Silent Child(9)

“What if they haven’t?” I said. “What if it really is him? Jake, I’ll have my son back.”

Jake wrapped his arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up, love. I’d hate for you to be heartbroken all over again. Remember how long it took you to deal with Aiden’s death?”

“I know,” I said. And the truth was that my heart was still closed. I hadn’t even realised it. I’d thought I was so open and raw, but I wasn’t. I was closed up and shrivelled inside.

I rose to my feet when the doctor came to speak to us, and found myself dwarfed by his height. But the man’s kind face and open eyes helped to relieve some of the tension that had built up in my chest.

“Mrs Price-Hewitt, my name is Dr Schaffer. I am the head of the paediatric ward here at St. Michael’s. There are a few things I want to mention before you go in to see your son. I’ve been briefed by DCI Stevenson here so I understand the delicate nature of this situation. Your son, Aiden, has been through some trauma. He is currently still in shock from whatever that trauma is, and for that reason we have not completed a full examination. We’re trying to space out each procedure to keep him calm and happy. But right now, we can say that he is healthy. He is smaller than most sixteen-year-olds, and we will need to look into that. He has remained mute since his arrival, but he does understand what we are saying, and he is happy watching cartoons or children’s television shows. But please don’t feel disheartened if he doesn’t react when you first see him.”

The blood drained from my face. What if he didn’t recognise me? I reached out for Jake’s hand and he clasped it with his own.

“Thank you, Dr Schaffer,” I said with an unsteady voice.

The doctor smiled and led the way down the corridor. I followed with shaky steps, trying desperately to walk with my back straight and tall, keeping one hand on my pregnant stomach, attempting to soothe my unborn child and soothe myself at the same time. My heart worked double time, pumping and pounding like a dribbled basketball. The hospital walls closed in on me as claustrophobia seeped into my veins, constricting my chest so that I had to remind myself to take deep breaths. I gripped Jake’s fingers so hard that it must have caused him pain, but he didn’t flinch or complain.

And then we reached the room. The doctor paused and waited for me to nod. He opened the door. In that most mundane of actions, I had one of those moments, the kind you remember for a lifetime, the kind that slow down and leave a permanent imprint on your mind.





5


There was nothing remarkable about the boy in the hospital room. He was propped up by pillows on the bed, with a pigeon chest poking up inside blue pyjamas. I never found out who bought him those pyjamas, but I suspected it was DCI Stevenson. The boy had straggly brown hair that hung lankly down to the collar of his pyjama top. He sat with his fingers clutching hold of the bed sheets, his gaze fixed on the tiny hospital television. I took a tentative step forward, following the doctor but barely aware of anyone else in the room except the boy in the bed, whose head turned in my direction and stopped my heart.

He had Rob’s eyes.

My Aiden—the little boy I nursed as a baby—had also had Rob’s eyes. They were chestnut brown with a hint of hazel near the pupil. A multitude of photographs popped into my head. Aiden’s first birthday, the time he smeared strawberry mousse all over his hands and face, bath-time, bedtime stories, sitting on Nana’s lap with Grandpa pulling faces, jumping up and down in puddles… all with a big grin across his face and those shining chestnut-brown eyes.

“How do we know the DNA test was correct?” I heard Jake say. “How do we know there wasn’t some sort of balls-up?”

“There wasn’t,” I whispered, utterly certain that it was Aiden sitting in front of me.

“It’s unlikely,” answered DCI Stevenson, “but to be sure I was going to suggest that we test his DNA against Emma’s. That way we’ll know one hundred per cent that this is Aiden Price.”

I buried you, I thought, with my gaze holding my son’s. In my heart I put you to rest. Can you ever forgive me?

Did I even deserve forgiveness? Mothers are supposed to never give up. In the movies, when the child is missing, the mother always knows they are alive. They would feel it if the child were dead. That connection, that magical connection between mother and child would be cut, and there was supposed to be a sensation that came along with it. But I’d seen Aiden’s red anorak pulled from the River Ouse and I’d assumed he was dead. I bit my lip to hold back the tears.

“Aiden,” I said, stepping towards the bed. “Hello.” I smiled at the boy with the dark brown hair and small chin. My old withered heart skipped a beat when it hit me that he was so small—not much bigger than a twelve-year-old—with eyes that seemed too big for his face.

“Don’t panic if he doesn’t react,” said Dr Schaffer. “We believe he’s listening and taking everything in, but it will take some time for him to process what has happened to him. Would you like to sit down, Mrs. Price-Hewitt?”

I nodded, and moved my body accordingly as the doctor pulled a chair close to Aiden’s bed. But as I was sitting, all I could think about was what had happened to my boy. Where had he been? A decade. Ten years. Wars were fought and lost in a decade. Prime Ministers and Presidents came and went. Important scientific discoveries were made. And all that time, my boy… my child… had been missing from the world. Missing from my world, at least.