She watched Lily turn to their mum, saw the almost imperceptible shake of her head, watched the lines furrow across Lily’s forehead as she turned back to her. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you think you saw?’
And there it was, before Jess had a chance to stop it: the ticking bomb that had always been destined, one day, to explode. ‘I saw you! The day Zoe died I saw you coming out of her room. I saw the expression on your face. You were white as a sheet. It was so obvious something had happened in there but you wouldn’t let me in, you barricaded yourself against the door, and I knew – I just knew – something terrible had happened. And then I got home from school and Dad told me Zoe had died that morning, and he said she’d died naturally in her sleep, but I knew what had happened. I knew it was you. I’ve always known it was you.’
Chapter 56
Audrey
Beads of sweat trickled down Audrey’s spine and pooled in the small of her back. Scenes she had packaged up so carefully and sealed in boxes many years ago ripped themselves open, the past fighting its way into the present. All this time, unbeknown to her, Jess had been rummaging inside those boxes like a child in a dressing-up chest, discovering a version of family history that didn’t quite fit but which she had been trying on for size all these years nonetheless.
Audrey gripped the wooden slats of the bench, her head vertiginous with memories, aware that she was tumbling down a rabbit hole and that there was nothing to break her fall.
It was all her fault. She should have been able to protect them, all three of them. But she hadn’t, and this was the consequence of her failure: tales told to fill the gaping hole where the truth should have been.
Chapter 57
22 June 1988
Audrey peeks around the edge of the curtains to see if there is any sign. Her eyes skim across the square from left to right, past empty benches, parked cars, magnolia trees that have long since shed their bloom.
The square is empty. No one is yet hurrying towards her front door.
She closes the curtain, careful not to let any glaring sunshine into the room. Even in her sleep, bright light seems to hurt Zoe’s eyes.
Kneeling by her daughter’s bed, Audrey watches her sleep and listens to her breathing, imploring herself to hear it differently.
She noticed it as soon as she woke up this morning from a fitful night on the camp bed in Zoe’s room on which she has slept since her daughter came home from the hospital thirteen days ago. The change in Zoe’s breathing: shallow, irregular, as though her lungs occasionally forget what job they’re supposed to be doing. Edward has tried to reassure her, has tried to convince her that she is imagining it, but Audrey knows she is not.
Zoe’s breaths murmur in and then out again, short and sharp, as though wary of loitering too long.
Finally the doorbell rings. When Audrey answers it and sees the Marie Curie nurse standing in front of her she is unable to hold back her tears. As she allows her head to fall on the nurse’s shoulder she does not know whether she is crying with relief that here at last is someone who can explain to her what is happening or shedding tears of dread that her worst fears are about to be confirmed.
After Grace, the Marie Curie nurse, has examined Zoe, she asks Audrey and Edward to accompany her to the sitting room below. Grace suggests they all take a seat but Audrey refuses: to sit down might indicate that she intends to stay when all she really wants is to get back to Zoe.
‘What can we do to make her more comfortable?’ Edward’s voice is calm, and even though his calmness is one of the things Audrey has always loved about him, today she finds it intolerable. Today she needs to hear her panic reflected back at her, needs to know she is not alone in her terror.
‘You’re doing everything you can, honestly. I know how upsetting it is seeing her in distress and not being able to stop it. Just be with her, talk to her, let her know you’re there. Even right up to the end there’s a chance she’ll be able to hear you. But I should warn you now that this final stage can be quite protracted. You do need to prepare yourselves for that.’
Audrey thinks about her little girl, upstairs alone, restless even in sleep. ‘What do you mean, “protracted”?’
There is a pause during which Grace smiles so kindly that Audrey fears she might cry.
‘It’s difficult to be precise. Sometimes it can be just a few hours. Sometimes this stage can last a few days. I know that’s really hard to hear but I need you to be aware of what might happen. We usually find that the better prepared parents are, the better they’re able to cope.’
Audrey reaches out for the back of the armchair to steady herself. The thought of Zoe struggling for breath for days to come clutches at her throat.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to find a hospital bed for Zoe? The nurses would take exceptional care of her and you could still stay with her the whole time. It might just take the pressure off you both.’
She senses both Edward and Grace looking at her but does not raise her head to meet their gaze. She knows what they are thinking. It has been discussed already, at length, but nothing either of them says will make Audrey change her mind. ‘Absolutely not. I want to keep her here, at home. I want to look after her myself.’ She hears the determination – almost maniacal – in her voice but does not care what they think of her. She will not have anyone taking Zoe away.
‘OK, I understand. You know you can call me any time, day or night, and I’ll come. And you’ve got the number of the hospital if you change your mind. In the meantime, use as much liquid morphine as you need to top up Zoe’s medication and keep her comfortable, just not more than one oral syringe an hour. If you think she’s still in too much pain, do talk to the doctor about increasing her dosage. But the best thing you can do for her now is to be with her and talk to her, let her know she’s not alone. You’re doing a wonderful job, both of you. Please don’t forget that.’
Grace picks up her bag from the arm of the chair and turns to leave. Audrey allows Edward to see the nurse to the front door as she makes her way back up the stairs, back to Zoe, already mourning the three or four minutes she has lost of the precious time she has left with her little girl.
Audrey walks into the kitchen where Edward is washing up. The girls got home from school half an hour ago and she has left Jess snuggled up in bed with Zoe, reading poems aloud even though Zoe is sleeping.
Ever since Grace left this morning, Audrey has been plagued by thoughts she cannot shake from her mind, thoughts she does not want to keep to herself but is nonetheless fearful of sharing.
She studies Edward’s back as he stands at the sink. His hair is thinning on top, a depletion she is sure had not begun before the onset of Zoe’s illness. ‘I can’t bear to see her like this, Edward. What if Grace is right? What if it goes on for days?’
Edward turns around and offers her the kindness in his eyes. ‘We don’t know that it will. We just have to be there for her. You heard Grace. That’s all we can do.’
He moves to walk past her, but as he reaches for the tea towel she grabs his soapy hand. ‘It’s just … I was thinking … Those morphine doses are such an inexact science. No two ten-year-olds are the same. How do we know that what we’re giving Zoe is enough to ease her pain as much as we possibly can?’
Edward frowns, and Audrey is unsure whether he is failing to follow what she is saying or simply choosing not to understand.
‘We know because that’s what the doctor told us to give her. I know how hard this is, but we just have to get through it, one hour at a time.’