The Forgetting(57)
Dominic pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll go.’
‘Really?’
‘Honestly, I’m happy to. You’ve been taking care of Leo all week. You look shattered. Why don’t you have a nice long bath?’ He bent forward, kissed her on the lips. ‘Shall we watch a film tonight? The new Wes Anderson’s on Amazon Prime.’
Livvy nodded, even though she often found Wes Anderson’s films pretentious. But Dominic loved them and she knew he’d missed this one at the cinema when Leo was born.
‘I’ll see you in about forty-five minutes. I doubt I’ll get away without stopping for a cup of tea.’ He smiled, kissed her again, turned to leave.
Livvy waited until she heard the click of the front door. Retrieving her mobile phone from a shelf on the dresser, she found a WhatsApp message from Bea, the first two lines of which were visible without needing to unlock the screen.
I’m at Mum and Dad’s, playing with Leo. See you later when you pick him up.
Opening the message, she read the rest.
We’re having a whale of a time. Your son is ADORABLE. xxx
Livvy stared at the message, speculations drifting through her mind like wisps of smoke, evaporating before she had a chance to study them properly. For a long time, she sat at the kitchen table, gazing alternately at her phone and then at the stairs, trying to decide whether the hint of doubt was legitimate or not.
Shaking her head as if to tip the suspicion out, she tapped out a reply to her sister.
Ah, sorry! Dominic’s coming to collect him. I’m having a rare half-hour alone. Glad you all had fun. xxx
Making her way up the stairs to run a bath, she pushed the unwelcome thoughts into the furthest recess of her mind and closed a door on them.
ANNA
LONDON
Zahira stares at me, visibly shaken, and I don’t know what to say to fill the void. It is still too new, too raw, for me to have found the words to ameliorate somebody else’s shock.
‘I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how you must feel. It’s such a terrible thing to learn, after everything you’ve already been through.’ Zahira shakes her head, as though she cannot get the story to settle. She calls out to Elyas to be careful as he clambers up a wooden slope to the peaked-roof playhouse, and he pauses for a second, stares across the playground, before continuing his journey.
Watching him, my grief feels unwieldy. Elyas is only eight months older than Henry would have been had he lived. The knowledge of it seems too cruel to exist in any fair, kind, just world. And yet I know it is true.
It is two days since I discovered I had once been a mother. For the past forty-eight hours, I have felt as though I am existing in two parallel worlds: the real, present world of grief, guilt and self-reproach. And an imaginary world in which Henry is still alive, in which he’ll soon be two and a half, in which we come to the park together every day, his hand in mine as we collect leaves, spot green parakeets, splash through puddles in brightly coloured wellingtons. A world in which his words are joining forces in the creation of sentences, in which he has favourite books, favourite toys, favourite games. A world in which my little boy is alive and thriving and I am free to love him as any mother should.
For the past two nights, I have lain awake, Stephen sleeping soundly beside me, wondering how I will ever forgive myself for failing to check on Henry that final night. Stephen may have forgiven me – or, at least, is doing a valiant job of feigning forgiveness – but it is more than I deserve.
Since first catching sight of Zahira and Elyas in the park a fortnight ago, I have been aware of an ache deep in my heart, and I didn’t understand where it had come from. But now I know who it’s for and I cannot absolve myself for ever having forgotten. Because what kind of a mother forgets her grief at the loss of her child?
‘Why didn’t he tell you before?’
Zahira’s question punctures my thoughts, and I remember Stephen’s crumpled features as we sat on the sofa, anguish writ large on his face. ‘He thought it would be too much for me, after finding out about my parents.’ I do not tell her that I fear he was right, that there are moments when I do not know how to bear this trio of losses. I feel strangled by grief, as though it is sucking all the air from my lungs until there is nothing left but a pair of spent balloons.
‘I’m so sorry, Anna. I can’t imagine what this must be like for you, or what you must be going through.’
Neither of us speaks for a few minutes. Looking around the playground at the collection of pre-schoolers, I wonder if it is a form of perverse self-punishment coming here: a stark, brutal reminder of all I have lost.
Zahira calls over to Elyas, reminds him to share the playhouse with two little girls trying to get through the door. She watches as he steps back and allows them inside. ‘I don’t want to interfere, but I do think it’s important that your husband’s honest with you about your past. I understand how difficult it must have been, having to tell you such painful things. But there must be a whole life of yours that you don’t yet know about. Wouldn’t it be better to find out?’
Zahira’s voice is gently persuasive and yet her words cause my pulse to race. ‘I think I’m scared that whatever I find out will be bad. And what if Stephen tells me everything and I still don’t remember? Where do I go after that? Maybe it means I’ll never remember anything for myself.’