His & Hers(63)

“Well, as fun as this looks, I’m off,” said Jack. “Mum says home by midnight or else, Zoe. Unless you want to get grounded again.”

Zoe rolled her eyes. She did it so often I worried they might get stuck that way.

“Wait!” Rachel rushed over to her bag and took out a new disposable Kodak camera. It was still in its box, and she tore at the cardboard packaging to open it. “Can you take a picture of us all together before you go?”

“Sure,” Jack said, holding out his hand.

I saw that their fingers touched as she gave him the camera, and felt a stab of irrational jealousy.

“And I almost forgot…” Rachel said.

She reached inside her pocket, before arranging us all in a line against the floral wallpaper in my mother’s living room.

“… lovely Anna made us all friendship bracelets, and I think we should wear them.”

So we put them on, because people always did what Rachel said to do.

We posed against that wall with our arms wrapped around each other, wearing our red-and-white cotton bracelets, and looking like the best of friends. Even Catherine Kelly, who Rachel positioned right in the middle, was smiling in the photo, her ugly braces, crazy curly white hair, and horrible clothes on display for the whole world to see.

It was the same photo I found yesterday with Rachel’s face crossed out.





Him



Wednesday 23:00



I cross the road and realize I’ve taken a wrong turn. I’m drunk. Too drunk to drive home from Priya’s house, so I decided to walk. I know I shouldn’t have kissed her, but that’s all it was, a drunken kiss. No need to turn it into a drama, or blow it out of proportion. I was thinking about Anna when I did it, perhaps because of the taste of whiskey inside her mouth and mine. I don’t regret it. I will in the morning, but for now I’m going to enjoy the way tonight made me feel: to know that a beautiful, intelligent young woman finds me attractive.

I choose not to linger on the question of why.

Spending time with someone younger than myself made me feel less old tonight. Listening to Priya talk about her future made me realize my own might not be set in stone. Youth fools us into thinking there are infinite paths to choose from in life; maturity tricks us into thinking there is only one. Priya opened up about her past, and her honesty was contagious. She told me her mother died of cancer last year and she’s still grieving. The woman raised her alone, in a community that frowned upon that sort of thing, and Priya was quite open about how much she missed having a father figure growing up.

I expect that’s what made me think about my daughter. The truth is, I think about her all the time. If I don’t talk about Charlotte it’s only because I feel like I can’t. It was my idea—to take Anna out for a birthday meal, just the two of us—so maybe that’s why I still think what happened was my fault.

Anna had barely left the house at all for months. She’d been on strict bed rest before the birth, and then afterward when we brought Charlotte home, she turned into someone I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t right, and neither was she. Her whole life was suddenly only about our daughter, and nobody could make her see that it was all too much, that she needed to take a step back. If I mentioned getting help, it only made things worse.

I’d arranged for her mother to babysit for one night, just one night for god’s sake; it was meant to be a kind thing to do. For both of them. But when we went to collect Charlotte the following morning, I knew that something was wrong as soon as Anna’s mother opened the door. She had promised not to drink while looking after the baby, but we could both smell the alcohol on her breath. She didn’t say a word, but looked as though she had been crying. Anna pushed her mother aside, and ran into the house. I was only a few steps behind. The travel crib was exactly where we had left it, Charlotte was still inside, and I remember the relief I felt when I saw her. It was only when Anna lifted her up that I could tell our little girl was dead.

There is no such thing as unconditional love. I didn’t really blame Anna’s mother. She’d only started drinking after discovering Charlotte had stopped breathing in the middle of the night. She’d panicked. For some reason she didn’t call an ambulance, I think perhaps because she already knew the child was dead. The coroner confirmed it was a cot death, and could have happened anytime, anyplace. But I blamed myself. So did Anna. Over and over again, screaming the silent words at me through her never-ending tears.

I loved our little girl just as much as she did, but it felt like Anna was the only one allowed to grieve. Now, two years later, I seem to be teetering on the edge at all times, a domino on the verge of falling over and taking those closest down with me. For a long while after what happened nothing about my life felt real or had any meaning. It’s the reason I left London and came back here. To make some sort of family with what I had left: a sister and a niece. And to give Anna the space she said she needed.

We buried Charlotte in Blackdown—Anna was in no fit state to make a decision at the time, so I made it—and I think it’s something else she still hates me for.

It’s a half-hour walk, along pitch-black footpaths and deserted country lanes, from Priya’s end of town to mine, but walking is the only option. There are no cabs in the countryside. No signs of life at all in Blackdown at this time of night. A black cat runs in front of me, crossing my path and contradicting my last thought. It’s the sort of thing that would have worried my ex-wife, but I don’t buy into all that superstitious nonsense. Besides, I’ve already had more than my fair share of bad luck.