The sense of trespass made my heart beat faster as I turned the brass doorknob. Even when the door swung open, I hesitated on the threshold, a vampire needing to be invited in or suffer dire consequences. But there was no one to say the words, of course. You weren’t saying a word to anyone.
Holding my breath, I stepped inside your bedroom. Pale pink walls; glittery pens; a noticeboard devoted to smiling photos; a poster of a humpback whale breaching the ocean and surrounded by sea spray. They made my soul writhe in agony, the uninvited vampire suffering dire consequences indeed.
The thought of invading my daughter’s privacy was hateful. We were a family who respected one another’s space, who knocked before entering each other’s bedroom rather than barging in. None of us would ever dream of reading a diary, or going through each other’s mobile phones. But until you woke up, this was the only way to get hold of information you held, Beth. Hopefully, I had reasoned, once you realised the extreme circumstances, you could forgive me for this betrayal of trust.
Of course, I’d already given it a cursory search once, on that awful Saturday. The police had given it a more thorough going-over that day, too, but had come up with nothing. I hoped a mother’s intuition would guide me to something. I’d checked your Facebook account, of course, but had known before starting that there was nothing to find on it, because we were Facebook friends. That had been my condition when you had begged me to let you open an account. I couldn’t look at your private messages, of course, but the police had accessed them and found nothing worth investigating. The same with your Snapchat account, not that I understood that – it was something to do with sending friends silly photos that only lasted ten seconds, filtering your face to look like a cartoon dog or adding flowers in your hair. It made no sense, though I knew you’d tried to explain it to me several times, giving up with a dramatic sigh and a roll of your eyes each time.
So as soon as Jacob left for work at 8.10 a.m., I had gone to your room. I’d decided the night before, as your dad and I sat not side by side with you, but on opposite sides of your hospital bed. He wasn’t speaking to me because on the drive up to Leeds I’d told him exactly what Glenn and I had been up to. Although it had assuaged his fears of an affair, he seemed even more furious with me that I was investigating on my own. Told me to stop immediately – as if! The last thing he had said to me was that I was ‘being ridiculous’.
Ridiculous or not, I wasn’t stopping.
Where to begin? The police had your phone and laptop, so I couldn’t look through those. Instead, I got on my hands and knees and peered under the bed, despairing at the dustballs that had gathered there. Wiggins shoved his head and shoulders under alongside mine, then sneezed, sending the dust flying into the air. Spluttering, I pushed him away, then bent back down.
An old jumper that you had insisted was lost lurked alongside an odd sock. There were a couple of cardboard boxes pushed right up against the wall. I pulled them out. They were full of drawings of animals. You had never shown them to us – why, Beth? Was it because we had laughed at your ballerina all those years ago? My word, you had progressed since then. These sketches were amazing. The sweep of a wing, the movement of fur on a running animal, the glint in the eye; all beautifully captured.
I was eaten up with guilt that you had chosen to keep them private.
Halfway down the box lay a journal. My hands started to shake, almost too scared to open it. I had wanted secrets to be revealed, but was also terrified of what I might discover. Even finding those drawings had thrown me a little.
Your neat, round writing filled page after page. Qualms aside now, I eagerly read a section. Then read it again. What the… ?
It was a list of nature sightings. Nothing more.
Maybe it was a code, my fevered imagination decided. I scanned it again, trying to decipher it, then realised this was crazy. Popping it back in the box carefully, so you would never know it had been looked at, I moved on.
Posters of animals and brightly coloured birds – and Justin Bieber – covered the walls. I found myself peeking behind them in case something was hidden. Of course there was nothing, and I grew more and more annoyed with my own paranoia.
Desperate, I pulled books from shelves and leafed through them. Then shook them. Nothing suspicious fluttered from their pages. Books on identifying animals, dragonflies, birdwatching, nature photography. All were pulled off and stacked on the floor until the shelf was empty. There weren’t many fictional books, as you preferred to read on your tablet, but you always asked for your favourites in paperback too. Twilight, The Fault in Our Stars, The Vampire Diaries, Divergent – all books I’d never read but which you devoured.
I’d give anything to see you poring over a book again, Beth. Please, come back to me soon.
The force of longing for you made me sway. I had to steady myself against the bookcase for a moment. When I pulled myself together, I made a mental note to read aloud to you, and also buy some audiobooks for you. Perhaps you would like that, my love.
There was only one book left on the shelf: a well-thumbed copy of The Little White Horse. The room went blurry again at the sight of it, tears springing afresh. How you loved this book when we bought it for you! You were only eight, but already a bookworm. You had been so captivated by the description of the dog, Wiggins, at the start of the children’s classic that you had read it aloud to Jacob and I, laughing at how conceited the dog was, how in love he was with his gorgeous looks. It was a brilliant piece of writing, and had reminded me so much of my own passion for words.
When we’d bought our own dog a few months later, you had been adamant about what to call him. You had taken one look at his shiny coat, the soft waves of fur cascading down his chest, and instantly been reminded of the character in the book. Our own dog had an utterly different personality, but from that moment on, he was tied to the fictional character.
He watched me from your bed now, as I opened up the wardrobe and went through your pockets. It felt grubby and wrong, and I only discovered a couple of receipts for chocolate and deodorant, along with an ancient, crispy tissue. I pulled a face and carried it to the bin, which the police had already gone through.
There was nothing, absolutely nothing in your room to help me. I’d even checked inside your shoes and boots, for goodness’ sake.