by A. L. Bird
Standing in the doorway biting my nails isn’t going to help. But what will? If I hadn’t already punched the bathroom mirror in frustration what seems like weeks ago, reduced it to bloody shards, I’d do it now. Even if it meant Suze calling me a child-murderer again. Christ, that accusation hurt. Much more than the glass cutting my fist. Our perfect mirror picture future shattered just as the mist was starting to clear. But the mirror was a better target for the punch than Suze would have been. Bad enough I locked her up so roughly afterwards. Please forgive me, for whatever wrong you think I may have done.
Wait, Suze is standing up! What’s this? She’s pushing the chair to the window. I rush to help her, or restrain her, whatever seems more appropriate. But she doesn’t seem to need me. She’s standing on the chair, looking out.
‘What’s up?’ I ask her.
‘Just checking,’ she says.
I’ve no idea what she’s checking.
‘Anything I can help with?’ I ask.
She looks at me directly, for the first time since I showed her the newspapers. Well, some of the newspapers anyway. Not the one with that accusation in it.
Suze seems to be considering her answer.
‘Can you see her?’ she asks, gesturing for me to stand on the chair.
I stand on the chair and look out. There’s a little girl skipping.
‘Yes,’ I say.
Suze exhales and closes her eyes. ‘Good,’ she says. ‘Just checking.’
Then she sits down on the bed again.
Did she think she had made up the girl? That she was Cara’s ghost? I have no idea. But my answer seems to have cheered her up because she’s not holding her head any more.
Oh, but less good – she’s crying again.
I can’t take much more of this. I throw myself at her feet. ‘What can I do, Suze? Let me help.’
She nods, rubbing away tears. ‘OK. OK. I thought I could do it all in here.’ She taps her head. ‘But I’m going to need external stimuli. Her clothes. Her toys. Her books. Her flute. Photos, little scraps of papers, mementos. Everything. Anything.’
I don’t say anything. How can I? She continues, maybe thinking she needs to explain.
‘I made up a new foreground. A teenage foreground. All her real life faded into the background. I need to bring it out again. Wherever you’ve packaged it up, can you get it for me?’
She looks me in the eyes.
I avert my gaze.
‘The thing is, Suze …’
‘What? What now?’
How can I admit this? How can I hurt her more? How do I tell her I gave every last thing her daughter had to Craig sodding Belvoir in exchange for his silence? That he took away all of Cara’s belongings in that car of his, a long with the cash, the cash that would have been Cara’s inheritance, our old-age security, in exchange for letting me keep my Suze secret. In exchange for him staying away from her – he knows the pain he would cause, for her, and for me. For not trying to expose me. He didn’t need Cara’s things. He didn’t care about Cara. He just wanted to screw me over. Hurt me. Because that’s what he does to people.
I can’t do it. I can’t tell her what Craig has taken. It will destroy her. And she’ll hate me. She’ll hate me for ever. So I’m going to have to call Craig. Explain. Beg.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘If that’s what you need.’
She nods then goes back into herself.
I slip out into the corridor and take out my mobile. I press Craig’s number. Let’s hope to God he’ll agree. And hold his tongue. About Suze. And about the other thing.
Chapter 59
Suze
He’s given me access to my clothes again. Which is good of him. He suggested I might want to come back into ‘our’ bedroom and look in the wardrobe. But I don’t. It’s too full. And Cara’s room is too empty. My new room, the beige room, the spare room, is just right for now. I still can’t believe I lived – was trapped – in this room not knowing it was a room in my house; or that it is in fact a room that I furnished. Did I suggest the dreaded potpourri? That terribly dated armchair? I’d ask Paul if there wasn’t already so much else to ask him.
He tells me he’s getting Cara’s things from where they’re stored. Says it was too painful for him to keep them in the house. A courier is going to bring them round in a bit. I’m ready, dressed for the occasion. A full skirt, in purple, because Paul says that’s the colour she liked best by the end. And I’m wearing a yellow sleeveless shirt decorated with pink cupcakes. I look presentable. As if I’m meeting Cara herself rather than …
I still can’t bear it.
Perhaps if I had another child, it would be better. A ‘spare’ for times like this. One of my clients told me once that was why her belly was protruding for a second time.
Perhaps if Belle had lived.
But there’s always just been Cara. Really. She always seemed to be enough, once I had her. She seemed – seems – to be everything.
I stare at the ground. My feet, I notice, are not what the outfit requires. Colourless. I have no shoes on, and my toenails are au naturel. If Cara was fifteen again, alive again, we could have had a girly afternoon painting each other’s toenails. Because that’s what some mothers and daughters do, right, in the teenage years? Cara wouldn’t have been the moody type to storm off to her room, or hide inside earphones at family gatherings. I know that. But even if she was, I would take that. I would take a thousand days of silence over this lifetime of it.
Close my eyes. Try to stop imagining small hands painting my toenails. Aquamarine, purple, pink. I’d let her choose. Open my eyes again. Paul is there, lurking by the open door, fiddling with his phone.
‘Any update?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘The courier’s on his way.’
‘Good.’ I nod too.
‘Cup of coffee?’ he asks me.
I shake my head. I don’t know why. Coffee would be good. Pick me up. Restore me.
‘I’ll put the kettle on anyway,’ he says.
He knows me well, then, Paul. I watch him as he leaves the doorway and heads off towards the kitchen. I should follow him. He’s being good to me. Protecting me, cushioning me. Somehow normalising what is happening to me. Many husbands would throw their hands up in horror, take me off to some institute and leave me there. Visit diligently, of course, talk at great speed about nothing, after I answer silently the question of how I am. Then delightedly resume their daily lives when free of seeing my captivity.
Not that I’m bitter, Craig.
I plant my feet more firmly on the floor. Maybe there are some slippers somewhere I can use to cover these toenails that are now haunting me. I’d put on socks, but that would be so wrong with a skirt that I’d know why I was wearing them and I’d see my naked toenails straight through them. Grief giving me X-ray vision.
When I get to the kitchen, Paul isn’t making coffee. He’s talking on his phone, his back to me.
‘Just stay across the road,’ he’s saying. He sounds angry. Then he must sense my presence because he turns round. And hangs up the phone.
‘Everything OK?’ I ask him.
‘Fine.’ He nods. ‘The courier is just being a nuisance. Says he’s going to drive off. I’d better go out and meet him. Why don’t you back to your room and I’ll bring the coffee and Cara’s things through?’
I nod and I turn in the direction of my new room. But I’ll be missing something if I go. The journey of Cara’s things back to us. It’s like an after-life voyage. I want to see the means of transit. Paul can’t shelter me from everything. So, when Paul goes to the door, I’m hidden behind a pillar that separates the kitchen from the hall. I expect to have a clear view of the doorway.
What I don’t expect is to see Craig there when Paul opens the door.
And nor, I think, does Paul. Because he immediately hisses, ‘I told you to stay across the road!’ and steps outside, putting his hand round to pull the door shut behind him.
But before he can
do so, he sees me.
Paul freezes. His face goes pale and his mouth gapes.
Craig, the ex-husband who I hate. Who Paul knows I hate. He’s the ‘courier’? Why does he have Cara’s things? I know he is Cara’s father but why would Paul give them to him? Why be so generous to Craig, so callous to us? Craig hasn’t seen Cara since she was one. When he left, because it was all too difficult. For him. Not enough to have me committed all the years before. Had to leave me alone with our baby too, just when I was beginning to rebuild myself (baby steps).
I step forward. Craig can see me too now. We stare at each other. I expect to hate him. But I don’t. I just see a man who has memories. Physically, in his hands, with boxes of Cara’s possessions. But in his mind, too. He will have memories of Cara. Ones that have escaped me and that Paul wasn’t around for.
‘Come in,’ I say.
Paul finds his voice. ‘Craig can’t stay, sweetie, he’s very busy, on his way somewhere else. He’s just dropping stuff off.’ I see Paul glare at Craig.
Craig brushes past Paul and comes into the house. He holds his hands open to me. ‘Susan,’ he says. And he hugs me. And I let him. Because even though, so far as I remember, this man has shown no interest in his daughter for the last – oh what must it be, now we’re back on real time? – seven years, she was of both of us. Somewhere within Craig is a piece of Cara.
And Belle too, of course. But Belle never existed as a person for Craig. Not really. Otherwise how could he have dealt with it all so inhumanely, in a way that I will now never forgive him for?
Yet we still have Cara, in this moment, Craig and I.
Paul clears his throat. He wants to end the hug. Claim me back. Annoying. Selfish. Let me just have this.
But the moment has passed. Whatever Cara-ness was flowing from Craig to me is lost. We move apart.
‘You’ve got Cara’s things?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘Paul was generous enough to give them to me.’ Is that a smirk in Paul’s direction?
‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘You hadn’t seen Cara since you walked out on us, you bastard. Complete, complete bastard.’ My voice rises, wobbles. I take a breath. Focus. This is about Cara. ‘Why did Paul give you her stuff?’
There’s a glance between Paul and Craig. Paul hasn’t regained much of his colour from the shock of seeing me where I wasn’t supposed to be a few moments earlier.
I turn back to Craig. There’s a lazy smile crossing his face.
‘Do you want to tell her or shall I?’ Craig asks Paul.
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ Paul says. ‘Craig just turned up here asking for Cara’s things. His claim seemed better than mine. And you were—well, you know how you were. I wasn’t thinking clearly.’ He’s gone straight from pale to red.
‘She deserves an explanation, Paul,’ says Craig.
Paul is clenching and unclenching his jaw.
What’s going on here? More than just a natural rivalry between two husbands?
Whatever it is, I can’t be bothered with it just now. I’ll decide what I need to know. All I care about is Cara. Park this testosterone fest.
‘Get Cara’s things,’ I instruct Craig. ‘Then come in and sit down.’
With a shrug and a nod of deference, Craig lopes out of the door.
‘I don’t think this is a good idea, Suze,’ Paul whispers to me while Craig is – maybe – out of earshot. I ignore him and settle down on the sofa, fanning out my skirt.
Craig returns with a stack of box-files and carrier bags.
Cara’s world!
He puts them down on the coffee table and sits down next to me.
‘Thanks, Craig. I’ve got this now,’ says Paul. He is hovering behind the sofa.
Craig and I turn round.
‘The “this” you’re talking about is mine and Susan’s daughter, Paul,’ Craig admonishes him. ‘I’d say you should let us get on with this.’
‘I think you forfeited the right to have anything to do with Cara a long time ago,’ Paul somehow manages to say, out of that tight jaw. He has a point. But Craig doesn’t seem to think so because he’s raising his eyebrows. He raises his chin slightly, looks defiantly at Paul.
‘By comparison, Paul, I’d say—’
‘Oh for goodness sake,’ I cut in. ‘Paul, we need to go through this stuff and I’d like Craig to be here. And, Craig, not seeing your daughter for the last seven years – abandoning her, and me – doesn’t count as great parenting. Let’s get on, shall we?’
Craig raises his hands and makes a ‘backing off’ gesture. But his eyes are intense. ‘You heard what the lady said, Paul. Let’s just get on.’
Paul glares at him and doesn’t say anything.
Craig opens up the first box. I think I see sequins. I get a little thrill. Sequins. I remember sequins.
‘Look, these are from her designs, that skirt she made!’
Blank look from Craig. And a blank look from Paul.
‘She made clothes, didn’t she?’
Paul wipes a hand across his face. ‘She did crafts, I guess you could maybe call that design …’ He trails off.
Design. Crafts. I don’t know which is real. But these sequins are real. Cara used to collect them, either way. Kept trying to make me sprinkle them on cakes, even though they’re not edible.
I pull out a small toy sheep from one of the boxes. ‘Remember this?’ I ask Craig.
He wrinkles his brow. No he doesn’t.
‘We bought it for Belle,’ I remind him. ‘But we gave it to Cara.’
If hearing the name shocks him, he doesn’t show it. ‘Of course,’ he says. That’s it. He cares as much now about Belle as he did then. Bastard.
He hands me the next item from the box. It’s a recorder, one of those brown things. Ugly. ‘Where’s her flute?’ I ask.
There are tears in Paul’s eyes.
Oh. I get it. Cara, the virtuoso recorder player. Hadn’t yet graduated to a flute. Fine. Another element of ‘Cara’ I have to bury. It’s OK. I can take it. I have this recorder. Perhaps it’s not so ugly.
‘She had that with her when I saw her,’ Craig says.
I hear a sharp intake of breath from Paul.
I don’t know why.
But then it dawns on me.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. When did you see Cara?’
Because so far as I know, the last time he saw Cara, she was one year old.
Chapter 60
Suze
Craig places the lid over the box again and turns to me. Slowly. Casually.
‘Craig,’ Paul says. His voice is low, tense.
‘Craig?’ I ask. Like so much else, I just don’t understand.
‘I’ve been a better father than you think, Susan.’
‘Craig,’ Paul says again. ‘We had a deal.’ His voice is so low and quiet, perhaps he thinks I can’t hear him talking about deals concerning my daughter.
‘I think Susan should know,’ Craig says. His tone is casual, light. ‘I was seeing Cara once a week.’
I stare at him. ‘What? Rubbish!’
He’s messing with me now. Right? He must be. There’s no way I would have forgotten that. Or let him see Cara without supervision. You can’t just turn up after years of absence and expect unfettered access to a mother’s daughter.
‘Rubbish, Craig. I might be piecing things together, but I know that’s not true.’
Craig turns to Paul. ‘Paul, you going to verify that for our Susan? Can’t have her thinking I’m a liar now.’
Paul doesn’t say anything at first, just pushes out his lower jaw and gnaws on his lip like he’s trying to resist the urge to spit at Craig. Then untightening his jaw just enough so he can speak, says, ‘It’s true.’
‘What?’ I’m standing now. Craig was seeing Cara? With Paul’s knowledge? ‘Why didn’t you tell me? How did this happen?’
Craig smirks. ‘Paul does like his little secrets, doesn’t he?’
Paul turns
to me. ‘I’m sorry. It was just twice, a fortnight before she died. He appealed to my better nature. I knew you’d be upset, but … he found me at the client I was working at, because like a smug idiot I’d posted it on LinkedIn. And he was so persistent, and he made such a good case, about not keeping Cara from her father. Threatened to come and find you if I didn’t let him. I’m sorry. I know it was wrong and I’m sorry.’
I can’t believe it. How could Paul break my trust like that? OK, so this is a guy who can imprison his own wife. But that was for good motives, wasn’t it? What about this? This was a betrayal. This was Paul looking at Craig and me and Cara and deciding to make himself moral arbiter. Taking a view on who was right and who was wrong – and found me wanting. After everything he knew about Craig. And how hard I’d tried to keep him out of our lives, out of Cara’s life, after he left – moving house, cutting all communication, hoping he would never decide to come looking.
I shake my head. I can’t process this now. I just want to see Cara’s things. I reach out towards the box with the sequins. I have it in my hands when Craig speaks again. He leans forward conspiratorially.
‘Do you know what Paul likes as much as a good secret, Susan? He likes a good drink.’
‘Shut up, Belvoir!’ Paul shouts. ‘Shut up or I swear I’ll kill you!’
‘Sometimes he likes a good drink, or maybe two, before driving. Before driving your daughter.’
Craig’s face vanishes as Paul moves in with a punch. I drop the box-file and sequins fall to the floor, scattering the carpet with reds and greens and blues.
And inside me there is an explosion. An explosion of hate. Because I remember now. I remember the way Paul tasted when I kissed him after I arrived at the hospital. I remember he’d been drinking when he drove Cara to her death.
Chapter 61
Paul
‘I wasn’t over the limit!’ I shout before Suze can say anything else. I need to get in there quick. I can’t have this happening all over again. ‘I wasn’t over the limit. The police breathalysed me. I’d had one drink. You know this!’
