Time had no meaning. I got up, showered and dressed, and I walked. For all the years I’d lived in that house, I’d never walked the many miles I had the past few weeks. I wasn’t sure why I walked; I didn’t want the exercise. I didn’t need the fresh air. It did nothing to clear the confusion, the anger, the hatred, the sadness, and the mass of emotion that bubbled away inside me. All it achieved was time alone.
Being alone was what I desired but was too afraid to ask for. I found it frustrating not to be able to speak. Doctors had said it was a shock thing, I shouldn’t push it; my voice would come back when ready. It was psychological, of course; there was nothing physically wrong with me. No one seemed to understand though. I didn’t want my voice back. I didn’t want the ability to speak, because I was unsure I’d be able to contain the spew of hatred that would pour out in the form of words.
In the meantime, I went back to relying on pieces of paper and a pen. I left notes; I answered questions by writing them down.
It was early hours one morning, and I’d been sitting in the chair by the bay window with the blasted pad and pen by my side when a thought hit me.
I wanted to tell Trey I was sorry. I was sorry for badgering him to drive that day. I wanted to tell Hannah that I was sorry. I was sorry for not being the mummy she deserved.
I picked up the pad and flicked to a clean page. Dawn broke, and I wrote. My scrawling handwriting covered each small page and I poured my thoughts onto it. Tears dripped, smudging the ink. Blue colouring spread out, obliterating the words. I pulled my sleeve down over my hand and dabbed at it.
When I’d written enough, I tore the pages from the pad. Not that I thought anyone would read it. I was a grown woman; I didn’t think I needed to hide a diary.
I needed air; I needed to clear my head. I pulled on my Converse sneakers and snuck from my bedroom. I could hear the gentle snores from my dad’s room. I knew he didn’t sleep well. I knew he’d creep along the corridor to listen outside my door, hoping to hear if I spoke in my sleep, if I was unsettled. Each day, I saw the stress and upset age him more. He’d lost his wife, my mum, many years ago to cancer. He’d raised two children as a single father and done an amazing job of it. Despite my grief, I felt guilty that he had to deal with me in his old age. He should be out playing boules, or cards at the local pub. He should be walking his aged Labrador along the coastal paths. He should be able to take a leisurely stroll to the local shop for his morning paper. All the things he did on a daily basis had been put on hold, for me.
I opened the back door in the kitchen and stepped out into the morning. I pulled the zipper higher on my jacket and the hood up to keep out the biting chill. I stuffed the letter in my pocket with no clear idea what I was going to do with it. I walked along the cliff until I came to the stone steps that led to the small beach.
I sat on the damp sand, watching the waves break: white foam, flotsam, rolled closer and closer as the tide came in. An old fishing net wrapped about a buoy bobbed until the sand anchored it. As children, Christian and I would walk the beach collecting the rubbish that the sea gave up to us. We’d bag it up, keeping our beach clean. I rose and made my way to where the buoy lay. As I reached down for it, I spotted a bottle. An old wine bottle, I imagined, with a screw top. The label had long since disintegrated; the constant grinding against sand had almost polished the green glass so that it was see-through. I picked it up. A memory punched me in the gut.
Trey, as a child, had often placed a letter in a bottle and thrown it overboard when he’d been sailing with his father. He had been desperate to see how far that bottle travelled and whether anyone would reply to him. He’d told me, he’d spent weeks scouring the shore of Lake Erie when the family had visited their holiday home. He had taken me there one time, when we’d spent a couple of weeks with his mum. We’d written a note, a love note, and threw it from the small sailing dingy we’d taken out.
I reread what I wrote.
I miss you, so so much, Trey. I can’t breathe through the pain anymore. I can’t accept that you’re gone. And I can’t accept that our baby is gone, too. I feel so much guilt and I don’t know how to deal with that. I made us take that drive, if I’d only listened to you, we’d be planning the birth of our daughter any day now. I’d be excited; you’d be panicking. We’d be the parents we were so desperate to be. I saw you; I came to see you and I laid Hannah down beside you. I died inside that day, Trey, and I continue to shrivel up with no purpose in life. I’m waiting for the day I'll be back with you. Do you believe that? I have to. I have to force myself that all those things we laughed at are true. We’ll be together one day. The vicar said, at your funeral, that the angels had come for Hannah. I don’t believe that, I don’t want to believe something thought that was the right thing to do.
You were stolen from me, Trey. Hannah was wrenched from my body without my permission.
I want you back; I need you back. I love you, and you left me, you promised me that you’d never do that.
We were supposed to grow old together. We were supposed to be parents, grandparents. We were supposed to fight and love. We only had five years together, that’s all. It’s not enough, Trey, for me to hold on to. It wasn’t enough time to have created memories to last me my lifetime. I can’t do this without you.
Dani
Before I realised, I’d rolled my letter and pushed it into the bottle. There seemed to be some poetic justice in what I was doing. I screwed the cap back on and threw it as far as I could. I had no idea on the tides; I had no idea what would happen to the bottle.
I sat and watched the bottle bob about until the sun rose high enough to hide it within the shimmers. I stood and dusted the damp sand from my jeans. I walked back to the cottage and paused halfway. My mind felt a little clearer, just a tiny bit, but I didn’t feel the hit to my chest that had my heart miss a beat when I pictured Trey or Hannah.
“Hey, baby, been for a walk?” Dad said, when I entered the kitchen. I nodded as I kicked off my Converse.
“I was about to do some breakfast, sit down and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
I removed my jacket and pointed that I was going to the hallway to hang it up.
“You go ahead, and you might want to change your jeans, your backside is a little wet. Oh, and put a sweater on, the heating went out again, I need to call an engineer.”
I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and changed. My cheeks had reddened with the cold; the top of my nose was numb. I grabbed a sweatshirt from a drawer and pulled it over my head, then headed back downstairs.
A steaming cup of tea was set on the table and I wrapped my hands around it. Dad was cooking bacon, feeding Lucy, the dog, pieces straight from the pan. She was too old to do the length of walks I’d been doing, but I missed taking her out to run on the beach. I grabbed one of the many pads and pens lying around the house.
How old is Lucy now? I wrote. I tapped the table to gain Dad’s attention. He read.
“Oh, must be nearly eight now. Her poor hips aren’t doing so well anymore.” He smiled at her as he spoke.
He sat opposite and pushed a plate with a bacon sandwich towards me. I took a bite, not tasting it. Bacon sandwiches had been one of my favourite things, along with a large mug of tea; it made for a perfect breakfast.
“I’m going to pop up to the shop in a bit, is there anything you need?”
I shook my head. “I think you’re low on that shampoo stuff you like, I’ll see if they have any.”
I wrote. Any shampoo will be fine, thank you.