The Forgetting(51)

ANNA


LONDON

It is dark outside by the time I hear the metallic slice of the key in the lock. I have not noticed the light fading, have been oblivious to the gradual dimming of the sky, night devouring day, leaving only shadows behind.

Stephen walks into the sitting room, snaps on the light, startles to find me sitting in an armchair, legs curled beneath me, palms tucked between my thighs.

‘God, you made me jump. Why are you sitting in the dark?’

‘You’re late.’ My voice is flat, as though it has been turned through a mangle, all the emotion wrung out of it.

‘No, I told you this morning there was a late addition to the programme – a seminar I wanted to attend. You haven’t been sitting there waiting, have you?’

I shake my head, ignore the concern in his voice. I cannot recall him telling me he was going to be delayed but so much has happened since, it is possible there has not been enough room in my head for it all.

Bending down to kiss me, Stephen’s stubble bristles against my cheek, and I feel myself recoil.

‘Is everything alright?’

I open my lips to speak, but all the moisture has evaporated and there is a small sticking sound as I unpeel my tongue from the roof of my mouth.

‘Anna? What’s wrong?’

He is crouching in front of me and I can feel the heat of his gaze on my skin, but I cannot lift my head to look at him. The enormity of what I have to ask him is like a tsunami rushing towards us and I cannot imagine that we will not both be drowned.

‘Anna? You’re scaring me. What’s happened?’

There is a moment’s hesitation, and I wonder if my imagination has been playing tricks on me, whether I am inventing stories in lieu of memory. Whether my earlier certainty was nothing more than a fantasy, conjuring into being what I wish to be true.

And then my bare toes make contact with the cardboard wallet tucked next to the cushion: the photographs I have been studying all afternoon. They flick through my mind as though on an old-fashioned overhead projector, one after the other, presenting themselves as all the evidence I need.

Slipping one hand into the slim gap next to the cushion, I retrieve the pack of photographs, pull them out, hand them to Stephen.

Colour leaches from Stephen’s face. ‘Where did you get these?’

I see it immediately in his eyes, hear it in his voice; the confirmation that there is a story to be told. Something he has not yet divulged and which he has no desire to tell me now.

‘Anna. Where did you get these?’ There is an edge to his voice: serrated, precise.

‘They were in a box. In the spare room.’ I pause, summoning the courage. ‘It’s my baby, isn’t it?’ Five short words and yet now they are out in the open, they take on a life of their own, and I know I can never fetch them back.

For a few seconds Stephen doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, as though my question has frozen time. And then he lifts himself from his knees, sits on the edge of the armchair next to mine, buries his head in his hands.

The suspension is stifling and I feel as if I am being suffocated by it, waiting to learn whatever the truth might be. Impatience tautens every muscle in my body and I reach out, grab hold of his sleeve. ‘Just tell me.’

Stephen looks up, tears pooling in his eyes. The room seems to be holding its breath and I do not know what I am hoping he’ll say.

‘I’m so sorry.’ He speaks softly and I wait for him to say more, anxiety wrapping itself around my throat, stealing my words. ‘We had a child. But he died.’

Time seems to bend and stretch. Stephen reaches out, takes hold of my hand, and I can see it on top of mine but I cannot feel it, am no longer aware of myself, as though my mind and body have been separated, and I am nothing more than a chaos of disordered thoughts. ‘When?’ I hear the sound of my voice but am not conscious of having articulated the question.

‘Two years ago.’

Two years ago. I try to make sense of the time frame but it is abstract, inscrutable. ‘What was his name?’ Words find their way through my lips but I do not know where they have come from, how they dare make their way into the world.

Stephen pauses, swallows, looks down to where his hands are clasping mine. ‘Henry. We called him Henry.’

There is a flicker of something, like the faint light from a distant star, and for a brief moment I am aware of something on the periphery of my memory: a baby in my arms, the light snuffle of breaths, a profound, all-consuming love.

I try to unlock the memory, paint detail where there is just a muted outline, but it is too far away and I cannot make it more distinct. ‘How old was he?’

‘Four months.’

A crater opens up in my chest. And then my grief seems to spill over, and I start to cry, cannot stop, dare not stop, because if I stop the world will be quiet again, and I will have to face the enormity of what has happened. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? You should have told me.’ The words burn in my throat, splutter through hot tears.

I’m aware of Stephen wrapping his arms around me, enfolding my body in his, clasping me tight. He holds on to me, my shoulders shuddering as he rocks me back and forth, whispering the same words over and over: ‘I’m sorry, my love. I’m so, so sorry.’





LIVVY