Feeling increasingly uneasy, I sit up in bed. Beside me, Callum’s body begins to rise and fall rhythmically, and I am aghast at how well he can sleep. But then, he is no stranger to trauma out on the fells, and he has taught himself to switch off. He is wise enough to realise that if he doesn’t help himself first, then there will come a point where he is of no use to anyone.
But it isn’t going to be that easy for me. Tonight, I’m just going to have to wait until exhaustion claims me. And meanwhile, I might as well do something.
I pick up my phone. Usually, I leave it downstairs, unwilling to let its constant alerts invade the privacy of our bedroom. But tonight I want it beside me, in case there is news of Sophia. I press the button so the screen illuminates, and to my surprise a string of text messages have snuck in since it switched automatically to silent. Some are from people I know well, others from acquaintances, and they are all along the same lines. We heard about the accident. How is Georgia? How are you? Is there anything we can do?
I am buoyed by all this concern. Suddenly, while sitting in the semi-dark, alone except for the snoring heap next to me, I am surrounded by love and warm wishes. I scroll through them but there’s nothing from the people I really want to hear from. I send another brief message to Helene. I’m still awake. How’s Sophia?
And then I wait.
I know what I am going to do next. My fingers are itching. However hard I try, I can’t resist. I go to the Facebook welcome page, but instead of logging in as myself – which I rarely do anyway – I log in as my daughter.
I found her password a while ago, on a scrunched-up piece of paper on her desk. I had been scurrying between the rooms emptying the bins, and I had checked it wondering if it was rubbish. It was easy to remember: Sn00pD0gg, Georgia’s nickname for our old dog, with zeros instead of the letter o. I hadn’t thought I would ever use it, of course – but at that point I wasn’t worried about Georgia. However, since the summer I have been trying to pinpoint a change in my child – not the reserve of a teenager, but the withdrawal of a troubled soul. There is no substantial evidence for this – which is the first thing Callum would ask for if I relayed my suspicions. But my motherly instinct is a noisy place right now, alarm bells chiming with distinctive tenor, and however much I try to reason with myself, I cannot quieten them.
Ostensibly Georgia and I have been Facebook friends ever since I first let her sign up. However, some time ago she changed her privacy settings and locked me out of all but her most banal posts. Helene assured me Sophia had done the same, and so I tried not to mind or to worry, and to let her have some freedom.
But not tonight.
I log in to Facebook, intending to scan quickly and log straight out again, but of course that is impossible once I have seen that there are more than thirty – thirty! – messages on Georgia’s wall. Most are in familiar code – Just heard WTF! – OMG are you OK?
Why do I want to tell all these people to leave Georgia be? I think of the text messages I just received, and how they made me feel loved, not harassed. Stop with the double standards, I chide myself. But I still can’t settle.
Perhaps it’s because Georgia has replied to every single one of them, usually with a simple thank you, or letting people know she will update them when she hears anything about Sophia. And her last reply was only two minutes ago. Now I can picture her, lying there in the dark with her phone in her hand, waiting for the next alert.
I know this is what many teenagers do these days, but long before the school sexting scandal I have been uneasy about my children’s online lives. The obvious dangers are well documented, but I am scared by others, much more subtle. What might it mean for my daughter’s sanity that she is lying in her room in the middle of the night in the midst of numerous social interactions, when what she really needs is to rest and recuperate? And why – despite her page proclaiming she has more than 400 friends – do I get the impression each time I look at her that she feels desperately alone?
4
ZAC
Zac’s eyes are like sandpaper from a restless sleep, and now he’s running on adrenalin. For much of the night he had held a pillow over his ears, as though he could smother his fractious thoughts. As soon as dawn had set his curtains glowing and the song thrushes chirping, he had been up and dressed, and was out the door within minutes.