We Own the Sky(100)

pillows and teddies down at you on the floor. I tried it with him once and managed about ten minutes before my knees started to hurt, but you would keep going for hours. I just couldn’t do that, not in the same way. And I’m so ashamed of that and wish I wasn’t like that. But you, Rob—you made him smile hundreds of times every single day, every single minute. Jack just adored you, and you made his life so special, much more than I ever could have done. He was the happiest little boy right up until the end, and that was because of you, Rob, and I will never, ever forget that...”

Anna stops speaking and looks at me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to make you cry.”

I look down and realize that I am weeping, tears splashing onto my plate.

Anna hands me one of her tissues from her handbag and gives me a moment to dry my eyes, to catch my breath.

“I still think about him every day,” she says. “Where he might be, what he might be doing if he was still here...”

“He’d probably be in his room, wouldn’t he?” I say. “Reading his books, or playing with his toys.”

Anna smiles sadly. “I feel guilty whenever I hear about these kids with

terminal cancer going to Disneyland or meeting celebrities,” she says. “Or their parents organizing one of those flash-mob dances. I always think of Jack, sitting in his bedroom for his last few months, humming songs to himself.”

“But, as you said, he was happy,” I say. “I remember you saying in one of your messages how you were worried that you weren’t a good enough mom, that you didn’t care enough. Well, you know that’s absolutely rubbish. You were a wonderful mom to him, Anna. You really were. Do you remember the birthday party and the Spider-Man cake you were up half the night making? He loved it so much. He was so happy that day.”

“Yes, he did,” Anna says sadly. “He was.” She looks down at her empty plate.

“Shall we get dessert?” she says, as if she wants to change the subject. She is distant again, as if she feels that she has opened herself up too much and must take a step back.

For the rest of the evening, through dessert and another glass of wine for Anna, we don’t talk about Jack—I think we deliberately don’t talk about Jack— but speak about old friends, their kids, divorces, new lovers. We pay the bill, and I walk Anna back to her hotel and it is an odd moment, with no clear idea of when or if we will see each other again.

“Please keep in touch,” I say, and we embrace awkwardly and she feels

smaller than I remember, the jut of her collarbone palpable on my skin. I want to cry, but I feel as if all the moisture has been wrung out of my body. “I know I’m not allowed to say sorry again, but I am,” I say. “I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

“It’s okay,” she says, and we are still holding each other, but I sense that she wants to pull herself away.

Just as we are parting, Anna turns to face me, as if she has forgotten

something. “Oh, I saw your website by the way. We Own the Sky.  Your photos, they’re just stunning. Really beautiful, and it’s lovely to see all the places we went.”

“You saw the website? How?”

“Er, it has your name on it, Rob. I Googled you. I know, I’m brilliant, aren’t I?”

“I’m just surprised.”

“Well, don’t be. As I said, they’re lovely, and it brings back such happy memories for me. Actually, if you must know, your website was how I kept tabs on you—well, apart from all the Facebook messages you sent my friends when you were drunk. Every time you posted a new photo I knew you were okay. I always told myself that when you stopped posting the photos, I would come and find you. But you didn’t. Every week, every single week, you kept on putting up new ones, and I knew you were fine. I knew you were alive. You probably didn’t realize, but I always commented on every photo.”

The mystery commentator, the first ping I always received as soon as the

panorama went live. Beautiful. Lovely. Take care of yourself.

“So you’re swan09?”

“Indeed, I am,” Anna says. “It wasn’t just about keeping tabs on you, though.

It made me so happy to see your photos, because that was the man I fell in love with. Someone who would build things, create things.

“Anyway, I’m rambling on,” she says, taking a step back. She looks at her watch, still the same chunky Casio. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got to be up early tomorrow.” And with that she is gone, disappeared inside the lobby of the hotel.





6

At the front of the hall cupboard are the four shopping bags stuffed full of Nev’s letters. I take out the bags and go into the living room. Some of the letters have been bound together with ribbon and string, I presume by the man in Nev’s old house. Others are haphazardly slung inside. They are dusty, some a few years old, the paper drying out and fading. Some are newer, whiter, the pen strokes on the envelopes more clearly defined.

I hesitate as I start to open one. I think I know what the letters will contain.

Appeals from desperate people whose children were dying. Requests for

information, pleas to be bumped up the patients’ list. What was I supposed to do with them? Give them back to Nev? Write to them all and tell them that Nev is a fraud?