I Trust You (4 page)

Chapter 6

M
arisa was compelled to book a taxi cab for Lyme Regis and then stand on the driveway with her arms folded across her chest until Roger and Trudy finally got in it and the vehicle drove away.

              She knew they meant well, but her parents wanted their daughter to return with them immediately to Bristol. They wouldn’t stop going on about it. Roger had already been on the phone to Marisa’s godfather, who was a retired psychotherapist. A number of sessions had been pencilled in for her, on a purely informal basis.

              Marisa knew she could never have borne it. Anyway, she needed to be in White Bay to get her blood test results from Dr Ford, not to mention wanting to remain in her own home with Eliot.

              She waved enthusiastically until the shiny people carrier had wound down the twisty track and disappeared along the main road out of town. A weight seemed to lift from her chest the further her parents travelled away from her. Marisa would be free of their interference and constant nagging. She was an only child. Trudy and Roger had adopted her when she was three years old. Although Trudy had no biological connection to Marisa, ironically, she’d struggled to have a baby of her own too.

              The house was absolutely still and quiet. After the excitement of the previous few days, Marisa liked it this way. She moved into the spacious kitchen and prepared a pot of fresh coffee – de-caffeinated – just in case. This was the first opportunity she’d experienced to consider what had happened on the day of the party. Her health had much improved since. Mainly because there was a possibility that a baby might be growing inside her, Marisa was eating well and resting lots. Strangely, this seemed to have shifted her entire outlook on the world. She now felt more positive and less inclined to anxiety and tearfulness. Eliot had complimented the change in her, which was exactly what Marisa craved; his approval and encouragement.

              Carrying a cup of coffee into the downstairs study, she slid a large photo album out of the bookcase. Its plastic covering had become dog-eared and torn. She sat cross-legged on the wooden floor and flicked through the pages.

              The adoption agency had provided some photographs of Marisa with her foster parents. The Dorans had taken in dozens of children over the years. Their large, Victorian house was situated in the centre of Southampton.

              It was a story that Trudy often told. She would describe in great detail the day when they drove to Southampton in their Ford Sierra to pick up the little girl who was to become their daughter. Marisa had been playing in the narrow back garden with the other children, her blond curls were unruly and in need of a cut. But she immediately smiled at her new parents, settling into life with them relatively easily.

              The pictures in the first half of the album were of that blond little girl from about the age of two, when she’d been taken into the care of the local authority from an alcoholic father and a young, ineffectual mother. Marisa didn’t know much about the pair beyond their names. She’d asked for this information to be disclosed by the authorities several years earlier, with no intention of attempting to make contact.

However much she griped about Trudy and Roger, they were her mum and dad. Marisa knew she was as close to them as her friends had ever been to their birth parents – more so, in some cases.

              For some reason, Marisa had wanted to look at the other children she shared those three years of her early life with in Southampton. Because of her long battle to become a mother, Marisa had read pretty much every lay person’s guide to child psychology that had been published and a few professional ones to boot.

              It occurred to her that the manifestation of the boy she saw on the clifftop may have been a memory of one of the youngsters who’d played such a crucial role in her own toddler years. She scanned the snapshots closely, but none of the other children looked remotely like him. These poor youngsters were bony and slightly bedraggled. Their pale faces had that haunted look of the unwanted. The boy she saw crawling amongst the tall grasses in the bright sunlight was plump, well-dressed and she was quite certain – loved.

              When the doorbell rang, Marisa had finished her drink and was at the section of the album devoted to her life in Bristol. She was posed in smart school uniforms receiving prizes at her junior school and in her stripy leotard at gymnastic competitions.

              Marisa opened the door to Sam Carter. He stood reluctantly on the threshold, a potted plant held in his hands. The simple gift contrasted oddly with his designer suit. ‘I don’t want to disturb you, Mrs Coleman.’

              ‘Not at all, please come in. Is that for me?’

              Sam thrust the geranium into her extended hand. ‘It was Talia’s choice.’

              ‘It’s lovely. I’ll put it out on the patio later.’ Marisa led her guest into the kitchen. ‘I’ve just made a pot of coffee. Would you like one?’

              ‘Yes please.’ He perched on one of the padded stools at the shiny breakfast bar, shrugging off his jacket. ‘I’ve just come back from visiting a client. He’s shown an interest in the new power cruiser we’ve got in production, but the guy is seriously hard work. He’s not yet signed over the deposit. The chaps at the boatyard need it for manufacturing costs.’

              For the first time, Marisa considered how tough it must be for salespeople. You really were completely at the whim of others. She placed a cup of coffee on the bar in front of him.

              ‘Thank you. I don’t want to cause you any bother. Eliot told me that the doctor prescribed plenty of rest.’

              ‘Oh, I’m much better already, thanks. Lots of sleep and good food has already done the trick.’

              Sam took a breath and ran a hand through his thinning hair. ‘The reason I came was to apologise.’

              Marisa crinkled her forehead. ‘What on earth for? I should be thanking you.’

              ‘Well, I realise you were acting on instinct by running after Ellie and Jack. You know how close your place is to the cliff edge. I can’t thank you enough for wanting to protect them. You must think Talia and I are shockingly bad parents.’

              ‘Hardly.’ Marisa slipped onto the stool opposite, having poured herself another cup.

              Sam gazed down at the sparkling white granite. ‘It’s just that Talia is on this independence kick at the moment. It seems as if she and the other mothers are in competition over who can give their kids the most freedom. Occasionally, it looks to me like they’re playing Russian roulette with their own toddlers’ safety. But if I make a move to intervene, Talia tears me off a strip for being a ‘helicopter parent’’.

              ‘It sounds like a minefield.’ Marisa was struggling to be sympathetic but failing. These people were blessed with healthy children, surely it was common sense to protect them from danger when the situation warranted it. She made a silent resolution that she’d never give in to peer pressure when she’d been rewarded with her own baby. 

              Sam was now watching her expression closely. ‘It was wrong of us to cause you unnecessary stress like that. The party must have been enough of a strain for you. No wonder you had that funny turn on the clifftop.’

              Marisa smiled. ‘That’s a tactful way of putting it.’

              Sam glanced about him. ‘Have your parents left already?’

              ‘They wanted to stay, but I made them carry on with their holiday. To be honest, they can be a bit of a handful, although I love them to pieces.’

              ‘Mine are the same. They drive Talia nuts.’

              Marisa chuckled, sipping her coffee and feeling relaxed.

              ‘But you shouldn’t really be left on your own in this big house right now.’ Sam put up a hand. ‘Sorry, I realise it’s none of my business.’

              ‘Eliot is very busy at the marina. You of all people know that.’

              ‘Yes, I do. But still.’ He twisted the cup in its saucer. ‘Make sure you don’t cut yourself off from your family. They seemed like good people. And get a few friends over for a coffee morning. I know they’re probably the very last people you’d want to see right now, but Talia could come round with the kids any time.’

              Marisa felt oddly touched. It was obvious how difficult it had been for Sam to make this speech. ‘I will do that, I promise. It’s just that right now I feel absolutely fine. A couple of days of peace and quiet are exactly what I need.’

Chapter 7

H
e was standing at the kerb, straining to see beyond the racing traffic to the tantalising expanse of green grass on the other side.

              The boy was holding someone’s hand, but this person was distracted, turning away, deep in conversation. To the child, a gap in the constant stream of cars appeared to have opened up. He glanced beside him and tugged at the arm which had him under restraint, was holding him back.

              This garnered no response. So he slipped his small hand from out of their light grip. Before anyone had a chance to notice, he’d gone – made a sudden dash for the other side. Still nobody realised. Not until they heard the bellow of a car’s horn and the agonising screech of brakes…

              Marisa sat bolt upright. Her breathing was hard and her heart pounded in her chest. She blinked rapidly and could immediately tell her eyes were damp with tears. She swung her legs to the side of the bed. As she did so, a searing cramp gripped her lower stomach and pelvis. Sensing she might be sick, Marisa scuttled into the en-suite bathroom and knelt on the rug by the toilet bowl.

              The pain had subsided, but she could feel the tell-tale sensation of a drip of warm blood snaking down between her legs. Marisa rolled herself up into a ball on the floor and sobbed.

*

Eliot was busily preparing a cafétiere of coffee and sipping from a glass of orange juice at the same time. ‘Morning, sweetheart!’ He called out as she entered, glancing briefly in her direction. ‘Not getting dressed yet?’

              Marisa pulled the dressing gown more tightly around her, slumping down into one of the cream leather dining chairs. ‘I got my period in the night.’

              This was a statement that in their ten years of marriage, Eliot had come to dread. He knew it would trigger several days of misery for both him and his wife as Marisa struggled to deal with the disappointment and with the returning memories of recent and more distant losses she’d been forced to endure.

              He moved across to stand beside her, leaning down to place a kiss on the top of her head. ‘I’m so sorry, darling.’

              ‘I was starting to get excited last night, knowing that Dr Ford would be calling me with the blood test results this morning.’ She sighed. ‘Turns out I didn’t need them after all.’

              Eliot squeezed her tightly. He knew from long experience that there wasn’t much he could say that would help. In the first few years, as they tried in hopefulness and joy to start a family, these set-backs did little to dent their optimism. As time went on, Eliot had gone through phases of saying the wrong things when month after month passed without a pregnancy. This resulted in a catalogue of frosty silences and accusations of him not caring or being less devoted to having children than she was. These days, he’d learnt to comment as little as possible. 

              Marisa looked up at him. ‘I had this awful dream, too. When I woke up my heart was racing and I’d been crying in my sleep.’

              ‘It’s the hormones, darling. Dr Ford explained all this to us when we were having the IVF last year. Please try not to let it upset you.’

              ‘But the dream was about the little boy – the one I thought I’d seen on the cliff top. He was about two years old this time, but still in that same red t-shirt. He was holding a woman’s hand – at least I think it was a woman – they were beside a busy road. Suddenly, he pulled away from her and dashed into the path of the traffic -,’ Marisa gripped her husband’s arm.

              ‘It’s a classic anxiety dream, sweetheart. Your mind is releasing some of its tension during sleep. It’s really not surprising after all the excitement you had the other day.’

              Marisa nodded. ‘I know there’s a psychological explanation. But I can’t help wondering why I keep seeing that
same
child. I’ve never experienced such a vivid image of a person appearing in my dream before. I can describe everything about him, even down to the type of trainers he was wearing.’

              Eliot lowered himself into the seat beside her. ‘This may be a topic to discuss with the psychiatrist tomorrow. He’ll have a proper explanation for you. I’ve got my own theories, but what the hell do I know?’

              Marisa reached forward and touched his hair. ‘What theories? What do you think it means?’

              He sighed heavily. ‘I don’t want you to jump down my throat…’

              ‘I won’t, I promise.’

              Eliot rested his hands in his lap. ‘I think you’re still grieving for the baby. We only lost him less than two years ago. I know it was very early in the pregnancy, but you’d grown so attached to him already. I think this little boy is a manifestation of the child who died.’

              Marisa was momentarily speechless. She’d never heard Eliot be so thoughtful and intuitive before. ‘Yes, I can see it might be something like that.’

              Eliot clasped her hands, growing more confident in his theory. ‘It may be part of the grieving process. These visions might actually be a positive thing – a sign you’re dealing with your grief?’

              Marisa leant forward and placed her lips over his. ‘I hope you’re right, darling. Thank you so much for understanding – for putting up with me.’

              Eliot said nothing, just held her in his arms for as long as she wanted.

*

The waiting room was dotted with bowls of flowers and potted plants. The colour scheme was self-consciously muted. The magazines piled on the glass topped table were glossy and uncontroversial.

              Marisa had flicked absent-mindedly through them all. She was as willowy and slim as any of the models featured within their pages but all she had ever wanted was to possess the types of curves that denoted motherhood and effortless fertility. Sometimes Marisa wondered if she’d actually been physically designed to be a mum. As the years went by, it had started to become clear she hadn’t.

              Dr Samuel Marsh came to the door of his office to greet her. They took the soft chairs by the window, rather than the upright seats at his desk. Marisa was mightily relieved to observe there wasn’t a couch in sight.

              ‘Gloria sent me over your notes. I’ve been taking a read through them, although there is nothing for the first three years of your life?’ The man was middle-aged and greying, but his face had a strong bone structure and was still handsome.

              ‘My birth parents hadn’t registered me with a hospital. My records from the social services are all that exist before I was adopted.’

              Marsh nodded and smiled. ‘That’s not a problem.’ He poured them both a glass of water from a jug on the table. ‘I see you’ve had three courses of IVF treatment in total. The first commenced in 2011 and the second in 2012. Neither of these attempts resulted in a viable pregnancy. The third course ended in a miscarriage during the summer of 2014.’

              ‘That’s correct.’ Marisa felt her stomach tighten at the thought of all the pain and heartache caused by these treatments being distilled down into such a matter-of-fact, clinical statement.

              ‘You and your husband haven’t chosen to pursue another round of IVF since?’

              Marisa shook her head. ‘Dr Ford suggested we take a break. She was concerned about the strain that the miscarriage put us both under. I was very upset when it happened. I couldn’t face the world for a while.’

              ‘You are thirty six years old and your husband is thirty eight?’

              ‘You think we’re rather young to have already gone for IVF. Dr Ford thought so too. Most of her clients are in their forties. She thinks I may yet have a baby without clinical intervention.’

              ‘And what do you think?’

              Marisa couldn’t prevent the tears from escaping onto her cheeks. She reached forward and plucked a tissue out of the box. ‘We’ve had all the tests done. I’ve had endometriosis since I was a teenager. The tissue damage around my ovaries is severe. The doctors tell me there’s still a chance – a
decent
chance of conceiving. But in my heart I know that isn’t true. It’s been eight years.’

              ‘In all that time, there was only the single pregnancy?’

              Marisa nodded. ‘From the third round of IVF. For the first time in my adult life I wasn’t plagued by that wrenching pain three weeks into the cycle. There were no crippling cramps, no gush of blood and clots. I felt better than I ever had, so happy and healthy.’

              ‘How long did it last?’

              Tears were now streaming down her face. ‘Nine weeks. We were looking forward to our first scan. I’d been taking it easy and resting lots. No alcohol or caffeine.’ She shuffled forward. ‘You know I’ve watched other women, friends of mine even. I’ve seen them idly drinking two or three cups of strong coffee in one sitting when they are expecting a baby. Others have got through a huge glass of wine in an evening – the sort that hold the best part of half a bottle. How can they do it? How can they be so blasé about the precious life they’re carrying inside of them? Why are such selfish, stupid people blessed with a child, but not me?’

              Dr Marsh said nothing but his expression was entirely sympathetic. ‘You were telling me about what happened to
your
pregnancy.’

              She shrugged her shoulders. ‘What’s to tell? Eliot had left for work one morning and I decided to sit out in the garden. I got up and wandered around the flower-beds, dead-heading the odd rose as I passed. Then that all-too familiar dull, relentless pain started. I tried to ignore it, but of course it intensified. Within half an hour, it felt as if someone were stabbing me in the stomach with a knife and the blood was pouring out of me, like it might never stop. I thought I was probably going to die. But I dragged myself into the house and called an ambulance. In the end, I was only in hospital for a week. They had to perform an operation to get the foetus out properly and control the bleeding. The surgeon gave me a full account of the procedure. Basically, everything is a mess down there.’

              ‘Do you feel fortunate to have survived? It sounds as if you were in real danger?’

              ‘When I woke up in my hospital bed, in the silent, private room that I’d been moved to for recuperation, I was disappointed. When I fully understood what was happening out in the garden on that glorious day, with the sun beating gently down upon me and my little son, I’d thought it wasn’t such a bad place to go. I wished I’d never made that 999 phone call. It was only a misplaced sense of duty that induced me to ring for help.’

              ‘And do you still feel that way, Marisa?’

              ‘Only sometimes, Dr Marsh.’

              ‘This is the end of our session for today, Mrs Coleman. But I want you to make another appointment with Carol at reception. I’ll see you again next week.’