We Own the Sky(99)

Anna looks at me sternly. “If you say sorry one more time, I will walk out and leave you here with the bill.”

I let out a little laugh. “Thank you,” I say, “for being so nice. I don’t deserve it.”

“No, you don’t.” She gives me another stern look that turns into a smile and we sit, taking a breath, sipping our drinks.

“Can I ask,” Anna says, breaking the silence, “how much do you remember

about what happened? After Jack died, I mean.”

“Not much,” I say, a pang of shame that she is asking, the fear that I will hear more about the things I did. “It’s a bit blurry, to be honest, just bits and pieces.”

“Did you know that every night after Jack died, I set my alarm for midnight or one o’clock and got up to check on you?”

I didn’t say anything, couldn’t look her in the eye.

“Every night I thought you might die, choke on your own vomit or

something.” She stops, evaluates the expression on my face. “I’m not saying it to shame you. That’s what you always thought. No, you were ill, Rob. You had a breakdown, and I just didn’t know what to do. I tried to get you help, a place in a rehab clinic, but you refused.

“So that was that. I didn’t know what to do, so, like you, I just withdrew into my own little world, as well. I worked long hours, I read my books, all my silly crime novels. And then when you started drinking even more, the arguments started, about every little thing—Sladkovsky’s clinic, how I was always so cold, Jack’s room. God, we spent so long talking about the room. You accusing me of clearing everything out. I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

I am confused and don’t know what to say. I remember the boxes and bags,

stacked up in the hall. “I thought we did clean it out.”

“Rob,” she says firmly, leaning forward across the table, “we didn’t. We just didn’t. One day, I took a couple of things out because I couldn’t look at them anymore, and you started a huge argument with me and had it in your head that I was throwing things away. But I wasn’t, I just wasn’t. All those boxes and bags, they were mine. That was mine, the stuff I was taking to Lola’s. I still have all of Jack’s things, Rob. They’re in my attic in Gerrards Cross.”

I try to think back, to find a foothold somewhere, but I am slipping, losing my grip. She touches my arm across the table.

“Rob, I’m not saying this to hurt you or make you feel ashamed, but you were so drunk you couldn’t even remember your own name. You didn’t know what day it was. You couldn’t remember the reason you walked into a room half the time.”

I think Anna is about to cry. I can tell from the minute quiver of her cheek, the way she bites her lip, but she stops herself, steels herself.

“I hated seeing that. The man I loved, just destroying himself. I wanted to help you because I knew this wasn’t the real you, and I felt like I owed you...”

“Why on earth would you owe me?”

Anna looks at me, intently, as if this is something she has thought about and wanted to say for a long time. “Do you remember Jack’s Zoo? How you were the zookeeper and he was the boss, the zoo’s owner, and he would always tell you what to do.”

Jack’s Zoo. We played that game for hours in his bed, making enclosures for the animals among the pillows and duvet, lining up Tiger, Monkey, and Ellie Elephant. And Jack, as the boss, would tell me which animals to feed, and then he would go to each one, asking them if they had enough food and inspecting their bottoms to see if they were clean.

“Yeah, I do,” I say, smiling, and I remember the way Jack shouted “Zoo

open!”, his bedroom blinds casting warming licks of sunshine onto the floor. “He was so funny. So particular about certain things. The zoo had to be on the bed except...”

“The lion’s cages,” Anna says, finishing my sentence.

“Yes, exactly. For some reason, with the lions he felt it was okay to move the zoo onto the floor. With the two pillows for their cages.”

Anna takes out a tissue from her bag and wipes her eyes. I still don’t

understand why she is telling me all this. Why would she feel that she owed me?

“He was always so happy with that game,” I say, “he could play it for hours.”

“And do you remember bath time? After he was dry and he was in his

pajamas, and then you would hide. And he would come and look for you, and then you would jump out and Jack just thought it was the funniest thing and wanted to do it again and again. You two could play for hours like that.”

Anna’s face drops, and she looks sullenly down at the table. “I know that was never my strong point,” she says. “I’ve never been particularly good at being silly. Even as a child, playing games, rolling around on the floor—it just doesn’t come naturally to me. And this, Rob, all this is why I felt I owed you, because you were so good at that. You made Jack’s life so wonderful. You made our home such a happy place for him, so alive with fun and laughter and joy—so much joy. God, all the games you invented—the dressing up, the rocket ships, the superhero stories, playing with your bloody helicopters in the back garden.

“Or when you played crocodiles with him and he was on the bed throwing