‘I was telling the truth,’ I say. ‘I’ve never—’ I am about to say that I have never even spoken to her, but then I remember the phone call, the soft, clear, even tone of her voice down the line. ‘I’ve never even seen her face,’ I finish.
Amber nods. ‘I’m not saying I don’t believe you. But there’s something here I don’t understand. I’m not imagining it, I know I’m not. There’s something odd about her. You know, when I came round to see you the other day, that was the first time I’d ever been into her house. We’d always met at mine. I had a quick look around and I couldn’t find most of the things that were missing, but I found the umbrella. She had it hanging up like it was some kind of talisman. Why the fuck would you do that? I don’t know, I just …’ She stops, collects her thoughts. ‘It’s not about the umbrella,’ she says. ‘It’s everything.’
Abruptly, she stops talking, hugging her knees to her chest again. Through the fine blonde strands of hair straying across her face, her green eyes are watchful. The line between her brows is creasing and deepening, her expression flickering with uncertainty. In this moment, I feel sorry for her. She’s walked into something she doesn’t understand and can’t change. She knows something is wrong, but she doesn’t know what, and I don’t want to tell her. That’s your job, if it’s anyone’s.
‘Have you told Carl about this?’ I ask. ‘Does he know Sandra, too?’
Amber shakes her head. ‘Like I said, I used to meet up with her when he was away. I might have mentioned her to him once or twice at the start, but not recently. I knew he’d think I was an idiot for letting her latch on to me. He always says I’m too soft.’ Abruptly, she stops, as if she’s realized that I don’t want or need to know these details. She’s right. Even the thought of you chastising her, telling her she’s too kind-hearted for her own good, is painful.
My silence is unsettling her; she looks at me head on, steeling herself. ‘She has something to do with all this, doesn’t she?’ she asks. ‘With why you’re here? With you and Carl?’ When I don’t answer, she shifts uneasily in her seat. ‘This is frightening me. I don’t want to feel like I’m being watched.’
The words unlock something and I realize that, of course, this is what this is all about. This woman has tracked you down here because she wanted to watch you. Some people turn away from tragedy and force it underground, and others stare it in the face. She wanted it close. Perhaps it’s the only way she can cope with it, to feel that she’s taken back some tiny amount of control, even if it means torturing herself every day with the reality of what has happened. But what she’s been doing with me goes beyond watching. It’s shifted up a gear.
Amber is still waiting, biting her lip. ‘No one’s watching you,’ I say. It’s as close to the truth as I can manage. Her eyes are shining with the threat of tears and, all at once, I just want her to fade away. ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Honestly.’
She frowns, shaking her head. ‘It doesn’t feel like it.’
‘Really. This is all going to be over soon, Amber. I promise.’ Strangely, I believe what I’m saying. There’s a sense of gathering momentum, time sharpening to a point of decision, even if I don’t know yet exactly what it might be.
She opens her mouth as if to argue then slumps back. She wants this comfort – enough to accept it without further complaint or question. ‘I hope you’re right,’ she says quietly.
We sit there a few more moments in silence, drained. ‘Come on,’ I say finally. ‘Let’s go.’
‘OK.’ As she stands up and we begin to walk I can see a certain looseness in her shoulders that tells of relief, despite the lack of resolution in our conversation. She’s passed the burden on again. This is the way our lives are, I think – shifting pain back and forth between each other, expanding it, diluting it. Waiting for it to stretch and thin so much that it’s barely visible.
As we turn into Everdene Avenue, I sense Amber stiffen and hear her rapid intake of breath as she looks up the street. She’s seen it before me. You and Francis, standing on opposite sides of the pavement, staring at one another. The sunlight is falling across the two of you and it’s impossible to see the expressions on your faces. Neither of you is making a move towards the other, but you aren’t moving away either. It’s as if time has stopped.
And then Francis looks up and glances down the road, and he sees us standing there. In the next instant, you glance up, too, and you’re turning, walking fast up the pathway towards your house, and Francis is walking in the opposite direction, back towards number 21. In that split second, there’s a violent sense of wrenching. I want to tear myself in two. But my feet are already turning towards Francis and following him to the other side of the street and, as I look swiftly back over my shoulder I see Amber running towards you, your eyes meeting mine for an instant before you look away and your hand brushing her shoulder as you steer her inside.
Home
Francis, August 2014
A NEW DAY. Day one, every time I open my eyes. A clean slate. Sixteen waking hours that I can use however I want. I can work, go for walks, watch television, listen to music, spend time with my family or my friends, travel across the city, go to museums. I can do anything I want, as long as I don’t take the pills.
The sunshine is warm and soft on my face as I move back and forth in the bathroom, taking a shower, brushing my teeth, pulling on my clothes. In the mirror, I see the lines of my cheekbones newly revealed. My skin is smooth. My eyes are bright and clear. It’s happened slowly, but now, eleven months in, I can see myself again. I look well. The knowledge is sweet and simple.
I push open the bathroom window and the summer breeze curls gently into the room, and I realize that, today, it’s going to be easy. The kind of day when I feel confident I can keep myself on this course and achieve whatever I want – carve out successes, fix the broken relationships. It isn’t always this way. Some days, it still feels as if I’m walking the most fragile of tightropes, that there’s no way the violent batterings of my mind can be contained by this thin shell I live in. There are days when it seems that I’m fighting a battle I can’t possibly win and even the effort of existing is a black cloud I can’t get out from under, the darkness of it pressing down on me so hard I can hardly speak. But not today.
‘Daddy, Daddy,’ I hear Eddie singing next door, and I push open the nursery door and see him lying in his bed, grinning and waving, his fair hair tousled and tangled on the pillow. When I first started to surface from the dream I’ve been in for years, his presence was a shock. He had been there all along, but I hadn’t. Suddenly, we were in this together, father and son, and to my surprise I found that the weight of his expectations on me was easy to carry. I’m patient with him. Firm but fair. I take him to the shops or the park and he trots along beside me, his small fingers curling their way around mine. When I tuck him in at night his breath is warm and sweet on my downturned face. Small things. Before, if I noticed them at all, they were daggers to the heart – just more reminders of a life that couldn’t be enjoyed and that was irretrievably out of reach. Now, I build my world around them. It’s a smaller world than most, but that suits me. For now.