I steered my way a little off the path, heading for a tall, thick trunked tree and sinking to the ground beneath it. I could still see the ripples of the dark water a few metres away. It was comforting. I spun the lid off the heavy bottle, bringing it to my nose, and sniffing deeply.
The smell was enough to drag me back into a never-ending stream of memories. I closed my eyes, letting myself be transported to another place and time, picturing my mother, my beautiful Rosie, dancing in the kitchen with a glass half full of Jack. She would throw her long ginger hair back over her shoulder, drink deeply, cough and then laugh. It was before she got too ill to be fun, but after she stopped being the mum I had always known. A strange middle ground, where she was more open than she had ever been. A time when we would talk and talk and talk. When she wanted to hear my secrets, and I still trusted her enough to share them with her. I sniffed the whisky again, picturing her soft smiling face, the way she would take me in her arms when I was upset, telling me there was only one me. That I was irreplaceable, and precious and how I had changed everything for the better for her. God, I needed her now. I needed my mother to hold me tight and make everything okay again. I needed her to do the things that mums do to fix their children's problems.
I had gone through my whole adult life without her. I'd never let myself need her, not when I'd married Lucas and neither of my parents had been there to see it. Not when I lost my five tiny babies and felt like the world was swallowing me up. Not when I'd had the most incredible experience of my life, pushed myself further than I realised I could ever go by giving birth to my son. Not ever. But I did now. I needed her desperately. I needed to be taken care of, loved, fixed. I was so sick of being broken. My body had failed me time and time again, and now it was taking everything I'd worked for, everything I cared about.
I took a swig of the spicy whisky, relishing the discomfort as it burned a trail down my throat, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. It was getting colder and I pulled my wet clothes tighter around me, my teeth clashing together as I shivered. A high pitched jingle sounded, and I realised it was coming from my bag. My phone. Fishing it out, I looked at the display, the words unfocused. Squinting, I made out Lucas's name. I stared at it for a few moments, knowing I wouldn't answer. Finally the ringing ceased and the screen lit up. Sixteen missed calls. Most of them from Lucas, some from Isabel. There were messages too. Texts and voicemail. I didn't click to open either. Instead, I summoned all my strength and launched the phone into the river, listening as it splashed into the dark murky waters.
My thoughts went to Oscar. Was he sleeping? Did Lucas have enough milk for him in the freezer? Was he crying for me? I forced myself to shut out the image. I couldn't let myself think about it. I couldn't do anything to stop what was going to happen. It didn't matter that every single part of me wanted to go home, to pick up my son and never put him down. The choice was no longer mine to make. And there was no point lamenting how unfair it was. It just was.
I leaned back against the tree, holding the bottle like a baby, my fingers running up and down the cool glass, sobs rumbling raggedly through my chest. I shouldn't have thought of him. I shouldn't have opened myself up to this pain. I craved the numbness again. I craved oblivion. But it was too late, Oscar was all I could see, smell, feel. I wanted him with me. I wanted him more than I could stand. His face burned brightly in my mind, tauntingly cruel. I curled my legs tighter against my body, letting my head rest against the tree, gasping for breath as the sobs intensified, and hoping to the universe that I would die in my sleep. I didn't want to see another sunrise if I couldn't have my child.
Chapter Twenty-One
I woke with a start, jumping to my feet, dashing forward in confusion, my soles colliding with the hard wet earth. My foot looped beneath a tree root and I catapulted over it, slamming hard in to the ground, gasping for air. My mouth was coated with mud and grit and I spat it out, feeling a bruise already blooming on my cheekbone. Shaking and scared I pushed myself up on my elbows, realising how close I'd come to running straight into the river. Awareness seeping slowly back to me, I remembered where I was, what I was doing out here all alone. The clouds had dissipated a little, the rain had departed at last, and the moon shone down brightly, still high in the sky. I couldn't have been asleep for more than a few hours.
I pulled myself up onto my feet, rubbing my hands up and down my arms, feeling like I would certainly crack a bone if I continued to shiver so furiously. I was ice cold, every single muscle in my body aching and torn. I tasted blood and realised I must have bitten through the side of my cheek as I slept. Gingerly I ran my tongue over the chewed flesh, wincing. The glint of the whisky bottle in the grass caught my attention and I moved to pick it up, unscrewing the lid and bringing it halfway to my lips before suddenly changing my mind. I shouldn't drink when I was so dangerously cold. If I took even a swig of the whisky now, my blood would be pulled to my extremities, quickly cooling before travelling back to my vital organs, lowering my core temperature significantly.
The life saving memory had popped into my head just in time. The advice had been shared with me by the medic during my first and only anthropological expedition, when I'd travelled to Tanzania. It had been right at the end of our trip, our work all done and the whole team had been about to hike Mount Kilimanjaro just for the challenge of it. He'd told us that two women had got stuck in a bitter snow storm on the mountain the previous year, and only one had made it back down for this very reason. It was no joke. Drinking alcohol could kill me in this state. But then again, given my situation, perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea.
I stared at the bottle, deliberating, wondering why I didn't just do it. I couldn't seem to summon the courage. I craved heat. Roaring fires, scalding hot tea, hot water bottles. I wanted to be wrapped in warm arms, held until my body thawed. I stamped my feet, flinching at the pain in my half numb toes. I had to get moving. I had to walk. Tossing the bottle back on the grass and turning my back on it, I jogged up the path, back into the deserted street above it. I headed for the street lights, uneasy in the darkness, unsure where to go. I still had my bag, my purse. Perhaps a hotel? I could've called a taxi if I hadn't thrown my bloody phone in the canal, I thought, grimacing at the hazy memory.
I didn't want to walk. Every instinct in me wanted to curl up and go back to sleep, but I couldn't. I had to keep going. My mind fought against my body, forcing it to keep putting one foot in front of the other. There was a Hilton near town, though I had no idea where town was in relation to me. But they would have a twenty-four hour reception. They would have cosy, warm rooms... thick blankets. Of course, given that I looked like a tramp who had just lost a street fight, I wasn't altogether certain they would give one to me, but I couldn't worry about that now. I'd deal with that if and when I found it.