Who Did You Tell?

by Lesley Kara

  If you respect me at all, please, Josh, DON’T CONTACT ME. Telling you the truth was a major step forward for me. Now I’ve got to give myself a chance to heal. Our relationship may compromise my recovery. I should never have let it happen – it goes against everything they say at AA. I KNOW you’ll understand.

  Those endless days I spent crying under my duvet, waiting for him to contact me, to tell me I was forgiven and put me out of my misery, and all the time he thought he was doing the right thing. Thought he was following my instructions. Helping me get better.

  Mum makes her cross little harrumphing noise. ‘I’ve always tried to believe that all human beings contain at least some element of goodness and truth, however bad they might appear to others. And I sympathize with her about losing her son. Of course I do. But what she did …’

  ‘She didn’t pour that first glass of wine down my throat, though, did she, Mum? There’s only one person to blame for that, and that’s me.’

  A lump forms in the back of my throat. Because accepting this means I also have to accept that I’m not responsible for what happened with Simon. I never was. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I do have a death on my conscience, though. It’s impossible to make amends now, but I’ll do whatever I can to trace that young woman’s family and make them see how sorry I am, how I’ll regret what happened for the rest of my life. If they press charges, then so be it. I need to take whatever punishment comes my way. I won’t be able to live with myself otherwise.

  Mum gathers up our empty coffee cups and puts them into the rubbish bag at the side of my bed. ‘I still don’t understand why Rosie kept her suspicions to herself for so long. If she knew Helen was a fraud, why on earth didn’t she tell you? Why did she let you leave the shop and go round there?’

  ‘I didn’t give her much of a chance. I basically pushed her out of the way and ran off.’

  Rosie came to visit me this morning. We talked for ages. I try to explain to Mum what she said.

  ‘She didn’t tell me because she didn’t know for sure. It was just a hunch. She gets these … feelings about people.’

  Mum raises an eyebrow.

  ‘She senses things from objects too. It’s something to do with picking up their energy. I know it sounds weird, but it is a thing, apparently. It’s called clairsentience. She says she doesn’t usually say anything about it because most people take the piss.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Mum says, and I can’t help smiling. Mum and I, we’re more alike than I realized.

  It was why Rosie wouldn’t let go of his juggling ball, that time in the shop, and why she kept Simon’s T-shirt, the one Helen accidentally gave away. The photocopied news report about Simon’s suicide was folded up at the bottom of the carrier bag Helen dropped off at the shop. Helen couldn’t have realized it was there.

  Right from the start, Rosie never trusted Helen. All she felt when she was anywhere near her was this terrible, hateful anger. Plus, she’s been around the block a few times. She’s worked with loads of addicts in the past and she said that something about Helen just didn’t add up. She had no proof that Helen was connected to Simon, but some instinct kept nagging away at her.

  I wriggle my toes under the bedclothes and try to loosen the top sheet. I can’t wait to get home and have a duvet again.

  ‘I couldn’t stand Rosie at first. Had her down as one of those annoying types who think God’s the answer to everything.’

  Mum shifts in her chair.

  ‘Actually, she’s nothing like that. She’s just worked out that God’s the only thing keeping her sober. She’s tried everything else, and nothing worked. She was only ever trying to save me the trouble of finding that out for myself.’

  When Rosie came to visit me in hospital she offered Simon’s T-shirt to me as a keepsake, but it’s time to let go of the past. T-shirts, juggling balls. They’re not Simon; they’re just things.

  ‘I wonder where she’s gone,’ Mum says. ‘Helen, I mean.’

  ‘Back to London, I suppose. I don’t expect she ever sold her house. That was another lie. She just took out a short-term lease on the flat when she worked out where I was.’

  Visiting time is almost over and, although part of me doesn’t want them to go, another part does. There’s something I have to do – something I should have done by now – and I have to be alone when I do it.

  Josh leans over and gives me a kiss. Not a proper one, not in front of Mum, but it’s enough to feel his lips on mine and to know that whatever happens between us now, he knows the truth.

  ‘Dad’s new girlfriend’s coming round tonight. We’re getting an Indian takeaway.’

  I smile. He’s still a bit uptight about it, I can tell, but he’ll come round, in time, and if he doesn’t, well, that’s his problem, not Richard’s. Everyone deserves a second chance at love. Even me.

  I kiss Mum goodbye and watch the two of them leave. Yesterday, Josh asked me what was going to happen when summer’s over. Would I go back to London with him?

  I couldn’t answer him at first. Because being with Josh is what I want more than anything in the world. But then Mum wants me to stay here, with her. And according to Richard, Charlie’s offered me a part-time job in his shop. Everyone’s been so kind. Even that bossy old woman with the walking stick turned out to be on my side. She remembered me saying I was a friend of the Carter family, that time at the beach huts. If she hadn’t, she might not have rushed over to Charlie’s flat and asked him to ring Richard. And if Charlie hadn’t rung Richard, Josh wouldn’t have known I was in trouble. He wouldn’t have driven like a madman to the beach. He knew I’d be there. He just knew.

  That’s the thing about living in a small town like Flinstead. Everyone knows everyone else and, even if that gets a bit tiresome sometimes, a bit claustrophobic, you’re never completely on your own. People look out for each other. People care. Well, maybe not everyone, but lots of people. Lots of people care.

  Like Rosie. She’s going to help me with my recovery. She’s moved out of the Oxfam shop at last and into the spare bedroom of one of Richard’s many friends, a nice old bloke with Parkinson’s who needs a bit of help with housework and cooking.

  And then there’s Jeremy. Or Jez, as Richard insists on calling him. He can’t promise me anything because these situations are notoriously difficult to prove, and it’s probably going to take a hell of a lot of paperwork, but he’s working on getting some kind of restraining order put on Helen. Just in case she decides to try anything else. I’m lucky to have him on my case. He used to be a hot-shot lawyer in the City before the drink got to him. Oh, well, London’s loss, Flinstead’s gain, that’s what I say.

  So what I said to Josh was this: ‘We’ll see each other at weekends and see how things go.’

  ‘One day at a time, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, burying my face in his chest. ‘One day at a time.’

  49

  Finally, the moment has come. I open the door of my bedside cupboard and stare at the brown envelope Mum brought in for me earlier.

  Before I can change my mind, I take it out and open it up, unfold the paper inside. My hands are trembling and Simon’s voice fills my head as I try not to cry.

  Dear Astrid,

  I’m writing this from hospital. I don’t have your number any more. Mum must have deleted it from my phone. I didn’t tell you that I’d been staying with her, that she took me in when I had nowhere else to go.

  Even now, I still can’t get my head round Helen being Simon’s mother.

  The nurses say she was here the whole time I was out of it on a drip.

  I picture her at his bedside, waiting for him to wake up. Just like Mum was there for me, and, crazy though it is after everything she’s done, I can’t help feeling a pang of sympathy for her loss.

  It was a mistake going back – I know that now – all she does is try to control me. It’s all she’s ever done. I really regret opening up to her, telling her things about my life, abou
t you, because it didn’t take her long to start on at me again. We had a massive argument yesterday, the worst we’ve ever had, and I flipped. Told her to get the hell out of here and leave me alone. Told her it was her fault all this happened in the first place. If she hadn’t tried to keep me as a prisoner, I might not have felt the need to escape. Might not have bumped into you that day in the park.

  I take a deep breath. Reading this was never going to be easy.

  I love you, Astrid – you know that. I always have, right from that very first time you came up to me in the pub and started talking bollocks about the shape of my head. I’ve never met anyone like you.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. This must have been where Laura stopped reading.

  I like to think that, if things had been different, we could have stayed the course. We could have ended up an old married couple with kids and grandkids. But you and I – we’re not made like other people, are we? When I woke up in this bed and listened to Mum going on and on, blaming you for making me drink again, I started blaming you too, but that was wrong of me. I could have walked away when I saw you on that bench, but I didn’t. I chose to sit down next to you because I wanted to. Just like I chose to take that can of beer.

  And this decision I’ve made now – I’m choosing that too, and it’s got nothing to do with you, or anything you did or didn’t do. And it’s got nothing to do with us either, or how we were with each other. It’s about me and me alone.

  This is the end, Astrid. It really hurts me to say that, to imagine never seeing your face or hearing your voice again. But I’ve made my decision and it’s final. There’s nothing you or anyone else can do to change my mind.

  The lump in my throat swells. I’m not sure I can read any more of this, but I have to. I owe it to Simon to read his last words.

  Like I told Mum, I’ve got to cut all ties with my past. With her. And with you too. I’ve got to make a new start.

  What’s he talking about, a new start? My toes clench on the floor. This sounds more like a break-up letter.

  I’ve no idea where you are right now, but I’m guessing there’s a strong chance you’re in Flinstead, with your mum. I’ve no idea what her address is – Warwick Road, is it? So I’ve given this to an old friend of mine from school and asked her to track you down. I’m guessing she won’t have too much trouble finding you. Everyone knows everyone in Flinstead, right?!

  I try to swallow. He’s making jokes. Jokes about Flinstead. This isn’t a suicide note. It can’t be.

  Her name’s Laura and we’re together now.

  My fingers grip the paper so tight I nearly tear it.

  She’s good for me, Astrid. I don’t love her like I love you – I don’t think it’s possible for me to love anyone that way – but she’s kind and sweet and she isn’t a drinker and she’s been good for me. I think it might actually work between us. I really do.

  My whole body feels like it’s encased in cement.

  But in return for delivering this letter to you, she’s made me promise I’ll do something for her. Well, a couple of things, actually. A Facebook friend of hers has shared a post by a young woman about how she’s still nervous going out on her own after having her handbag snatched on the street. I must have read that post a million times, and it’s definitely her, Astrid. The woman I mugged. Everything fits. The date it happened, the location. Right down to the bit about some girl with braids trying to help her. You see, I lied to you, Astrid. I made you think we’d done it together. It was cowardly of me to take advantage of your blackout, but I couldn’t handle the guilt on my own. I needed you to share the burden. The truth is, you tried to stop me, to pull me off. And you tried to go back to see if she was okay, but I wouldn’t let you. I wouldn’t let you, Astrid, and I’ll never forgive myself for that. Luckily, she was okay, apart from a few cuts and bruises from when she fell. I’m hoping I can make contact with her and tell her how sorry I am, how much I regret scaring her like that in front of her kid.

  I read that last paragraph again, but the words don’t fully register. I read it a third time, the meaning slowly sinking in. The relief, when it comes, is overwhelming. I’m laughing through my tears. So she isn’t dead. She’s alive and well and posting Facebook messages. Helen was lying about that too. Making me think I’d killed an innocent young mother. The laughter dies in my throat. How could she? How could she?

  Laura also wants me to do one last thing for my mum. Mum’s been texting her non-stop ever since our row. More of her emotional blackmail, of course, but this one’s harder to resist. Tomorrow, it will have been 25 years since my dad died and Mum wants us to go back to the place in Sussex where we scattered his ashes into the sea. Seaford Head. A sort of pilgrimage in his honour, I suppose. It was one of Dad’s favourite places.

  An icy feeling spirals in my chest.

  I know it’s just her way of getting me to agree to see her again, but I’m determined that it’ll be the last thing I ever do with her. And anyway, I’m doing it for Dad, not her.

  The tremble starts in my hands and spreads up my arms, until my whole body is shaking uncontrollably. What was it Helen screamed at me in those last few seconds before I wrenched myself free, when I told her that Simon had chosen death over her?

  I hear her words in my head all over again. ‘He didn’t. He didn’t! You think you know everything, but you’re wrong! You’re wrong!’

  I fold over my knees, clutching my stomach.

  Helen was at Seaford Head with Simon. She must have been there when he died.

  Monday, 15 July 2019

  There isn’t a word for a parent who’s lost a child. There should be, but there isn’t. Children who have lost a parent are called motherless or fatherless. If they’ve lost both parents, they’re called orphans. But I can’t call myself childless, because that’s untrue. That would imply I never had a child to start with. And I did. I had the most beautiful little boy in the world. His name was Simon and I loved him from the very first second I held him in my arms.

  They don’t tell you what it’s like, do they, being a parent? They don’t tell you how it makes you feel when your child is sad and troubled, how you’ll do anything to take their pain away. And it gets even harder when they grow up. If they lose their way, it’s worse, far worse, than your own suffering. Because you can’t make it better any more, not if they don’t let you.

  If you knew all that before having them, you might think again. But that’s nature’s greatest trick, isn’t it, the biological imperative? Making us yearn to reproduce, filling our fertile years with all that time-wasting nonsense.

  I’d have been a lot happier if I’d never had him in the first place. I was never really cut out for mothering. I know that now. But the fact is I did have him. And that’s the other thing they don’t tell you, that whatever your children do, however much they throw it all back in your face, you can’t stop loving them. You might hate what they’ve become but, deep down, they’re still that little gap-toothed child you smothered in kisses and they always will be.

  Once, a long time ago, I knew how to comfort my darling boy. How to make him giggle through his tears. Oh, I wasn’t dumb enough to think it would never change. I knew he’d grow up, move away. Of course I did. I just didn’t know how much of him I’d lose. Or how I’d lose myself in the process.

  That’s why I’m here. Because I’m lost. They’ve suggested I start keeping a journal. So here I am, sitting at a desk in the library, a nurse watching me from a discreet distance. Journalling. That’s what they call it – one of those silly, made-up words. Apparently, it doesn’t matter what I write, as long as I write something. Anything that comes into my head. Nobody except me will read it, they said, although I don’t believe that for a second. There’s no privacy in this place. One of them probably reads it when I’m in the shower, or when I’m in group therapy, which isn’t that dissimilar from an AA meeting. Except it isn’t in a draughty old church and I don’t have to make stuff up.

  W
hen he met me at Seaford, I knew. I knew straight away that it was the last time I’d see him. I wasn’t good for his recovery, he said. Not good for his recovery! That’s rich, I said. If it weren’t for me, you’d be dead by now. Prophetic words, eh?

  But it was what he said next that did it. The words no parent ever wants to hear. ‘I don’t want you in my life any more.’

  How could he say that? How could he take his love away after everything I’ve done for him? All the sacrifices I’ve made. All the misery he’s caused. When a child disowns you, it’s the ultimate rejection. A million, zillion times worse than being left by a lover or a spouse.

  And that’s why I ran towards the edge. I ran because I had nothing left. Suddenly, more than anything, I wanted it all to be over. The pain. The guilt. The worry. The constant ache in my soul. I wanted it gone.

  And although he’d kept on saying I had to let him go, when it came down to it, he couldn’t let me go. He had to run after me and pull me back. Why? Why did you do that, Simon? Why did you try to save me? I didn’t want to be saved.

  I can hear him yelling all over again, feel his hands as they clutched at my jumper, me pushing him away, then losing my balance and crashing down on my back. And I can feel the vibrations, the ground crumbling under his feet as they scrabbled for purchase, his arms clawing at the air. And then he was gone. He’s gone. My boy. My darling little boy. My Simon.

  Why didn’t I throw myself after him? That’s what I can’t understand. All I know is, when I crawled to the edge and peered down, saw him lying broken on the rocks below, the unnatural angle of his neck, I couldn’t do it. I was so wrapped up in my horror and grief. It should have been me lying there, not him.