The Mother-in-Law(68)

So I let him make it.

Tom’s not here.

I’ve spent so long trying not to be weak that I’d forgotten how wonderful it feels. For as long as I could remember, I’ve had to be strong for my family. And being strong has its payoffs. It makes you feel powerful, like you can face anything and survive. It’s the reason I’ve lived my life the way I have, working hard, not wallowing, not accepting weakness. But power is overrated. And being weak—and wallowing—is surprisingly lovely.

Tom’s not here.

I lie on the downstairs sofa and stare into the unlit fireplace. The cleaner comes and clears it out on Tuesdays and Thursdays and today is a Wednesday, which is a relief. I might cancel the cleaner. I can clean the house myself.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Tom says in my mind. But it’s not ridiculous. I’d always found the cleaners to be more of a hindrance than a help, to be honest. To me, cleaner day always meant a furious whip around to ensure I wouldn’t be deemed a pig, followed by a need to make myself scarce because being home, twiddling my thumbs, while some (invariably) foreign girl worked up a sweat scrubbing unspeakable things from my husband’s en suite toilet was just too awful to bear. Tom didn’t share my worries about cleaners. If he was home, he’d have languished on the couch, newspaper and coffee in hand. Once, I recall watching him lift one foot, then the other, as the girl vacuumed under his boots. He winked at her and she chuckled. Only Tom could get away with that.

Tom’s not here.

I’m not lonely. There are people I could call to keep me company. Ollie would come, I knew that. He’d leave the office in a heartbeat and come straight over, delighting in the opportunity to do a good deed for his old mum. This is probably the reason his business is failing—his priorities are out of whack. He needs to stay at work and make a living to support his wife and family.

Nettie might come if I asked—unless she was doing something related to making a baby. My position in her food chain is high, but not highest, which is exactly as it should be. Besides, I have the feeling she has her own issues. Since the sighting of Patrick in Daylesford, I’ve heard more whispers. Someone spotted him in Bright, someone else in Albury. Patrick, as it turns out, is a busy man. Once, I’d have confronted him, asked him what he had to say for himself. Now, I can barely find the will to get out of bed.

I could call Kathy or Liz or Jan. They’ve all been calling and texting, offering to drop off meals or take me out. Liz did manage to convince me to come to the Baths for drinks a couple of days ago, but I still haven’t quite recovered. The normalcy of it was simply too much and I am not ready for normal yet. Tom is dead. I don’t care about your daughter-in-law, or your fight with your husband or the funny story about your bladder-control issues and the dog park. I don’t care about any of it.

Because Tom’s not here.

I miss the feel of him. Even a week ago, when Tom was barely alive, I could still reach out and touch him. He was always physically warm, as well as the other type. His warmth was his superpower. People wanted him to lead them. Friends wanted to be around him. Our children loved him best.

I loved him best.

Mothers aren’t supposed to say that. But it’s the truth. I was born to love Tom Goodwin.

The doorbell rings. I ignore it. This couch feels like a life raft; the outside world is shark-infested waters. I grab the throw rug and pull it around my shoulders, hoping that sleep comes and carries me through until evening, when I can finally change into my pajamas and slide into the comforting blackness of evening. I might have some toast and a cup of tea, and put something on the television to take the edge off the silence as I rattle about in this big old place. Sometimes, at night, I pretend that Tom is still here. I pretend that I’m up and about, ready to stretch out another cramp, or give him another sip of water. Those moments we shared in the wee hours of the morning feel so unimaginably luxurious now, those stolen moments, he and I against the world.

“I’ll be right there, my love,” I whisper into the empty house. “You’ll feel better in a moment.”

The doorbell rings again.

“You get it, Tom,” I whisper, and close my eyes.





44: LUCY


THE PRESENT . . .

It’s dark when I hear the key in the lock. Nettie and Patrick have left, the kids are asleep and I’m on the couch, listening to nothing, staring at nothing.

“Ollie? Is that you?”

I hear keys drop into the bowl and then he appears in the living room. He flops onto the sofa, rests his head back onto the cushion and closes his eyes.

“What happened?” I ask.

He keeps his eyes closed. “They questioned me.”

“About what?”

“Everything.”

“Ollie—”

He opens his eyes. “Honestly, they questioned me about everything. What I was doing the day Mum died, my relationship with her. They asked about my relationship with Nettie, my relationship with you. My business.”

I frown. “Your business? Why do they care about that?”

“Well, clearly they knew things weren’t going so well. They had all our profit and loss statements. Debt is a pretty big motivation to kill someone.”

“But you didn’t profit from her death!”

“But I didn’t know I wouldn’t profit . . . this is something Jones kindly pointed out.”