The House Swap(42)

The urge is strong and primal, blanking out thought. I drag my shoes on, snatch up the key and run down the three flights of stairs towards the front entrance. By the time I’m there they’ve turned away and they’re walking slowly down the road. The woman – Caroline’s mother, it must be – is clutching tightly on to the child’s hand, and the sight of them brings a rush of something so complex and undefinable it brings tears smarting to my eyes.

I follow them down the road to the bus stop, hanging back out of sight. They wait there for a few minutes. Eddie’s sitting on the red plastic bench, kicking his legs back against the glass and singing some loud, rambling song of his own invention. When the bus arrives, the woman takes his hand again. They climb on board and settle down into their seats, and as the bus pulls off I could swear Eddie looks straight at me for an instant, his eyes wide and clear. And although I know it means nothing to him, it feels like something has changed for good. I’ve moved into his orbit. He’s seen me. My image is locked away for good in the crevices and caves of his memory, and no one will ever be able to pull it out.



Away


Caroline, May 2015


I’M LISTENING TO Eddie down the telephone line, trying to piece together the funny, breathless narrative of what he’s been doing today. I can visualize the way he’s sitting on the staircase, one leg draped through the banisters, and balancing the phone awkwardly in the crook of his neck, muffling his words.

‘I miss you,’ I say. His voice is at once distant and near and the scent of the peppermint shampoo I use on his hair is suddenly in my nostrils and I want him here with me.

‘I miss you,’ he parrots back, in his clear, uncomplicated lilt. I clutch the phone to my ear, listening to the sound of his breathing, trying to work out what he is thinking. ‘Are you and Daddy coming back soon?’ he asks.

‘Three days,’ I say. ‘Not long at all.’ This is not how a holiday is meant to be. Living on countdown – ticking off the days until you can return home.

‘Nanny’s got biscuits,’ says Eddie distractedly. ‘They’re chocolate ones. Do you think I should have one? Would you like one, Mummy?’

‘Well, I’d like one,’ I answer, ‘but I can’t really have one, can I, because—’ As I speak, I realize that Eddie has cast the phone away and made off in search of the biscuits. His footsteps echo down the corridor, fading into silence. I hear him laughing, protesting in response to my mother’s half-hearted chastisement. I strain my ears to hear their conversation for a few more moments, then I give up and hang up. A minute or so later, a text comes through. Sorry! Lure of chocolate digestives too strong. Give us another call later, or tomorrow, if you like. All fine. Mum x

I imagine them settling down together in front of the television or a board game, and how it would be if I could step out of this room and into theirs – into the warm, orange light of the living room with my mother and my child, the strong and simple bonds between us. Closing my eyes, I’m almost there. And then I’m thinking about how it would be to walk into my own home … unlocking the front door and entering the hallway and seeing you by the window, turning around to greet me, and moving forward into your arms to be kissed. The feel of your stubble roughly on my face, and the tight grip of your hands around my waist, pulling me smoothly into your body to fit me there like a key clicking into a lock.

The picture jolts and sparks, blacking out. I’ve had these thoughts about you at times over the years – haven’t been able to avoid it, whether or not I wanted them. But I’ve never felt this complex mixture of emotions; desire and fear muddled up together. There’s a part of me which still can’t help but be excited at the idea that you’re back in my life, even in such a bizarre fashion. But another part – a growing part – is telling me that this isn’t the way it should be, and that there’s something wrong, dangerous even, in what’s happening here, something that I still don’t fully understand.

I glance at my phone again. You still haven’t replied to my last message. Yesterday evening when we got home from Brighton I drank too much, setting myself up for a restless night, and at three in the morning I was prowling around this kitchen, sitting at the table in the dark and typing thoughts to you that I never sent.

As I think of it, a horrible doubt grips me and, quickly, I scroll through my emails, exhaling in relief when I see that the message remains in my drafts. I don’t recognize my own words. Why haven’t you replied? Why are you doing it like this? Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to write?? You have no idea how much I missed you back then, how much I needed you – I thought it was going to kill me. And now you’re back but I didn’t think it would be like this and I don’t know why

The message ends there, an unspooling thread suddenly and brutally cut. Staring at it in horror, I wince. I must have been drunker than I realized.

I can’t help thinking of what Francis said to me last year, in the early days, when he was just starting to wake up and understand, about how recovery can only be taken day by day. At the time, I found it depressing. But that means I’ll never relax, I remember saying. If every day is the first day for you, then there’s no progression. But now I’m thinking that it’s taken only forty-eight hours for my own addiction to feel like it’s spiralling out of control, taking me with it. And almost two years has counted for nothing at all.