The House Swap(84)

‘I’m glad we did this,’ you say, your words muffled in my hair.

‘Me, too,’ I’m saying, and we hold each other, your body pressed close against mine. Our lips are inches apart and, for a moment, I think we’re going to turn towards each other as easily and smoothly as we always used to. I can remember the way it felt to kiss you as clearly as if it were yesterday, and the possibility is so insanely close it makes my head swim. Your arms are suddenly rigid, locked around me, your breath coming hard and fast. And then you swallow and we’re moving apart and I have no idea who made the first move to do so.

‘Goodbye. Take care of yourself,’ you say, and you’re walking quickly away.

I don’t want to see you leave. I stare down at the table, my eyes still blurred with tears. At the last minute, I change my mind. I look up sharply, but it’s too late.

You’re gone, and the sense of resolution and serenity I felt for a few seconds is already draining away. Because this is how it goes, I realize. There are no words in existence that will ever make this story feel finished. We could see each other every day and talk long into the night, and I still wouldn’t make sense of it. I’m tired of searching for answers that aren’t there, or struggling to define what kind of love I felt or feel for you or how much it means. It doesn’t matter. It is what it is.



Going Home


Caroline, May 2015


IT’S PROBABLY ONLY five more minutes that I stay sitting there in the café after you leave but, when I force myself to stand up again and walk towards the exit, my eyes hurt with how bright the world outside seems. There’s a faint cool breeze blowing as I make my way down the street.

I’m still shaking a little, and there’s a soreness in my limbs. I almost welcome it. I’m ridding myself of the last vestiges of a fever that has gripped me so hard I can barely believe I’ve survived. Senseless euphoria is surging through me as I replay the last few minutes in my head. There are so many thoughts in my head they’re crowding each other out, leaving nothing but white noise.

I carry on down the high street, taking the left turn down the road that will lead me back to Everdene Avenue, and as I do so I’m aware of my phone vibrating. I pull it out and see that there’s a voice message, left only ten minutes earlier. I dial my voicemail and listen. When the message kicks in, there’s silence for a couple of seconds – a frustrated little intake of breath – and then I hear my mother’s voice. Hi, Caroline.

As soon as I hear it I know something is wrong. I stop dead on the pavement, immobilized. It must be only a split second before her voice begins again, but in that tiny, compressed rush of time I’m thinking – Eddie. Something has happened. My mother is calling to tell me my son is dead. And the force of this thought is such that it sweeps aside everything else in my head and burns its way into my brain, makes me lean back against the wall and close my eyes.

I don’t want to worry you, my mother’s voice continues, and although her tone is still tense and strained, I know that this is not how a tragedy is introduced. I breathe in sharply, sucking the air jaggedly down into my lungs, as if I’ve been saved from drowning. Eddie and I went to your flat this afternoon – it’s a long story, but anyway, we met the woman who’s staying there and, to be honest, she seems very disturbed. I’m not sure what’s going on, but it doesn’t feel quite right, Caroline, and I wanted to speak to you. We’re fine, don’t worry, but – well, just call me when you can.

My heart is thudding as I redial the number. She picks up almost at once, and I launch straight in, with no time for preamble. ‘What happened?’

My mother sighs. ‘I don’t know how to describe it,’ she says. ‘This woman – we bumped into her by chance and she invited us to come and see Paddy. She seemed perfectly nice but, while we were there today, she just – broke down. She was crying, and I couldn’t make sense of anything she said. I have no idea what was going through her head. Maybe it’s silly, but I feel uneasy about her being in your place. I know you’re coming back tonight, anyway, but I just thought you should know, and—’

‘I’m coming back now,’ I say. ‘I’m packing up my things and we’re coming back as soon as we can. I should be there in three or four hours.’

‘Well, maybe that’s a good idea,’ my mother says, clearly relieved. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you on your holiday. Have you been having fun?’

My throat closes up and I find that I can’t speak, the tears that have dried up only minutes before rising up again to choke me. I grip on to the phone, listening to the low buzz of the line. Before I can make myself reply, I hear a scuffling sound and the sudden loud breathing of my son at the other end of the phone. ‘Mummy,’ he says, and with the word the tears shrink back and I find myself saying his name in return, clear and strong.

‘I miss you,’ he says.

‘I’m coming back,’ I tell him. ‘Me and Daddy. We’ll be back today.’

‘That’s good.’ His voice is oddly adult, reflective and thoughtful. ‘Because then you can put me to bed.’

‘That’s right,’ I say. I’m filled with the desire to say something to him that he won’t forget – to make him realize that I understand what matters, even if I’ve lost sight of it for so long. ‘I love you,’ I begin, but before I can say any more he’s pressed the wrong button and cut the call off.