by Nikki Smith
‘I’m sorry about your wife, Edward. But that’s no comparison to what Ali did—’
He interrupts me. ‘I found them.’
‘Found who?’
‘Ali and Elizabeth, my wife. I was the one who found them. I got home from work and saw a glove lying on the drive by the entrance to our garage. I recognised it as one of a pair I’d given to Ali for a Christmas present. They had this panda design on them and she’d taken them everywhere with her. I went to pick it up and realised it was stuck under the edge of the garage door, so I opened it. It was one of those big metal ones that you slide up and over on a frame. You know?’ He barely glances in my direction, but I nod, watching his hands stroke Tilly’s back in a continuous rhythm. ‘And I nearly stepped on Ali’s head. She was lying right behind it. On the floor. Unconscious.’ His eyes focus firmly on our mantelpiece. ‘Elizabeth was in the car. The engine was off when I arrived, but she’d filled the place with fumes. Perhaps she’d turned it off at the last minute. Regretted her decision. I don’t know. They said lying down by the door saved Ali. The extra oxygen.’
I’m silent for a moment. ‘How old was she?’
‘Elizabeth? Thirty-three.’
‘And Ali?’
‘Eight. The doctors told me afterwards Elizabeth was anaemic, so the fumes affected her more than Ali. My daughter was lucky. If you can call it that. She had to carry an inhaler round for years, but other than that, physically she recovered well. So, I do understand how you feel, Jack. I understand every emotion you’ve been through. I pretended things were OK at home. Pretended I didn’t have any concerns about the way Elizabeth was behaving. I thought everyone changed once they had a child. I was furious with her for a while afterwards. For leaving us. For not talking to me about how she’d felt. But it wasn’t her fault. It was mine. I should have realised she was ill. Back then, no one admitted they had a problem. It wasn’t something you talked about. But if I was in your situation and someone offered me the chance to see her again … I’d give anything for that opportunity. And Ali would too, I know it. Tilly’s got
that chance.’
‘Why didn’t you tell Ali what happened? When she was older?’ I ask.
‘I didn’t want her to hate her mother. Or me, for not being able to stop it.’
‘You should have told me,’ I say.
‘Why?’ Edward smooths down Tilly’s damp hair. ‘Ali had never shown any indication of … I didn’t know something like that could be hereditary. I did try to say something on the phone after she hurt her hand. I thought something wasn’t right. That it wasn’t an accident.’ He looks at me. ‘It wasn’t, was it?’
I shake my head.
‘But you didn’t tell me,’ he adds.
‘It was difficult,’ I say. ‘Ali … didn’t want me to.’ I can’t tell him I hit her. The shame still crawls over my skin. He’ll never forgive me if he finds out.
‘Then perhaps you can understand why I didn’t tell you about my wife. I didn’t want you to think I was interfering when you’d just had a new baby. I kept telling myself Ali wasn’t Elizabeth. After Ali was born, I never knew what I was coming home to, Elizabeth was so up and down. I think I missed the worst of it, being out at work all day. She’d tried to hide how bad things had got for her. After you told me about Ali’s wrist, it made me wonder, and I thought if anything else happened I’d say something. But by then …’
We look at each other in silence.
‘I need a cup of coffee,’ I say. I go into the kitchen, where half-eaten plates of food are stacked up on the counter. My stomach protests at the smell. I fill the kettle with water and open the fridge. My fingers are trembling. I put the mugs on a tray and carry them back into the sitting room, slopping the contents of Edward’s over the side as I put it down in front of him. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit clumsy this morning,’ I apologise.
He hesitates. ‘You need help, Jack. Proper help.’ I don’t answer. ‘You haven’t even asked to hold her.’ He glances down at Tilly, who, exhausted by all her crying, looks like she’s drifting off to sleep. ‘Em called me,’ he says. ‘She’s worried about you. That’s the reason I came over.’
‘She hasn’t said anything to me.’
He sips his coffee and hesitates before asking, ‘Why don’t you go and see Ali?’
I stare at him. ‘Have you seen her recently?’ I ask. I’m not sure if I want to know the answer. He holds Tilly a little tighter.
‘No. I visited when she first went in, but she … she wasn’t very responsive. She just lay on her bed and stared at the wall. I get an update from her psychiatrist every week, but they said it would be better to stay away until she’s ready to see visitors. They’ve been working to reduce her medication.’ He clears his throat, checking Tilly’s still asleep.
‘I can’t face seeing her,’ I admit.
‘I understand.’ He doesn’t. ‘But perhaps you could get through to her,’ he continues. ‘She’d never have hurt Tilly if she was well. You’ve been with her twelve years, Jack, you know your wife.’
I don’t look at him. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Edward strokes Tilly’s back. He looks embarrassed. ‘I should probably have told you this before, but when she was in hospital, she said she didn’t want to see you.’
I stare at him. ‘What?’
‘When she came out of intensive care, she kept saying she didn’t want anything to do with you. That you’d hurt her.’ I freeze, my expression blank. ‘I didn’t say anything to you at the time as I knew she was talking rubbish, but she wouldn’t listen to me. You weren’t there, you didn’t see how confused she was. She didn’t even remember who Tilly was. She said she didn’t want you to contact her. Back then, I didn’t feel I was in a position to disagree. But now I think you should. I think you could help.’ He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and puts it on the coffee table. ‘They’ve got a new doctor treating her … a Dr Henderson. These are her details. If you write to her, she might let you visit.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me that Ali didn’t want to see me?’ I ask.
‘What was the point? Until now you’ve always refused to see her. You barely ever mention her. And I understand that. You have a right to be angry. I hoped after a while that Ali would come to terms with what actually happened and then you’d change your mind about visiting her. But from the updates I’ve had, it doesn’t seem as though that’s the case, so whatever they’re doing in that place isn’t working. I think you need to go and see her.’
I shake so much as I start to put down my mug, I have to hold onto it instead. I’m still deceiving him by not telling him what I did to Ali. Hitting his daughter. I dread him finding out.
He puts Tilly into her travel cot and tucks her blanket over her. ‘Why don’t you let me take her for a while,’ he says.
I shiver. ‘What?’
‘Tilly. Let me take her, so you can get back on your feet. You look exhausted. You need to take a few weeks off work, clean this place up and sort out your drinking.’
I stare at him. I’m not giving up Tilly. She’s all I have left.
‘And you should go and see Ali,’ he continues. ‘They’ve changed her name at the Unit. Alison Reid, I think they’re calling her. To avoid any publicity.’
I grit my teeth. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ I say.
‘Look at her, Jack.’ We both stare at Tilly in her travel cot. ‘I’m sure her childminder is great, but she’s not family. I’d be able to spend all day with her. Please.’
I’m about to refuse and then watch as she rolls over and screws up her nose in exactly the way Ali used to do. I need to think about what’s best for her, not for me. Edward could give her the attention that I can’t. What if Edward hadn’t woken me up? What if Tilly had got out and hurt herself? He’s right, I need to sort myself out. But I can’t lose her. It would destroy me.
Edward looks at me. ‘How about I take her for a couple of weeks. Just until you get things sorte
d out.’
My stomach turns over. ‘I can’t let you do that, Edward.’
He looks at me. ‘What d’you think Ali would say, Jack? If she was here. Would she want you looking after her in the state you’re in, or do you think she’d say she’d be better off staying with me for a while.’
I well up. ‘That’s unfair. She’s not here to make that decision.’
Edward doesn’t speak, watching Tilly as she lies on her back, her eyelashes feather-like against her cheek. The thought of not having her, not being able to hold her against me, to smell her, to lean over at night and watch her in her cot as her chest rises and falls, her eyes flickering under her lids as she dreams, is so painful I’m not sure I can bear it. I love her more than anything. And I have to do what’s best for her. I swallow.
‘Perhaps you could take her for a week or so. Just until I sort things out.’ As I hear myself say the words, I experience a falling sensation, as if I’ve just given up the one thing that’s keeping me connected to reality.
Edward smiles. ‘It’s the right decision, Jack. I can bring her over at the weekend if you want. I’m not far away. You can visit her whenever you like. It’ll just give you some space.’
I have to stop myself snapping back with an unkind remark about not needing space, about Ali having left a void in my life that’s so big I don’t think anything can ever fill it.
Before I change my mind, I put some of Tilly’s clothes, nappies and her teddy into a bag. Not too many things. I want to keep it minimal so he has to come back. I order a taxi to take them back to Edward’s house. I don’t trust myself to drive. I’m not sure if I’m still over the limit.
Tilly clings to my neck as I say goodbye and it takes all my willpower not to turn around and refuse to let her go. I put on a brave face, the one I’ve been wearing for the last nine months, and smile at her.
‘Bye, gorgeous girl. I’ll see you soon. Grandpa Edward will look after you. It’s not for long. I’ll see you at the weekend.’ I breathe in the smell of her, planting kisses on her damp forehead. ‘I love you, Tils. So much.’
I wave at the taxi until it disappears from view and go back into an empty flat I can’t bear the sight of. I don’t know who I am anymore; no longer a father or a husband. I am no one. Just a functioning body.
I hoover the glass off the living-room floor, nail a board over the window and clear up the worst of the mess before I sit down at our coffee table and pull out the photo of the two of us in Amalfi that I’d given the police ten months earlier. I study Ali’s face. Her dimples. Back then I hadn’t ever considered the possibility we might not end up together. Now I have to face the fact the woman in the photo is a stranger. We’ve fallen apart and I have no way to mend the broken pieces.
I pull off a couple of pages of cream writing paper from the pad in the drawer underneath the table, pick up a pen and begin to write.
Dear Dr Henderson,
I believe you look after my wife, Alison Reynolds. I wondered if you would be prepared to meet me to discuss her situation. I can be reached on my mobile – I’ve written the number below, but I’ve also included details of my home phone, together with my home and email address in case these are a more convenient way for you to contact me.
Yours sincerely,
Mr Jack Reynolds
I seal the letter in an envelope and copy down the address Edward has left me. I dig around in the bottom of the bowl on the hall shelf to find a stamp. Pulling out a book of six, I stick two on the front to be sure, put the letter in my pocket and head out of the flat.
I need to see my wife.
NOW
Alison
I gaze down at myself wearing the one dark blue dress I have in my wardrobe. The colour emphasises how pale my skin is, the material hanging loosely round my waist. The tiny mirror in my bathroom isn’t big enough to look at myself full-length, so I try to imagine what others will see. Sarah had agreed it was appropriate for a funeral. I didn’t think it would fit, but in the two weeks since coming off the Haloperidol, my whole frame has shrunk.
I’d known instantly something was wrong when she’d avoided answering my questions. The carpet tiles in her office had rippled like waves as my eyes had welled up. She’d struggled to find the words to break the news, fishing them out of the pool of water one by one, hiding them amongst a flood of other comforting phrases to try to lessen the horror as they landed at my feet. Her hand hadn’t left my arm as she’d sat facing me on the couch. She’d embraced me as I sat, rigid, trying to adjust to a new reality.
Sarah had focused on the practicalities of the situation, allowing me to shut everything else in a room which I crept back to when no one was looking. I’d peered round the door to glance at what I couldn’t bring myself to think about before shutting it firmly and pretending it hadn’t happened. Even with her help, it had taken a while to finalise all the arrangements as a post-mortem had been required by the coroner.
My hands shake as I put on my shoes. She’s lent me a pair of small navy heels to match the dress and done her best to prepare me, but I’m still terrified. Of so many things, but mainly of leaving the unit. It’s the first time I’ll have been further than a few hundred feet outside the building. We’ve spent time walking round the grounds in some of our therapy sessions we’ve had since I remembered what happened, but I’ve never left the safety of the perimeter. I’m going to have to blend in amongst a crowd of strangers in a crematorium; he hadn’t wanted a Church service. Sarah had tried to reassure me that everyone would be there for him, not for me. Most of them probably won’t even recognise me, but I know some will. Some will be looking for me. Some will never understand, let alone forgive, what I’ve done. Even with her standing next to me, the thought of any confrontation paralyses me to the point where I know I’ll be incapable of the simplest action of putting one foot in front of the other.
Jack’s mum had tried to call me after Sarah had broken the news. I’d refused to speak to her. I couldn’t face it. I didn’t want to hear her sympathy. To have her tell me to cherish the memories. I can’t deal with that right now.
I run my fingers over my eyebrows. At the moment they’re beginning to feel more like a thick line. Sarah says it’s an outward sign that I’m healing inwardly. I know they won’t stay like this. My habit is too ingrained to break. She said the funeral will be cathartic though. That facing the reality of the situation might help the grieving process. So far, I haven’t even cried. I’d only agreed to go to the service on the condition that she came with me. We’d decided I’d go to the crematorium and nowhere else; come in last, stand at the back and leave first.
There’s a knock at the door. It’s time. She doesn’t need to get my permission to enter as her pass lets her straight in, but she’s started giving me a small amount of independence to get me used to the idea of leaving the unit and returning to some kind of normality, eventually.
‘Ready?’ She’s dressed as immaculately as ever. ‘I brought a bag I thought you might like to take with you.’
I clutch it nervously. At least it gives me something to do with my hands.
‘Let’s go then.’ She doesn’t give me any time to hesitate so I can back out of the situation. No mention of where we’re going and what I’m going to face. I wonder if she has any sedatives hidden in her bag along with her tissues and
purse.
We pass Mrs Painter on our way out. Sarah must have told her where we’re going as she stops when she sees me, coming over to put her hand on my arm. Her fingers are bare, the paper-thin skin almost translucent. I notice she’s changed her hairstyle. Sarah told me she’s seen her meeting one of the caretakers for lunch in the canteen. She smiles at me and her eyes well with tears as she clears her throat.
‘Sometimes I’ve realised the only thing we can do is let things go,’ she says as she gives my arm a gentle squeeze. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Alison.’ I nod in reply. I’ve kept working in the library with her. I enjoy it. It gives m
e something to do between my therapy sessions.
We head past the reception area and across the car park, my feet slipping as I’m not used to walking in heels, particularly on the wet ground. Sarah shuts the passenger door behind me as I slide into the seat. It’s strange to sit in a car for the first time in over a year. I shudder, remembering the last time I was in one. My breath turns the glass window opaque and I have a sudden urge to draw something. My finger makes a squeaking sound as I write an ‘A’ and a ‘T’ in the condensation. We’re both still here.
Sarah fastens her seat belt and swivels the dial to turn the heating up. She looks across at me. ‘Just breathe slowly,’ she says.
I grip the strap on the bag as she pulls off.
‘If I go this way, we’re going to go over the bridge. I know we talked about it, but are you still OK with that? We can always go a different route if you want.’
I shake my head. ‘It’s fine.’ I’m not sure it will be, but better to get it over with. I’ve pictured it so many times in my head in the last couple of weeks, I’m curious to see whether the reality is any different. We drive down roads that I begin to recognise. Rectangular Georgian buildings, large symmetrical windows looking out over the street.
Sarah glances at me. ‘Deep breaths, Ali. Your bag won’t come undone.’
I don’t realise I’m fiddling with the clasp. I put my hand back in my lap. She hasn’t turned the radio on; I assume she’s keeping the car quiet so she can hear if I start to hyperventilate. I spot the towers as she turns towards them at the end of the road. The huge stone blocks rise up out of the landscape. I expect a surge of panic, or terror, of something. But there is nothing. I am numb.
Sarah keeps glancing across at me as she drives between the wide barriers. There’s a line of traffic, so we have to slow down; I keep my eyes glued to the brake lights of the vehicle in front. I still feel nothing. And then we’re in the middle of the bridge. The queue of cars comes to a halt, waiting for the traffic lights at the far end to change.
