The Girl in the Mirror(74)

I climb into bed and check my emails for what seems like the thousandth time. I keep imagining that I’m chatting to Ben. “How did you recognize me? Did you know it was me before I turned around?” Friendly chitchat. I imagine us laughing about it.

But this will never happen. Even though he is the only person on earth who knows who I am, I can’t talk to him. As soon as I get his email telling me “how things stand,” our relationship will be over. And although I’m the one who did something unforgivable, that isn’t what has destroyed it. What will destroy it is his email. His demands.

The longer Ben’s silence has stretched out, the more I have allowed myself to hope. Perhaps he has changed his mind. Perhaps I won’t hear from him for a long time. As long as I don’t get this email, he hasn’t slammed the door on forgiveness.

But now I remember what he said. He didn’t say he was going to send an email. He said, “I’ve sent you some emails.” He had already done it.

I look through my spam folder, my social folder. I check Facebook and WhatsApp. Nothing.

And why did he call me “sister”? He had already called me Summer in front of Colton. He said “sister” so pointedly. Was he trying to tell me something without Colton realizing?

Why did he think he needed to tell me to check my email?

I’ve been checking the wrong account.

I have to log in as Iris. It makes sense; what could be more secure than emailing someone who is dead? Adam might read Summer’s emails, but no one will read Iris’s.

I tap at my phone, logging out as Summer, and type in my old email address, but I can’t remember my password. I’m afraid to go through the password recovery process. I can’t risk some notification going out through the ether that someone is trying to log into Iris Carmichael’s account.

In the walk-in closet at home, the suitcase that I brought on board Bathsheba has sat, unopened, since we returned from the Seychelles. My old phone is inside, along with my forgotten belongings: my sleazy dresses, my lipsticks in jealous shades of red and maroon. My phone was permanently logged into my email account. The password was autosaved.

The battery will be dead. Perhaps the phone is dead. I’m not sure if I can get into my email any other way.

Adam was going to drive straight to Cairns. Annabeth will be looking after Tarquin at the penthouse; she moved back into it a couple of weeks ago. Annabeth invited Virginia to stay at the penthouse, too.

No one will be home.

I’m clinging to the thought that Ben’s behavior doesn’t quite make sense. I’m missing something. He was out of the room for a few minutes before he came in and told me he had sent me “some emails.” Not just one email.

I have to get my phone.



Leaving the hospital without my baby is like wrenching my heart out of my chest. I’ll be back in an hour, and nobody needs to know I’ve gone, but it’s still hard to make myself leave. I have to force my aching body out of bed and force my feet to turn away from Esther, toward the exit.

I walk out of the ward in my hospital gown and slippers, carrying my dress and shoes in a plastic bag. I’ve got the house key, the iPhone, and some cash. I’ve left everything else behind, even Summer’s wallet. Hopefully, the ward staff will think I’m in the neonatal unit, and the neonatal staff will think I’m on the ward. If I am caught, I can say I wanted fresh clothes, but I know this will seem strange. New mothers don’t care that much about their clothes.

I dart into the stairwell, throw my dress over my gown, and switch my footwear. I’m transformed from patient to visitor. Giving birth at seven months has its advantages; I look pretty trim already. I hurry down two flights of stairs and I’m outside. No one has even glanced at me.

In order to make a discreet entrance, I give the taxi driver an address a few houses down the road from our place. I would like to get out of the cab farther away from home, but it’s a steep walk up to the house and my legs are still weak. It’s just over twenty-four hours since Esther was born.

Night is falling as I walk up the driveway. Everything is quiet and dusky, although I can see blue light flickering from the living room. Adam must have left the TV on.

I let myself in the front door and hurry to the alarm, but Adam has forgotten to set it. There are fresh flowers in the entrance, and Colton’s stack of papers is on the kitchen counter. I guess Adam has caught up with him at last.

I drop my keys on the papers and glimpse Adam’s messy handwriting. It’s the birth certificate application form, signed by me and Adam. The name on the form is Rosebud Carmichael.

I look again, willing the letters to spell out “Esther,” willing there to be a mistake. I am sure I watched Adam tear this form in two. When he brought me the second form, did I check that it said Esther before I signed?

TV noise blares from the living room: cartoon voices, a children’s program. I walk around the corner. Sprawled on the carpet in the growing dark, his eyes fixed on the screen, is Tarquin.

Damn, Annabeth is here. I’m going to have to pull the fresh underwear excuse. Why hasn’t my mother taken Tarquin to the penthouse? Hasn’t she been looking after him there all afternoon?

Or perhaps Adam’s still here. Annabeth never lets Tarquin watch TV.

“Adam!” I call.

Tarquin turns and spies me. “You’re not my mummy,” he says.