two very different people – but I thought it worked for them. Sophie’s practical and organised, running the family like a well-oiled machine. It’s a good thing she does, because despite his success in the business world, Asher’s a little scatty, as if his mind is moving a mile a minute.
They seem to function in two different spheres, and although I wouldn’t want that kind of relationship, I always thought Sophie was at the very least content with her marriage. Now, though, I’m beginning to wonder.
‘So how did today go? Was Mark’s dad able to help?’ She settles into a chair at the table.
‘No. Well, a bit. He’s a doctor, and he’s going to try to use his contacts to find out if Mark’s at a London cancer centre.’ I pause, debating again whether I should tell Sophie about Mark’s sister. There’s no reason not to now – any doubt about why Mark left is behind me, and I don’t want to hide things from her.
I take a deep breath and relay what Richard told me. Sophie’s silent until I come to the end.
‘Wow,’ she says, sitting back and shaking her head. ‘And Mark never told you any of this?’
‘No. Nothing.’ I sigh. ‘There were times he went quiet, but I never thought . . .’
‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you?’ She reaches out to touch my hand. ‘God. You know, I used to think our family was the only one with something horrible in our past . . . Dad leaving and all. But as I got older, I realised we’re not. Everyone has something, I think. Something they can either put behind them or that affects how they are today.’ She gets up to flick on the kettle, then settles back into her chair. ‘It looks like Mark tried to put it behind him . . . until this cancer thing reminded him of all that. I guess it makes sense now why he left, although of course he should have talked to you.’ She looks closely at me. ‘How are you feeling about all of this?’
‘I wish he’d told me about Margo and the cancer,’ I say. ‘But Soph, I love him. I love him, no matter what.’ I meet her e
yes, realising that despite all the uncertainty and fear of the last couple of weeks, that much is true. I might have been jealous and angry that Mark hid Margo from me, but I didn’t love him any less. ‘We need to find him.’
‘We will,’ she says, and her confidence buoys me up even more. ‘Listen, I’ve almost finished all the numbers on our list—’
‘But there were loads left to call!’ I interrupt, my eyebrows rising. She must have spent hours on the phone.
‘Yeah, but that’s okay,’ she says quickly. ‘Work is a little slow and I’ve got time on my hands. I’m going to broaden our scope and add more hotels, looking beyond this area. Down into south London, maybe, and beyond.’
‘That’d be fantastic,’ I say, thanking my lucky stars that I have such a supportive sister. ‘I’ll just grab my laptop from my room and be right down to help.’
I head up the stairs, passing by Asher and Sophie’s bedroom. Their heated words echo in my ears, and Sophie’s pinched expression floats into my mind. Every marriage has its fault lines – I’m learning that much. But Mark and me . . . well, this is our chance to start over. And I’m not going to give up on that, no matter what lies ahead.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mark
When I open my eyes the next morning I actually feel okay – I can move without feeling like the floor is a rolling ocean keen to knock me off my feet. I take a quick shower, get dressed, then pull on my trainers, a stark contrast to the shiny black shoes I wore to the bank each morning.
I head down the creaky stairs, a cloud of dust rising from the carpet with every step. The scent of instant coffee from the dingy breakfast room turns my stomach and I hurry away from it. I need to eat, but the thought of rubbery over-boiled eggs and limp toast sends a wave of nausea through me. I should be staying in – giving my body a chance to recover from the blast of drugs – but I can’t, of course. I don’t know how much time I have, and I need to find out what I can about my niece while I’m still able to move.
