‘He’s not stupid,’ I told Dr Phillips defensively, following a barrage of questions and profile tests. I held Robbie’s hand tightly, scared of the assessment she was going to make about my son.
‘I know that, Mrs Nicholson,’ she said, smiling reassuringly. ‘The purpose of this meeting is to ascertain what the problem might be and not to judge Robbie.’
‘What do you think is wrong?’
‘I believe he has what’s called selective mutism. It means that he can talk if he wants to, but he’s chosen not to.’
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ I said, frowning. ‘You’re saying he just doesn’t want to speak to me anymore?’
‘Not just to you, but to anyone. It’s rare, but it happens. Children, particularly ones sensitive to a change in environment or a family unit like he’s had, can feel they have little control over their lives. The one thing they can control, however, is how they react to those situations. And Robbie’s reacted to his by electing not to speak.’
‘So it’s just a phase he’s going through?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. I’ve seen cases like Robbie’s last for years. Others remain for a few weeks and then they’re back to normal. There is no way of determining it.’
I turned anxiously towards Robbie, who listened intently but didn’t let out a peep.
‘Robbie, please say something. Tell Dr Phillips she’s wrong.’
He looked at me and began to open his mouth, considered it, then closed it again. His eyes fell to the floor.
Billy, my breakdown, and then his father’s disappearance had clearly had a knock-on effect I should’ve predicted. The world was too huge and scary for my little boy, and he was afraid for anyone to hear his voice.
‘I suggest you go home and carry on as normal,’ added Dr Phillips. ‘There’s an excellent therapist I can recommend – and, Mrs Nicholson, I’ve yet to see a case continue indefinitely. Just try not to worry and be patient.’
It was easy for her to say.
30 May
Making Robbie feel even more self-conscious wasn’t going to help him. So while we didn’t pretend something in him hadn’t changed, we didn’t place him under any pressure either.
I learned never to underestimate the tenderness of children. His brother and sister might not have understood his reasons, but they accepted them and treated him like they always did. His teacher even stopped asking him questions in front of the class so she wouldn’t embarrass him.
But Robbie’s alienation meant he spent his playtimes alone. I dropped him off one morning and hovered outside the school gates, watching the other kids play with Transformer toys and hopscotch across chalk squares.
My chest tightened at Robbie, sitting in a corner, alone. I wanted to run over, scoop him up in my arms, stroke his thick blond hair, and carry him home where I could make everything all right. But I knew that wasn’t possible. I had to let him work through it in his own way. I was to blame for this, not him.
4 June
Within a year of Simon’s disappearance, Emily had spent almost a quarter of her life without her daddy. He’d helped create a beautiful ball of energy, but hadn’t been lucky enough to watch her grow into an astonishing little girl. And without getting to know her dad, she’d missed out on a wonderful role model. It made me sad.
She’d inherited Simon’s compassion for animals. Abandoned baby starlings, snails with broken shells, worms with half a body, and a jar of tadpoles she once told me ‘missed their daddy frog’ had all lain on our kitchen table at one time or another.
By the time the first anniversary of her daddy’s disappearance arrived, our family was very much intact. We’d been scared, lonely, battered, abandoned, confused, silenced, angered and still had our bruises. But we were not beaten.
My work was earning me a healthy, regular wage, the bills and the mortgage were paid on time and I’d learned to keep my emotions in check each time I thought of Simon. I realised I wanted him more than I needed him.
The baby steps we’d taken meant we were finally ready to say goodbye to him. We each dressed in our smartest clothes and walked hand in hand from the house to the bridge over the stream, a year to the day after he vanished. Oscar lagged behind, determined to catch one of the wild rabbits that always outsmarted him. There had been times when I’d wondered what it would feel like to wade into the water and be taken away in the current. But that was all behind me.
‘I want to say that I miss you very much, Daddy, and thank you for my guitar,’ began James as we sat. Then he tore the words of a song he’d written about his father from an exercise book, dropped the page between the wooden railings and let it float away.
All Robbie could muster up was a smile as he placed a drawing of Simon on a cloud sitting next to an angel into the stream. Emily, excited by our trip but unable to grasp its significance, sang ‘Happy Birthday to You’ instead, unsure of why the rest of her family was giggling. I gave her a hug.
I’d had a print made of the last photograph we’d ever had taken of us together, at Easter, and let it drift below.
‘Thank you, Simon, for the wonderful years we had together and for the family we made. I’ll love you forever.’
We sat on the bridge until well beyond teatime, reliving memories and anecdotes, from how he and I had met, to the best game of football he’d ever taken the boys to watch.
A year that had begun so miserably and so painfully had closed with warmth and with love.
SIMON
Georgia, USA, twenty-four years earlier
19 April
I felt like the luckiest man alive as my American reincarnation continued.
Hotels and motels were comfortable and offered practical amenities, but they were characterless, lonely places. I appreciated my own company, but being around like-minded others made the adventure that much more exciting. So hostels became my first choice for off-road respite.
I’d scan the noticeboards where travellers asked for lifts to one place or another. Most days, Betty was packed with new faces as we dipped in and out of the East Coast, passing through Indianapolis, Memphis, Atlanta and Savannah.
These micro-relationships were, by their very nature, only ever going to offer me short-term satisfaction. Because maps, wanderlust and free will meant sooner or later we’d each begin our separate journeys, destined never to meet again.
And from time to time, it made me think about those I’d left behind. Because of my lifestyle, I would never find anyone to replace them all, but I was beginning to wonder if, one day, I might want to.