“I’m kidding.” He drains his glass and belches. “One more for the road.”
He goes to the bar. Reaching into the pram, I stroke Rory’s cheek. With each passing day, I feel more assured of his place in the world. He has taken root in my heart, anchoring himself to me. I am his mother now. He reaches out for me. He longs for my touch.
I’m sure Hayden feels the same way. Some men get funny about babies because they think a woman only has a finite amount of love to give, but it’s not about dividing or subtracting or making do with less. Our hearts expand. We have double the love, maybe more.
Hayden is back, nursing a fresh pint. Making conversation, he asks me where I was born and raised, wanting to know about my mother. I should be flattered by his interest, but I don’t want him turning over rocks and peering underneath. At the same time, I don’t want to appear evasive or secretive. I have to give him something, so I mention Elijah being killed on his way to school. Hayden wants all the details. Did I see it happen? Did I blame myself?
“Why should I blame myself?” I snap. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“OK, OK,” says Hayden, holding up his hands. “Jesus! I was only making conversation.”
I apologize. He goes quiet. I ask him if he always wanted to join the navy.
“Hell, no! I was keeping a promise.”
“How?”
“I had a mate called Michael Murray and one day we each cut our right thumbs, mixed the blood, and made a promise that when we grew up we’d join the navy.”
“Like blood brothers.”
“Yeah.”
“Did he do it?”
“’Course not. He sells vacuum cleaners for his old man.”
“But you kept your promise.”
“I sort of had to.”
“Why?”
“I had a few problems with the police when I was sixteen and finished up in court. My solicitor told the magistrates that I was hoping to join the Royal Navy. A criminal conviction would make it difficult. The magistrates gave me a caution and let me go. After that, I felt obliged to follow through.”
“What were you charged with?”
“Criminal damage.”
“What did you damage?”
“I set fire to a teacher’s car. He was an arsehole.”
“I’m shocked.”
Hayden looks at me sheepishly. “You must have done something terrible when you were younger.”
“Never.”
“I bet you did. I bet you’re keeping it a secret. I’m going to get in touch with your mum and find out exactly what you were like.”
That statement rattles something inside me and I feel the creature begin stirring, pushing aside my organs.
“I’ve upset you,” says Hayden. “What did I say?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Is it the questions? I’m interested.”
“Rory needs to be fed.”
“You could breast-feed him.”
“I’m still too sore.”
Buttoning my coat and releasing the brake, I steer the pram between tables and onto the pavement. Hayden hurriedly finishes his pint and jogs to catch up with me. We walk in silence.
“You should get one of those sweatshirts,” he says.
“Huh?”
“The Baby Ben tops. Nobody will stare at you then.”
MEGHAN
* * *
The psychologist is younger than I expect, in his midthirties, dressed in a long-sleeve cotton shirt, buttoned at the throat, and loose-fitting jeans. Tall and lean with prominent cheekbones and eyelashes that most women would kill for, he looks like a college student trying to save on haircuts.
Cyrus Haven shakes my hand, holding it a second longer than is comfortable while he seems to study me. I’ve heard it said that a person’s eyes are the only things on the face that do not age. They are no less bright on the first day than their last day. The doctor’s eyes are pale blue with pupils blacker than charcoal.
“May I sit here?” he asks.
“It’s the only chair,” I say.
He laughs and agrees. I wonder if he’s nervous too.
We’re in my private room at the hospital, where the curtains are open on a gray London day. My suitcase is half-packed, lying open on the bed. Jack is coming to take me home in a few hours.
Cyrus takes a yellow legal pad from a satchel that has been hanging off his shoulder. He searches for a pen, opening the many pockets until he finds one and holds it up triumphantly. He scribbles something on the page, but the pen doesn’t work. He shakes it a few times and tries again. Nothing.
“I can ask a nurse.”
“No, it’s fine,” he says, putting the pad away. He takes out a folded white handkerchief, shakes it open, and begins cleaning his wire-framed glasses. I wonder if this whole routine is part of a performance. He’s pretending to be forgetful and preoccupied so that my defenses will be lowered.
The silence expands.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” I ask.
“No, thank you.”
Cyrus places his glasses on his nose and adjusts them. He’s handsome in a disheveled, obviously English way and reminds me of a tutor that I had at university. He was Cyrus’s age and I was a lot younger, but like a lot of students, boys and girls, I had a crush on him. For some reason, the tutor seemed to call on me more than the others. I was flattered. I even fantasized about him because he was clever and accomplished, with ungovernable dark hair and a small cleft in the center of his chin that I wanted to touch with my tongue to see how deep it went.
One day he invited me to his rooms. I accepted. I thought he might make a pass at me, a notion that terrified and excited me, but instead he handed me an unbound proof of his latest novel, asking if I would read it for him because I had “a good eye.”
“A good eye?” I asked.
“You’re strong on grammar and spelling.”
The memory makes me cringe with embarrassment.
Cyrus has been watching me. “How are you sleeping?”
“They give me pills.”
“Are you eating?”
“You’ve been talking to the nurses.”
“They’re worried about you.”
He notices a framed photograph of Lucy and Lachlan in my open suitcase and asks me their names. Half an hour later I realize that I’m still talking. Imperceptibly, he has drawn me into a one-sided conversation, learning where I was born and went to school, about my parents and sister and Jack. Soon I’m telling him about buying the house in Barnes and falling pregnant again. I don’t mention the arguments or the doubts or the one-night stand with Simon.
He has a soft voice that washes through our discussion, nudging it in different directions or exploring new corners. I can’t remember the last time I revealed so much to a man like this—a stranger.
Eventually we reach the present. Cyrus knows the general details of the abduction and has seen the CCTV footage, but he wants me to recount the story again. He explains the nature of cognitive interviewing; how it can help people recall more of what they’ve been through.
“There’s no pressure. Relax. Lie back. Close your eyes. Tell me about the birth. Imagine you’re a film director trying to re-create the moment, telling people where to stand and what to say.”