Before I Let You Go(117)

Maybe she’s right about that. I certainly feel guilty enough – and he did tell me exactly what would happen if I ever left him.

I gently shh-shh towards Zoe out of habit as I approach the door, and then rest her into a reclining position against my body as I swing the door open with my spare hand.

‘Ivy,’ I say, as warmly as I can. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine,’ she says, stiffly. She raises her hand towards me and offers me an envelope. ‘Ross brought this over this morning. It’s from the probate people so I thought you might need it.’

I take the envelope and look down at it. It’s addressed to The Estate of David Gillespie at 15 & 16 Winter Street, Milton Falls. Ivy and Wyatt are at number 21 Winter Street, just around the corner, but in the last few months Ross the mailman has been making executive decisions about our mail on a regular basis. Some mail addressed here has turned up at Mum and Dad’s house, and some mail addressed to me there has come directly here.

It is a well-intentioned gesture from Ross, but one that is irritating as hell, and I make yet another mental note to go into the post office and tell him to just stop and put the mail in the mailbox it’s addressed to. Maybe one day soon I’ll go through with it.

But then again, the post office is right in the village centre – a hotbed of other well-intentioned acquaintances and shameless gawkers – which is exactly why I haven’t yet managed to go there alone.

I adjust Zoe to cuddle her a little higher in my arms and glance at Ivy, and see her staring at the baby, and her lips are twitching as if she wants to say something. With my other hand, I reach for the door, and I try to wrap things up with a careful, ‘Well . . . thanks for dropping by . . . ’

‘Listen, Olivia . . . ’ Ivy says, and she’s frowning so deeply that I feel a twist in my gut. I see David in the shape of her icy blue eyes – but I also see pity there, and judgement, and the same gut-wrenching misery that follows me everywhere I go these days. Then Ivy stares at Zoe and I think that she’s going to ask to hold her, and I just can’t let her. My arms tighten automatically around my baby. ‘Do you . . . don’t you think it’s time—’

‘It’s only been a few weeks,’ I interrupt her. ‘It’s not time for anything yet.’

‘You’re still carrying on as if it only just happened. You don’t even leave the house; I heard that you don’t even get your own groceries.’ This accusation is flung at me with casual disgust, as if this due to sheer laziness; a character flaw. It’s not even true – I do get my own groceries . . . sometimes . . . when Mum or Dad or Louisa have time to walk to the store with me. But Wyatt owns that store – surely Ivy understands how difficult it is for me to walk in there, even flanked by protective family members. And besides which, I just don’t need to do the groceries very often because people are still constantly bringing me frozen meals. The chest freezer is full to the top with them, and the little freezer beside the fridge is almost as bad. Ivy’s nostrils flare a little, but she presses her lips together and then adds tightly, ‘You can’t carry on like this forever. It’s not what David would have wanted.’

The skin on my face is burning up and I close my eyes briefly to block out the sight of her – but when I do, I see David. It’s like the moment when I found him has burnt itself into my mind so deeply that if I close my eyes, I can still see the ashen tones of his face and the way he had slumped behind that steering wheel. I don’t have anything like a photographic memory and I keep thinking the image is surely going to fade eventually but, so far, time has done nothing at all to dim the detail in my mind.

And the absolute worst thing about this situation is that Ivy is actually dead wrong – because this is exactly what David wanted. Does she really not know that – or is she just throwing those words out as a platitude?

I open my eyes and I stare at her. I just want her to go away, and so I say what I think she wants to hear.

‘I’ll give it some thought.’

‘Have you at least considered seeing a therapist?’ she asks, and I’m about to tell her that yes, I-do-have-a-grief-counsellor-not-that-it’s-any-of-your-business-thank-you-very much but then she adds, ‘I mean . . . perhaps . . . maybe if you had asked David to see a marriage counsellor instead of—’

‘No.’ I say the word slowly and flatly, but it sounds weak even to my own ear. I tell myself that Ivy means well, but I am actually dizzy with outrage at her patronising tone. And I want to rage at her, but I can’t. Ivy lost her son – her only son and he was the apple of her eye too – but I don’t need to hear an accusation from her. I know all too well that what happened was entirely my fault. My indignation fades at this thought, and now all I feel are the feelings that run beneath my days like the foundation to my life; weariness and shame.

Ivy is staring at her feet, and she looks miserable too. So I can’t rage at her, but I won’t comfort her either. She speaks to me as if I am a child, but if I was really a child, wouldn’t she offer me sympathy, or grace to grieve as long as I need to, or even a modicum of support?

‘I’ll think about it, Ivy,’ I tell her, and I step back into the lobby of my house.

‘Olivia – it’s just that Wyatt and I . . . we really are—’

‘I have to go. Zoe needs to go to bed.’