by Sandie Jones
The lid has popped off the jar and the hairy slug-like insect is tantalizingly close to poking its head out. I reach down and under the seat, frantically feeling around for the lid.
‘But why not?’ she goes on.
I blindly touch upon a sharp object and instinctively pull my hand away, still no closer to locating the lid. I go in again, as if I’m doing a bush tucker trial, not knowing what’s under there or where the sharp object is. I’m reminded of my Aunty Val, who’d have a panic attack every time she had to pop a letter in the postbox. She couldn’t bear to have her hand there, just in case something came out and dragged her in. It got so bad that she’d pay me twenty pence to post her letters for her. In my infinite innocence I’d boldly stride up to the red pillar box, stand on tiptoes and peer into the slot, asking if anyone was in there. What happens to us between then and now, I wonder, as I gingerly poke my hand under the seat again. I come at the object from a different angle and am able to pinch it and pull it up to the light. I can’t make it out at first and hold it aloft to the windscreen. I blink a couple of times, as if to clear my vision, but there’s no mistaking the crystal pear drop earring that’s dangling there.
‘Mummy,’ shrieks Olivia, ‘it’s crawling out.’
‘Oh my God. Livvy, find the lid.’
‘Why can’t I sit in the front?’
‘Because you’re not allowed.’
‘But Daddy lets me.’
‘Livvy, find the lid.’
‘What will happen if it crawls out?’
‘Get in the back seat.’
‘Will Daddy get into trouble?’
I look at the earring again. Oh yes, I think to myself.
‘For letting me sit in the front.’
‘The caterpillar’s getting out.’
‘Find the lid, Mummy.’
‘Yes, because it’s against the law for someone so little to sit in the front.’
‘I can see it. The lid’s back here.’
I want to go on like this. I want to continue our diatribe forever because the longer it goes on, the longer the earring has to change itself into one of mine. I so want it to be mine.
7
Sophia is already home when we get back, and once I’ve set Olivia up with her homework, I climb the stairs to my elder daughter’s room. I sit on her bed and watch as she brushes her long dark hair through. God, she looks like Tom. Every now and then, I catch her at a certain angle, or see her pulling the very same expression as him. She doesn’t know she’s doing it of course, and if I asked her to do it again she wouldn’t be able to, but just in those fleeting moments, I can see him so clearly. And I don’t want to lose him. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut to try and hold on to him.
It’s what I used to do in the months after Tom had gone; shamefully willing Sophia to metamorphize into him. My mind had been tricked into thinking that if I could just get Tom back, I’d happily sacrifice everyone and everything else. It was an insane thought, but that’s what happens when you are momentarily struck with insanity. How else could you explain that I honestly believed that losing my daughter would somehow be easier to deal with than losing my husband? Maybe God heard me and decided to put my deluded theory to the test, because a little while later I did lose her.
Somewhere between a seemingly normal Wednesday afternoon and a dreary Thursday morning, the world that I’d kept tentatively spinning on one finger came crashing down. Looking back, the warning signs were all there; I’d not been able to sleep, preferring to immerse myself in the never-ending hell of being awake. I was unable to do even the most mundane task – I once confused a banana for a cucumber when I made tuna sandwiches for Sophia’s packed lunch. My mother has never forgiven herself for not seeing what was hiding in plain sight, but how could she, when I couldn’t even see it myself?
The switch that short-circuited my system came in the form of a badly made cappuccino in a coffee shop. Not that there was anything necessarily wrong with it, it just had chocolate sprinkles on, which I thought I’d expressly said I didn’t want. An easy enough mistake to make you might think, but for me it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
As the unfortunate barista handed it to me, I felt something inside me go horribly wrong, as if the blood was rushing out of my body. All I wanted was a cappuccino with no chocolate sprinkles, but even that seemed an insurmountable task. Was I not worthy of even a coffee? Did the powers-that-be hate me so much that I couldn’t even get the drink I wanted?
I felt as if I was drowning, unable to keep my head above the water, whilst everyone around me was pretending not to see the overwhelming panic that had paralysed me. The walls caved in, and the floor rose to meet the ceiling, leaving me trapped in a windowless room with just my poisonous thoughts to taunt me. Why don’t you just die? I said to myself. What’s the point of living? Nobody would miss you. You’re not even capable of ordering a coffee . . .
After whatever was happening happened, I found myself sat under the counter, drenched in coffee, tightly hugging my knees to my chest to stop my body from shaking. I vaguely remember flashing blue lights, though whether it was the police or ambulance service I can’t recall. I clearly needed both.
Seeing Mum at the hospital, her face etched with pain, still didn’t convince me that I had a life worth living. ‘Don’t worry about Sophia,’ she said as she held my hand, bringing it to her lips and kissing it. ‘She’s home with me.’ I hadn’t even given her a second’s thought; my brain was empty, barren of emotions.
I stayed in the psychiatric unit for eight weeks and it was only on day twenty-one that I asked if Sophia could be brought in to see me. ‘Let’s see how you are tomorrow,’ said the doctor, smiling gently, which I translated into, Not until we’re absolutely sure you won’t scare her.
Three days later my good behaviour was rewarded with a visit. My nervous-looking mum held Sophia’s hand as she walked towards me, her face a complicated mixture of fear and adoration.
As soon as I smiled, she smiled, and she ran to me with her arms open wide. A flood of love rushed through me as I hugged her, my ravaged thoughts wondering how I could have risked losing her. Yet at the same time, I asked myself how I could possibly look after her ever again. I didn’t feel responsible enough to keep myself out of harm’s way, let alone her.
But each day I grew stronger, and when I eventually returned home, I started to think about how much Sophia needed me, rather than how much better off she’d be without me. I certainly knew I needed her, but I wasn’t brave enough to do it on my own, so Mum moved in with us – a constant yet necessary presence.
Under her watchful eye, I learnt how to be a mother all over again, which was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. Every step felt like a leap into the unknown, but slowly we made it through to the other side.
Looking at Sophia now, all these years later, I shudder to think how I almost lost her. ‘How did your final exam go?’ I ask tearfully.
She gives me the briefest of looks – just to double-check I’m okay – before shrugging her shoulders. She’s used to seeing me cry. ‘Okay I guess.’
‘Can you offer anything more?’ I ask. ‘Do you think you did all right? What questions came up?’
Her eyes are sad as she looks at me and I move closer to her, resting my hand on her knee.
‘What’s up?’ I ask. ‘You’re free now. No more exams for another year.’ I look at her excitedly. ‘That must feel great, eh? You’ve got your freedom back.’
She shifts and rolls off the other side of the bed. ‘I guess.’
‘Sophia, what’s going on with you?’ I ask gently. ‘You’ve not been yourself recently.’
‘I’m surprised you’d notice,’ she says.
My natural instinct is to recoil, but I know she doesn’t mean to sound as scathing as she sometimes does. God knows, there’s been many a time when her words have hurt me more; her sense of abandonment knowing no bounds, as first her father and then her mother left her. I
t’s no wonder that she keeps checking I’m still here, both literally and figuratively.
‘Hey, what’s going on?’ I stand up, walk around to her and pull her to me. She does little to resist. ‘I always notice,’ I say, breathing her hair in. ‘Have these exams been getting you down?’
She nods mutely.
‘But they’re over now, no more pressure.’
‘But what if I don’t pass them?’ she says, her voice cracking. ‘What will happen then?’
‘You’re a clever girl. You’ll be fine.’
‘But what if I’m not?’ A sob catches in her throat.
Her weight falls into me as if she’s carrying the world on her shoulders. ‘Stop worrying,’ I say. ‘Worst case scenario, you fail them all.’
‘But then I won’t get into sixth form,’ she cries.
‘If that happens, we’ll work something out,’ I say reassuringly. ‘Now stop worrying. School’s out for the summer, so go and enjoy yourself.’
She shrugs me off and falls onto her bed, picking her phone up.
‘I’ve got some good news,’ I say, as I ferret in my jeans pocket. ‘Ta-dah. Bet you thought you’d lost this.’ I hold up the earring.
She peers over the lifeline in her hands. ‘That’s not mine,’ she says, and the hope that I’d been holding onto, willing myself to believe, is smashed into a thousand tiny pieces.
‘It’s not? Are you sure?’
‘Definitely. Why? Where did you find it?’
I don’t know whether I should tell her. Is her brain still as innocent as Olivia’s? Or has it been violated by the evil on the internet and the trolls on social media? I’d hate for her to put two and two together and come up with five.
I chance it. ‘It must be yours, it was in Nathan’s car.’
I laugh lightly, conscious not to convey my suspicions to her. Even in the midst of her tempestuous teens, Nathan is still her hero and it would break her heart, just after it broke mine, if he was fooling around with someone else.
She stops tapping on her phone and looks up at me with a furrowed brow. ‘In Nathan’s car?’
I can see her brain whirring. Her expression tells me that she’s come up with the wrong answer to the equation and I immediately regret telling her.
‘Well, it must be yours then,’ she says.
‘Maybe it’s one of your friends’?’ I ask. ‘Could it be Hannah’s?’
A look of recognition crosses her features. ‘Ah, yes, that must be it.’ I don’t know if she’s trying to convince herself or me.
‘Might Nathan have taken her home? Given her a lift?’
She nods. ‘I think he dropped her back after Megan’s party.’ It feels as if she’s clutching at the same straws that I am. ‘And didn’t he take Lizzy home from here the other night?’ she adds.
‘No worries,’ I say, far too casually. ‘Ask them when you next see them.’
What I really want to say is, Can you ring them both, right now, so we can put an end to this and I can sleep soundly tonight?
As expected, I lie awake, waiting for Nathan to come home from his weekly game of golf, which is invariably followed by an even longer drink in the bar. I’ve gone through every possibility in my mind and a headache is banging at the sides of my skull. The way I see it, there are only two feasible options. Well, only two options I’d be happy with. Either the earring belongs to one of Sophia’s friends, or it was dropped by a member of staff at the valet parking when Nathan left his car at the airport. It’s a tad far-fetched, but it’s possible.
I watch the clock on my bedside table change to 22.46 and tut in frustration before turning over, hoping that not being able to see the ticking of time will aid sleep. I force myself to think of something else and focus on the team meeting earlier in the day. It had gone well, from what I could tell. They all seemed fully committed to Japan, should we get the job, and were genuinely excited about the opportunities it might bring.
My mind goes to Lottie, and how she had reacted to the news that she’d be going to Japan. Nathan had embraced her awkwardly, as if she were a friend’s teenage daughter. A man on guard, worried about what is deemed appropriate and what’s not. Up until now, that’s how I’ve viewed Lottie; a young friend of the family, an eager-to-please apprentice whom I’ve enjoyed mentoring. But now, as I lie here, picturing her body pressed up against Nathan’s, I’m reminded that she is a twenty-two-year-old woman with the type of frame I’ve always envied; petite and narrow across the shoulders, her blouse seams sitting perfectly on her lean torso, with no real distinction between her waist and hips. A neat little package that makes me feel like a cumbersome giant.
Stop, I remonstrate with myself. I think the world of Lottie, and anyway, that’s just not my style. But then I remember the look she gave Nathan, the look he gave her – as if they shared a secret.
I scream into my pillow in exasperation. How has my brain turned something I know to be totally innocent into a guilt-riddled love pact, just because I’ve found an earring in my husband’s car? This is ridiculous – what’s the point in lying here in the dark, with every scenario tearing around my brain, growing more and more exaggerated with every passing minute?
I turn on the bedside lamp and feel for the earring in my drawer, bringing it up to the light to examine it even more closely than I already have. Who would wear something like this? It isn’t real, I’m sure of that, so it must have been worn as dress jewellery. A little glimpse of bling to brighten up a dull outfit, perhaps? Or the pièce de résistance with a simple evening gown, elegant and understated? I picture two very different women, from either end of the social spectrum. This isn’t helping. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and go to pick up my dressing gown from the chair beside me. Perhaps a cup of tea is what’s needed.
I find myself wondering, as I wait for the kettle to boil, if there is a tablet that can temporarily rid the brain of its thoughts. Not the cherished memories or excited optimism for the future, but the toxic type, the ones that poison our minds and turn us into temperamental, untrusting versions of ourselves. But then I remember I’m already taking that very medicine – the two tiny pills that I pop every night, just before bed, are designed to take the sharp edges off my thoughts and feelings, protect me from the darkness. So why aren’t they working now?
I used to rely on them to get me through the day, so that I could wake up every morning without that weight on my chest, pinning me down on the bed. Over the years, what felt like a boulder had gradually been replaced by a rock, and the rock eventually felt more like a stone. It had been a great cause for celebration when I declared myself free of medical intervention eighteen months ago.
It had been liberating to be free of the blurry haze I’d been living in, after years of feeling lethargic with a brain full of cotton wool. Because that’s what it was like on antidepressants; I may not have felt the lows, but my nerve endings were so dulled that I didn’t experience the highs either – I’d just existed in the middle of a long road, with no colour either side, just grey all around.
‘I remember a time when you couldn’t have done this,’ Nathan had whispered to me at a party a few weeks back. ‘I can’t tell you how proud I am of you – of how far you’ve come.’
Which is probably why I haven’t yet had the heart to tell him that I’m back on the tablets. I don’t think I could bear the look of disappointment in his eyes. I’m only on a minute dosage – they may as well be placebos. But I need that little lift, a crutch to lean on. It’s coming up to ten years that Tom’s been gone and what with Japan and Sophia’s exams, everything feels like it’s getting on top of me again.
I sit in bed with a cup of tea, made too milky, in the hope that it will kickstart my snooze button. My laptop is perched on my lap, forever ready to hijack my thoughts and make me superficially alert. The contradiction is not lost on me. But still, I can’t stop myself. I stare at the blank screen. I don’t even know where to start, and wonder if there’s an online ma
nual on how to find out if your husband is cheating. I laugh hollowly to myself – I bet there is. My fingers linger over the keys. How do I know if my husband is having an affair? I feel stupid even typing it in and I shield my eyes from the screen, as if doing so will mean that I’m not really interested in the answer.
This is what other wives do. Suspicious wives, who have every reason not to trust their husbands. I don’t want to be like them. I know Nathan and I know that our marriage is strong, immune from the problems that blight couples weaker than us.
I open one eye to see a quiz with the same heading as my search, run by a national newspaper. I shamefully read the first question, if only for a laugh, I tell myself.
Does your husband go to the gym:
a) Every day
b) Every other day
c) Once a week
d) Never
C, I say to myself. If I answer in my head, I’m not really doing it.
Does your husband want to have sex:
a) Every day
b) Four times a week
c) Once a week
d) Hardly ever
I feel like my teenage self, who truly believed that my love life could be accurately predicted by one of these preposterous quizzes, which was no doubt devised by an office assistant not much older than myself. I can’t quite believe that adults are still relying on them. Despite myself, I casually cast an eye over the Mostly Cs category and feel mildly satisfied to be told that my marriage is healthy, and my husband is definitely not having an affair.
I’m about to close my laptop when I see another page, a forum for women who believe they’re being wronged.
I can’t blame him. I was always too tired for sex, one says.
I’d let myself go and now he’s with a woman who looks like I did ten years ago. I should have made more of an effort, says another.
I’m incredulous that of the hundreds of posts from women who think their husbands are having affairs, barely any are blaming him. I read a message from a woman named Sylvia who, like me, has found an errant piece of jewellery that isn’t hers. I feel a sense of camaraderie with her as she attempts to justify how a silver chain with half a love heart hanging from it could have found its way into her husband’s suit pocket:
