The Husband's Secret

Chapter forty-nine





The doctor reminded Cecilia of a priest or a politician. He specialised in professional compassion. His eyes were warm and sympathetic, and he spoke slowly and clearly, authoritatively and patiently, as if Cecilia and John-Paul were his students and he needed them to fully understand a tricky concept. Cecilia wanted to throw herself at his feet and hug his knees. As far as she was concerned, this man had absolute power. He was God. This man, this softly spoken, bespectacled Asian man in a blue and white striped shirt that was very similar to one John-Paul owned, was God.

Throughout the previous day and night there had been so many people talking at them: the paramedics, the doctors and nurses in the emergency department. Everyone had been nice, but rushed and tired, their eyes slipping and sliding. There was noise and bright white lights constantly shining in her peripheral vision, but now they were talking to Dr Yue in the hushed, churchlike environment of Intensive Care. They were standing outside the glass-panelled room where Polly was lying on a high single bed, attached to a plethora of equipment. She was heavily sedated. An intravenous drip had been inserted in her left arm. Her right arm was wrapped in gauze bandages. At some point one of the nurses had brushed her hair away from her forehead, pinning it off to one side, so that she didn’t look quite like herself.

Dr Yue seemed highly intelligent because he wore glasses, and perhaps because he was Asian, which was racial stereotyping, but Cecilia didn’t care. She hoped that Dr Yue’s mother had been one of those pushy tiger mothers. She hoped poor Dr Yue didn’t have any other interests apart from medicine. She loved Dr Yue. She loved Dr Yue’s mother.

But John-bloody-Paul! John-Paul didn’t seem to understand that they were speaking to God. He kept interrupting. He sounded too brusque. Rude, almost! If John-Paul offended Dr Yue, he might not try as hard for Polly. Cecilia knew that this was just a job for Dr Yue, and Polly was just another one of his patients, and that they were just another pair of distraught parents, and everyone knew that doctors were overworked and got exhausted and made tiny errors, like airline pilots, that turned out to be catastrophic. Cecilia and John-Paul had to differentiate themselves in some way. They had to make him see that Polly wasn’t just another patient, she was Polly, she was Cecilia’s baby girl, she was her funny, infuriating, charming little girl. Cecilia’s breath caught, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe.

Dr Yue patted her arm. ‘This is incredibly distressing for you, Mrs Fitzpatrick, and I know you’ve had a long night with no sleep.’

John-Paul glanced sideways at Cecilia, as if he’d forgotten she was there too. He took her hand. ‘Please just go on,’ he said.

Cecilia smiled obsequiously at Dr Yue. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ Look how very nice and undemanding we are!

Dr Yue ran through Polly’s injuries. A serious concussion, but the CT scan had showed no sign of a serious brain injury. The pink sparkly helmet had done its job. As they already knew, internal bleeding was a concern, but they were monitoring and so far, so good. They already knew that Polly had suffered severe skin abrasions, a fractured tibia and a ruptured spleen. The spleen had already been removed. Many people lived without their spleens. She might have some danger of reduced immunity, and they would recommend antibiotics in the case of –

‘Her arm,’ interrupted John-Paul. ‘The main concern through the night seemed to be her right arm.’

‘Yes.’ Dr Yue locked eyes with Cecilia and breathed in and out, as if he was a yoga teacher demonstrating breathing techniques. ‘I’m very sorry to say that the limb is not salvagable.’

‘Pardon?’ said Cecilia.

‘Oh God,’ said John-Paul.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Cecilia, still trying to be nice, but feeling a surge of fury. ‘What do you mean not salvagable?’

It sounded like Polly’s arm was at the bottom of the ocean.

‘She’s suffered irreparable tissue damage, a double fracture, and there’s no longer sufficient blood supply. We’d like to do the procedure this afternoon.’

‘Procedure?’ echoed Cecilia. ‘By procedure you mean . . .’

She couldn’t say the word. It was unspeakably obscene.

‘Amputation,’ said Dr Yue. ‘Just above the elbow. I know this is terrible news for you, and I’ve arranged for a counsellor to see you –’

‘No,’ said Cecilia firmly. She would not stand for this. She had no idea what a spleen did, but she knew what a right arm did. ‘She’s right-handed you see, Dr Yue. She’s six years old. She can’t live without her arm!’ Her voice skidded into the ugly maternal hysteria she’d been trying so hard to spare him.


Why wasn’t John-Paul saying anything? The brusque interruptions had stopped. He had turned away from Dr Yue and was looking back through the glass panels at Polly.

‘She can, Mrs Fitzpatrick,’ said Dr Yue. ‘I’m so very sorry, but she can.’



There was a long wide passageway outside the heavy wooden doors that led to Intensive Care, beyond which only family members were allowed. A row of high windows let in dust-flecked rays of sunlight, reminding Rachel of church. People sat in brown leather chairs all the way along the passageway: reading, texting, talking on their mobile phones. It was like a quieter version of an airport terminal. People enduring impossibly long waits, their faces tense and tired. Sudden muffled explosions of emotion.

Rachel sat in one of the brown leather chairs facing the wooden doors, her eyes continually watching for Cecilia or John-Paul Fitzpatrick.

What did you say to the parents of a child you’d hit with a car and nearly killed?

The words ‘I’m sorry’ felt like an insult. You said ‘I’m sorry’ when you bumped against someone’s supermarket trolley. There needed to be bigger words.

I am profoundly sorry. I am filled with terrible regret. Please know that I will never forgive myself.

What did you say, when you knew the true extent of your own culpability, which was so much more than that assigned to her by the freakishly young paramedics and police officers who had arrived at the accident scene yesterday. They’d treated her like a doddery old woman involved in a tragic accident. Words kept forming in her head: I saw Connor Whitby and I put my foot on the accelerator. I saw the man who murdered my daughter and I wanted to hurt him.



Yet some instinct for self-preservation must have prevented her from speaking out loud, because otherwise, surely, she would be locked up for attempted murder.

All she remembered saying was, ‘I didn’t see Polly. I didn’t see her until it was too late.’

‘How fast were you going, Mrs Crowley?’ they asked her, so gently and respectfully.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know.’

It was true. She didn’t know. But she knew there had been plenty of time to put her foot on the brake to let Connor Whitby cross the road.

They told her that it was unlikely she would be charged. It seemed that a man in a taxi had seen the little girl ride her bike directly in front of the car. They asked her who they could call to come and collect her. They insisted on this, even though a second ambulance had been called just for her, and the paramedic had checked her over and said that there was no need for her to go to the hospital. Rachel gave the police Rob’s number, and he arrived far too quickly (he must have been speeding), with Lauren and Jacob in the car. Rob was white-faced. Jacob grinned and waved a chubby hand from the back seat. The paramedic told Rob and Lauren that Rachel was probably suffering from mild shock, and that she should rest and stay warm and not be left alone. She should see her GP as soon as possible for a check-up.

It was awful. Rob and Lauren dutifully followed orders, and Rachel couldn’t get rid of them, no matter how hard she tried. She couldn’t get her thoughts straight while they hovered about, bringing her cups of tea and cushions. Next thing that perky young Father Joe turned up, very upset about members of his flock running each other over. ‘Shouldn’t you be saying the Good Friday mass?’ said Rachel ungratefully. ‘All under control, Mrs Crowley,’ he said. Then he took her hand and said, ‘Now you know this was an accident, don’t you, Mrs Crowley? Accidents happen. Every day. You must not blame yourself.’

She thought, Oh, you sweet, innocent young man, you know nothing about blame. You have no idea of what your parishioners are capable. Do you think any of us really confess our real sins to you? Our terrible sins?

At least he was useful for information. He promised that he would keep her constantly informed about Polly’s progress, and he was as good as his word.

She’s still alive, Rachel kept telling herself as each update came. I didn’t kill her. This is not irretrievable.

Lauren and Rob finally took Jacob home after dinner and Rachel spent the night replaying those few moments over and over.

The fish-shaped kite. Connor Whitby stepping out on to the road, ignoring her. Her foot on the accelerator. Polly’s pink sparkly helmet. Brake. Brake. Brake.

Connor was fine. Not a scratch on him.

Father Joe had called this morning to say that there was no further news, except that Polly was in Intensive Care at Westmead Children’s Hospital and receiving the very best of care.

Rachel had thanked him, put down the phone and then immediately picked it up again to call a cab to take her to the hospital.

She had no idea if she would be able to see either of Polly’s parents or if they would want to see her – they probably wouldn’t – but she felt that she had to be here. She couldn’t just sit comfortably at home, as if life went on regardless.

The double doors leading into Intensive Care flew open and Cecilia Fitzpatrick barrelled through, as if she was a surgeon off to save a life. She walked rapidly down the passageway, past Rachel, then stopped and gazed about her, baffled and blinking, like a sleepwalker waking up.

Rachel stood.



‘Cecilia?’

An elderly white-haired woman materialised in front of Cecilia. She seemed wobbly, and Cecilia instinctively put out her hand towards her elbow.

‘Hello, Rachel,’ she said, suddenly recognising her, and for a moment she saw only Rachel Crowley, the kindly but distant and always efficient school secretary. Then a giant chunk of her memory crashed back into place: John-Paul, Janie, the rosary beads. She hadn’t thought about any of it since the accident.

‘I know I’m the last person you want to see right now,’ said Rachel. ‘But I had to come.’

Cecilia remembered dully that Rachel Crowley had been driving the car that hit Polly. She’d registered it at the time, but it had had no particular relevance to her. The little blue car had been like a force of nature: a tsunami, an avalanche. It was as if it had been driven by no one.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Rachel. ‘So terribly, dreadfully sorry.’

Cecilia couldn’t quite comprehend what she meant. She was too sluggish with exhaustion and the shock of what Dr Yue had just said. Her normally reliable brain cells lumbered about, and it was with the greatest of difficulty that she corralled them into one place.

‘It was an accident,’ she said, with the relief of someone remembering the perfect phrase in a foreign language.

‘Yes,’ said Rachel. ‘But –’

‘Polly was chasing Mr Whitby,’ said Cecilia. The words flowed easier now. ‘She didn’t look.’ She closed her eyes briefly and saw Polly disappear beneath the car. She opened them again. Another perfect phrase came to her. ‘You must not blame yourself.’

Rachel shook her head impatiently and batted at the air as if an insect was bugging her. She grabbed hold of Cecilia’s forearm and held it tight. ‘Please just tell me. How is she? How serious are her – her injuries?’

Cecilia stared at Rachel’s wrinkled, knuckly hand clutching her forearm. She saw Polly’s beautiful healthy skinny little girl arm and found herself coming up against a spongy wall of resistance. It was unacceptable. It simply could not happen. Why not Cecilia’s arm? Her ordinary, unappealing arm with its faded freckles and sunspots. They could take that if the bastards had to have an arm.

‘They said she has to lose her arm,’ she whispered.

‘No.’ Rachel’s hand tightened.

‘I can’t. I just can’t.’

‘Does she know?’

‘No.’

This thing was endless and enormous, with tentacles that crept and curled and snarled because she hadn’t even begun to think about how she would tell Polly, or really, in fact, what this barbaric act would mean to Polly, because she was consumed with what it meant to her, how she couldn’t bear it, how it felt like a violent crime was being committed upon Cecilia. This was the price for the sensual, delicious pleasure and pride she’d always taken in her children’s bodies.

What did Polly’s arm look like right now, beneath the bandages? The limb was not salvagable. Dr Yue had assured her that they were managing Polly’s pain.

It took Cecilia a moment to realise that Rachel was crumpling, her legs folding at the knees. She caught her just in time, grabbing her arms and taking her full weight. Rachel’s body felt surprisingly insubstantial for a tall woman, as though her bones were porous, but it was still tricky keeping her upright, as if Cecilia had just been handed a large, awkward package.

A man walking by carrying a bunch of pink carnations stopped, stuck the flowers under his arm and helped Cecilia get Rachel to a nearby seat.

‘Shall I find you a doctor?’ he asked. ‘Should be able to track one down. We’re in the right spot!’


Rachel shook her head adamantly. She was pale and shaky. ‘Just dizzy.’

Cecilia knelt down next to Rachel and smiled politely up at the man. ‘Thank you for your help.’

‘No problems. I’ll get going. My wife just had our first baby. Three hours old. Little girl.’

‘Congratulations!’ said Cecilia, a moment too late. He was already gone, walking joyfully off, right in the middle of the happiest day of his life.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ said Cecilia to Rachel.

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ said Cecilia, and felt a hint of impatience. She’d come out for air, to stop herself from screaming, but she needed to get back now. She needed to start collecting facts. She did not need to talk to a bloody counsellor, thanks very much, she needed to see Dr Yue again, and this time she would take notes and ask questions and not worry about being nice.

‘You don’t understand,’ said Rachel. She fixed Cecilia with red, watery eyes. Her voice was high and weak. ‘It is my fault. I put my foot on the accelerator. I was trying to kill him, because he killed Janie.’

Cecilia grabbed for the side of Rachel’s seat, as if it were a precipice she’d been pushed from and stood up.

‘You were trying to kill John-Paul?’

‘Of course not. I was trying to kill Connor Whitby. He murdered Janie. I found this video, you see. It was proof.’



It was like somebody had grabbed Cecilia by the shoulders, spun her around and forced her to come face to face with the evidence of an atrocity.

There was no grappling for comprehension. She understood everything in an instant.

What John-Paul had done.

What she had done.

Their accountability to their daughter. The penalty Polly would pay for their crime.

Her entire body felt hollowed by the bright white light of a nuclear blast. She was a shell of her former self. Yet she didn’t shake. Her legs didn’t give way. She remained perfectly still.

Nothing really mattered any more. Nothing could be worse than this.

The important thing now was truth. It would not save Polly. It would not redeem them in any way. But it was absolutely necessary. It was an urgent task that Cecilia needed to cross off her list this very moment.

‘Connor didn’t kill Janie,’ said Cecilia. She could feel her jaw moving up and down as she talked. She was a puppet made of wood.

Rachel became very still. The texture of her soft, wet eyes changed, visibly hardening. ‘What do you mean?’

Cecilia heard the words come out of her dry, sour-tasting mouth. ‘My husband killed your daughter.’