Finding You (8 page)
Authors: Giselle Green
Is it something to do with her?
When I push at our bedroom door, a mixture of disappointment and relief hits me as the familiar freshly laundered scent from Hadyn’s room wafts over me. Oh. Mum’s been in here too, hasn’t she?
When I step inside, the whole room is fresh and pristine. It’s like coming into a hotel bedroom that’s just been serviced, all very pleasant and yet ... I am left with the dissatisfaction of not knowing.
When I pull open the wardrobes, I can see only Charlie’s clothes. His shirts and his jackets and his trousers. In the box at the foot of the bed, only his shoes. In the en suite, the sink and the loo and the wall tiles are all wiped sparkly clean. There is not a single discarded tissue with the wrong-coloured lipstick. Not a single one of her hairs, long and warm light brown, on my en suite sink. Not a speck of dust. Once again, I feel that strange mixture of relief and regret. Mum has been so thorough in her cleaning, she’d give a forensic department a run for their money any day. If Lourdes ever was in here, she’s been airbrushed out altogether. She might—who knows?—have been a momentary distraction. But now she’s nothing more than what she was when I first met Charlie—history. So, I frown, why am I still feeling so disturbed by it all, by the possibility that she was ever in here?
Is this just jealousy? The psychic’s words come back to me again.
You are going to be shown things the way they really are, Julia. The fog you are experiencing now is going to lift. Be ready for it.
Be ready. Huh! I think,
how can you be ready for a thing when you don’t know what that thing is?
I push at the door of the bathroom cabinet, and it closes with a smart thud. It is full of Charlie’s things, only Charlie’s things and nobody else’s. God, I must be mad. Why am I even doing this? Given his job, there are always going to be beautiful women hovering around the edges of Charlie’s life. Always. I’ve never had a problem with that before, so why am I having such a hard time, feeling like this now? Is it because Lourdes was special to him, his fiancée long before I ever came into the picture?
And then it dawns on me; it is not.
This isn’t even
about
Lourdes, is it? All these uncomfortable feelings that I’m having. These are about Charlie. This is about his uncanny ability to switch from one to the other of us, seemingly as easy as pie. He was with her. Then he was with me. Then he was with her again and now ...
It bugs me. It
really
bugs me. That Charlie can be so inconstant. That he seems to form an attachment to whoever is giving him the greatest comfort in his life at any given moment. Right now, he is with me but what if—heaven forbid—the picture were ever to change again, for any unforeseen reason? We’re home now, we have our child back. But what if it were to turn out that our lives couldn’t be as rosy and as perfect as Charlie’s always envisioned his life would be? Will he go forth looking for pastures new?
I lean forward and open up the window a fraction, hearing the sound of new voices as Charlie and Dick are back. Our neighbours Jacob and Louise seem to have come over, and the bloke from over the road, and Mum’s gone out. I can hear them, all talking at once, asking questions and laughing in an almost hushed and reverent kind of way, and I know they’re probably asking for me but right now, I don’t want to go out and show my face. I feel as if I’ve got stage fright. I open up the window as wide as it will go and take in one or two gulps of air.
There’s the lightest of rain—no more than a drizzle—bearing down at the moment. The day has become dank, the lawn has that dark, misty green hue to it, and now they’re all coming inside and Mum’s as sanguine as ever, ushering them in, saying sensibly, ‘Upon us all, a little rain must fall, eh?’
It must. And it will. And when it does, I still can’t help but wonder whether Charlie will be any different with me next time. Will he stick around long enough for things to get better?
10 - Julia
When I woke up this morning and tip-toed down the stairs, it was so early, the rest of the household was still asleep and I was glad of it. Glad to have a few quiet moments to myself to reconnect with my own home, to remember all the good times that we had here before the tragedy that came into our lives. Downstairs, the kitchen was beautifully warm despite the early hour. I sat at my table and admired the beautiful country oak units that were mine to enjoy again, part of
my
home, and recalled all the plans that we had once sat in this place and made together. There was the tree house Charlie was going to have built for Hadyn in the garden, for one. We’d left the apple orchard standing out at the very back, too, because the trees gave this place a sense of homeliness and self-sufficiency. I’d thought,
I will make loads of apple pies for tea and in the autumn, we’ll put them in barrels and use them at Halloween for dunking when all Hadyn’s friends come round.
We’d been going to turn one of the downstairs reception rooms into a playroom where he could invite his mates over for sleepovers.
These are things we can still do now
, I’d realised as I stood by the window this morning, feeling full of a deep relief at just
being
here, being home. There had been some little blue tits fluffing up their feathers in the bird bath which yesterday’s rain had happily filled. There’d been a line of water drops along the length of my washing line, reminding me I should put my machine on, get a wash load going because we’d brought back a load of dirty clothes from Spain.
When I got into the utility room, some of Mum’s efforts from yesterday were already in full evidence. She’d clearly been busy. She’d even washed the curtains and the cushion covers from the spare downstairs room. In the basket, there were a pile of things she must have rummaged around in the rest of the rooms to find, already washed and dried and waiting to be ironed. Seeing all those things there, the trouble which Mum had taken to try and sort things out for us, I’d felt so full of gratitude, taken care of. I’d felt something I hadn’t for a long while, that there was someone standing there at the back of me, overseeing things. After the trepidation of arriving back yesterday with all that hope in my heart battling with the memories of how I’d left here in November, I’d felt that I really
was
back in my own place at last. I had my own people around me, and it had felt good.
Had I been expecting to find one of Lourdes’ crumpled t-shirts in a forgotten pile in the laundry room this morning? I had not. A little pink thing, it was, with roses embroidered all around the neck, such a pretty thing and yet the horror of finding it there, that foreign piece of clothing masquerading in amongst the rest, it had caught me like a punch in the belly. I hadn’t expected it. After I’d gone through the place yesterday, I’d thought I was safe, wouldn’t come across any sign of her at this stage and yet, there it had lain, all along.
A hundred questions had tumbled into my mind when I’d come across that thing; why had she taken her t-shirt off? Had she slept in it, perhaps, left it under the pillow the next day? Had she slept without it? I tortured myself for a good hour this morning before the rest of the household got up, spent a long time deliberating over whether I should confront Charlie with it or not because, really, what would he say? That Lourdes had stayed over in the spare bedroom one night; must have left her t-shirt behind under the pillow and that’s how it had ended up with Mum putting it through the wash?
I hadn’t wanted to go there.
I
don’t
. Besides, that could be the simple truth. I decide I will not mention it. Because I already know that whatever’s left that needs working through between Charlie and me, the only way
she
will ever get to him is through the cracks that remain between us.
11 - Julia
The gravelly sound of the curtains being opened pulls me out of the deepest slumber and I open my eyes to see that it's morning again. Our second day back. I groan, closing my eyes, and now I feel Charlie come sit down on our bed. He leans over me. For one lingering moment as he kisses my forehead, I breathe in the male scent of him, warm and musky sweet. I stir, longing for him to stay close but he sits up.
‘So.’ He touches my arm gently. ‘Now that your parents left at the break of dawn, what plans have we got for today?’
Plans
? I think, my mind still swimming to the surface, ‘They’ve gone already? How?’ I open my eyes now to see him looking thoughtful. He’s not wearing any PJ top, though the morning has a chilly edge to it.
‘I ordered a taxi for them at six-thirty a.m. They wanted to catch the first train out and they were adamant they didn’t want to disturb you. Your mum says she’ll give you a ring later.’
‘Okay.’ I say.
‘And I need to give Angus a ring. He left me a message to contact him at the clinic. I also need to contact Dad’s carer Rolli. I can’t put off going up to see Dad for too much longer; I’m back at work soon.’
I smile. ‘Aren’t you coming back to bed, then?’ I slink back under the duvet. It’s Tuesday morning already, I think, and this is the first time we’re getting alone together since we’ve got back. ‘Seeing as it’s so early ...’
‘I can if you want.’ There’s a smile in his voice as he joins me in bed now. His body is warm though his arms are cold. I feel and see the hairs standing up on his skin. ‘Even though it’s not
quite
so early anymore.’
‘What time is it?’ I murmur.
‘Eight-thirty.’
‘And Hadyn’s still asleep?’ I enquire hopefully. The gentlest touch of his fingertips on my arm is sending shivers down my spine right now.
‘Your parents were up with him at five a.m., apparently. You had to get up with him last night, too?’
‘Mmmm.’ Hadyn’s not been at all settled since we brought him back here Sunday. I’m hoping that’s not going to last.
‘I’ve put him back in his cot now. He looked shattered.’
‘So. They’ve all gone then. And Hadyn’s asleep,’ I observe.
I hear him draw in a breath. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he whispers in my ear. ‘I missed you when I woke up in the night and you were gone,’ he says.
‘I’m sorry you … you missed me.’
‘Do
you
miss
me,
J?’ He leans in a little closer and for a moment, I am entirely sure he is going to kiss my lips.
‘Yes,’ I whisper hoarsely. ‘Of course I do.’
I miss you all the time
, I think. Not just here in bed. It’s like there’s been some sort of invisible barrier between us for months. I’ve missed being able to talk to you as openly and freely as I’d like. I miss the guy I used to be able to share a joke with and express all my innermost hopes and fears with.
I miss the way we were together, before.
‘I hoped … once we got home, that everything would fall magically back into place.’ I lay a hand over his fingers, and Charlie doesn’t move. He just lies there beside me, his face just inches from my own, listening. He’s tense. I can feel it. It’s as if he’s dreading to hear what it is I’m going to say next. What is it, I wonder, that he’s expecting me to say to him?
‘We need to speak, don’t we?’ he says sadly. ‘You said so when we were at the airport, but with all our house guests here ...’
‘You want to speak now?’ I feel a wave of disappointment wash over me. Of course I want to us to speak, but not
now
. I want us to make love right now, not
speak
. I reach up to kiss him and he responds eagerly, rolls over to lie on top of me, and our kiss is long and sensuous. For a moment, all my sadness and misgivings melt into nothing. I love Charlie so entirely and completely. How could I have forgotten what it is like to be lying here enveloped in his arms; how this is the one place where I feel truly and completely happy and at peace?
He lifts up his head a little, coming out of the kiss. When he smiles at me, his eyes still look a little sad, I see.
‘Shall we?’ he suggests. ‘Clear the air?’ His words sink into my chest, intruding, heavy. Who cares about all the other things that crowd in to bother us the rest of the time? I don’t want to know about them. I don’t want to think about them, I only want Charlie right now, but when I look into his eyes, I see that he is tortured. I want him, I
need
him, but something small and stubborn inside me stops me from telling him that.
‘I guess we do need to talk,’ I say unhappily. He slides his arm beneath me, turns me a little so I’m facing him, lying in his arms, lying so near I can feel his heart beating, so close I can feel the warmth of his breath on my face.
‘Am I still not forgiven for not believing in you, my love?’
‘I
have
forgiven you,’ I whisper. I don’t want to talk about this now. But he needs to, I can see that, and so we must. But, how to explain this to him? I smile at him sadly. ‘I have forgiven you, Charlie. It’s just that ... I can’t be sure anymore, can I?’
‘Sure of what? Of me? I made
my
decision that day in the park, J. Or are you telling me ...’ He looks suddenly bereft. ‘Are you saying that I’m not who
you
want anymore?’
‘I do want you, Charlie. I want our family to work, more than anything. This—all this—it’s all I’ve ever wanted.’
‘And yet?’ He lifts his chin a fraction.
‘And yet ... surely a relationship is supposed to be about working on things together, Charlie? Sometimes I get the impression you’d much sooner get out of the way than deal with those things you feel too uncomfortable to deal with.’
He looks utterly confounded. ‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me now, J.
What
haven’t I wanted to deal with?’ he challenges. ‘Ever since we’ve had him back ... what?’
‘You got out of going to Lourdes’ party, for one,’ I remind him, and I see a pained look cross his face. ‘I didn’t want to go. You arranged for all of us to attend and then... you bottled out.’
‘I didn’t bottle out of it,’ he protests. ‘I had a reason ...’ He sits up a little, propped on his elbows.
‘What reason?’ I sigh. ‘A pleasure trip on your brother’s boat?’
‘No.’ He pauses for a moment and I can see his breath coming harder, faster, while he struggles with some inner thoughts. ‘Look. Rob had some important information to share with me, that’s all. It was he who suggested that we leave Spain soonest.’
‘That came from him?’ I look at Charlie in surprise. ‘
Why
?’
‘He had all our best interests at heart, J.’
‘Perhaps.’ I fold my arms. ‘When it comes to your brother, my love, I am never quite sure.’
Charlie looks hurt, now. ‘You don’t believe it’s the truth?’
‘It’s part of the truth.’ I watch his face carefully.
It’s not all of it, though, is it?
‘I think another part of the truth is that you were glad of an excuse not to have to go to Lourdes’ party because you didn’t want to face her.’
Charlie is silent for a bit. When he comes back, he feels a little more distant. ‘I see. What is it that you imagine I didn’t want to face?’
‘I have no idea. You tell me.’
‘Tell you
what?
’ He gets up, suddenly agitated. ‘I have nothing to tell you, for Christ’s sake, Julia. Nothing. She and I are history. Why won’t you believe it?’
‘Oh, Charlie!’ I sit up too, holding the duvet cover to me, the morning so much colder now that he is gone. ‘Don’t you see? I
do
believe it. I believe it because I saw it in her eyes the minute she caught sight of your son. I saw that she didn’t know it—she didn’t really believe it herself—till that moment.’
‘So this
is
about her, then?’
I laugh. A high-pitched, strange laugh that comes from somewhere deep inside of me because he isn’t getting it at all and Charlie carries on, still trying to make some sense of it all, still trying to convince me ...
‘When you saw her with me at the funeral—I was only with her because ... I needed someone to comfort me. And you’d already left me, J.’
I never
left
him!
‘That letter
you
left
me
at the house said we should have some
space
away from each other,’ I remind him. ‘It didn’t suggest we should start exploring other options ...’
‘But ... you’d gone to Spain,’ he points out weakly.
‘I went to Spain,’ I agree, ‘to do what I had to do. To finish what only I could finish. Because there was no one left.’
That hurts. I see it in his eyes.
‘I am so sorry, my love.’ His eyes fill with tears. ‘I don’t know how to say it anymore. What way can I say it that’ll make you believe me, that it is the truth?’ He looks around our bedroom now, and I can see that he’s shaking. ‘When Lourdes came back here with me that night ...’
I lean forward and lay my hand on his arm, shake my head. ‘Don’t.’ I say. I don’t want to hear about them together.
‘Don’t? You will never believe me then, will you? And we will never, ever get past the fact that I wasn’t there for you. That instead of sticking by you, I failed to do that.’
My throat hurts. It hurts so bad that right at this moment, I can’t even speak to answer him.
‘It isn’t what you failed to do that troubles me the most, Charlie,’ I get out eventually. ‘It’s what you still
might
do.’
He looks mortally wounded at this. ‘You’re saying that you don’t trust me anymore? You still believe that I may one day want to go back to her?’
The thought of them together still burns me, yes it does. But there’s an even bigger issue at stake here and he isn’t seeing it.
‘To her. To some other woman. To an emergency operation for some desperate, very deserving patient; to an unnecessary boat trip with your brother; to a cave up a remote mountain side somewhere. Yes; any of those things, if the going gets tough enough.’
Charlie looks astonished at his accusation. ‘Have you any
idea
of the number of times I’ve needed to tough it out in my life? Julia, I have performed surgery in a tent in the tropical jungle in the middle of the monsoon ...’
He gets up and walks to the window where I can’t see his face anymore but I can
feel
all the tension he’s holding inside, all his anger and his frustration and his desperate, implacable sadness.
‘I’m sure you could perform surgery whilst paragliding down a mountain if need be,’ I tell him brokenly. ‘But bodies aren’t the only things that can go wrong with people, Charlie. What about people’s hurt feelings? What about when their expectations get dashed and their hopes torn to shreds and their hearts get broken?’
‘I am sorry,’ he says again. When he turns from squinting out at the grey light that is coming through the window, I can see the tears that are streaming down his face. ‘I am sorry that I broke your heart. I am sorry that I was not there for you and I let you and our boy down so badly and ... you’re right.’ He sits back down tentatively on the edge of the bed. ‘I don’t know how to mend broken hearts. I hoped maybe you would know about that one, J. I hoped maybe you would be the one to teach me?’
I lift the duvet cover a little and he slides back under it, wanting the same thing that I want: peace, a loving relationship, the sense that at last we have come back home. When he comes to me and we make love, it feels—just for now—like old times, how I have longed for us to feel.
Outside, the sullen April morning has turned wet. A chill breeze repeatedly lifts and drops the edges of our bedroom curtains, playing peek-a-boo with the day. The doorbell sounds.
‘It’ll be that journalist that left a message saying they’d drop by today,’ Charlie murmurs. Neither of us shifts to go to it, and eventually, whoever it is, they give up and go away.
For a long while after, we lie still in each other’s arms and listen to the rain beating a tattoo against the bin lid outside, the garden bench, flattening the grass. It comes down so hard, I wonder how long it can rain before the sky runs out of water.
And I wonder how long it will be okay for us to just lie here, not getting out of bed, refusing to face anything out there in the world because the minute we do ...
We might break the fragile peace that we have recovered.
