In Too Deep (19 page)

‘You were up early,’ I say, going behind Mum’s chair and placing my hands on her shoulders. I bend down and give her a kiss on the cheek before sitting down in the empty space. A moment later a young waitress is beside me asking if I want tea or coffee, juice or toast. She’s attentive, perhaps overly so because her boss is sitting at our table.

‘It was that or spend all day in bed dying,’ Mum says, touching her forehead briefly. ‘Cooper’s back in the room, by the way. The cleaner had to let me in.’ She laughs conspiratorially with Susan.

‘Your mum can’t take her wine,’ Susan says with a wink.

Oh, but she can
, I think, giving a little smile. When my coffee arrives, the smell of it makes me feel nauseous all over again.

‘You look a bit peaky yourself,’ Mum says. ‘Are you still feeling ill?’

‘I’m fine,’ I say, wishing we were alone to talk. As if Susan’s read my thoughts, she stands up and excuses herself, saying she has work to do.

‘Promise you’ll come and find me later and tell me what you think of the gallery?’ she says to Mum.

Mum nods warmly, giving a little wave.

‘All very chummy-chummy, isn’t it?’ I say, rather more pointedly than I intend. I watch as Susan has a quick word with the waitress on her way out.

There’s a flash of something in Mum’s eyes, but despite the burning hangover she clearly has, she doesn’t lose composure. ‘She’s nice, that’s all. We have stuff in common.’

‘Did you tell her about Dad?’ I ask, wondering how anyone could have anything in common with our broken family.

She gives an imperceptible nod, staring down at her newly arrived plate of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. Her eyes are heavy.

I unfold my napkin.

‘It just came out, Hannah. It’s OK to talk about, you know.’ She leans forward, elbows on the table, her eyes boring into me. I know she’s holding back the tears. ‘Sometimes I
need
to talk about it. Do you understand?’

My mouth goes dry, as though it’s filled with dust, or wretchedness, or something that tastes like soil – perhaps the silt at the bottom of a lake – but most of all it’s filled with something that tastes a lot like guilt.

‘I don’t see why you have to tell strangers. It’s no one else’s business.’ As far as I’m concerned, the fewer people who know about what happened, the better. ‘It was bad enough it was on the news last year, and Dad would hate all the fuss.’

‘Oh Hannah,’ Mum says gently. ‘They needed to make people aware, in case there was a sighting. You know you don’t mean that.’ She frowns as she sips her coffee, her eyes narrowing, hardly able to look at me. ‘Anyway, as I see it, I don’t really think Dad has a say any more.’

‘And you don’t mean that.’ I force my bottom lip to stop quivering, even though she’s right. Deep down I know Dad isn’t coming back.

‘If talking about it helps me, then you should be supportive. It might be beneficial if you did the same.’

Mum seems somehow empowered. It makes me wonder what Susan said to her last night.

‘Sorry, Mum. Of course I don’t mind you talking about it.’

I wonder if she’s still seeing her counsellor, even though I’m not supposed to know about that. Someone phoned up about an appointment thinking I was Mum, and before I could tell her I was her daughter she’d blurted out something about an appointment.

‘Maybe you should get professional help,’ I suggest. ‘You know. Like see a shrink or something.’

Mum’s mouth drops open, then closes again.

I hate myself.

It’s a fitting punishment that I’m now worrying what the university counsellor did with the notes I wrote in my session. I wouldn’t want anyone to find them.

‘It’s pricey, I think,’ Mum says quietly. ‘Besides, friends are the best therapy.’ She gives a little smile.

As far as I can make out, apart from Susan, who doesn’t exactly count as a friend, Mum’s done her best to avoid talking to people she knows about it. She’s allowed them in on a practical level, of course – bringing round meals, dealing with the mounting paperwork and the police in the early days, contacting Dad’s work clients, taking care of the garden, cleaning the house – but she’s not allowed anyone
in
. Not into the secret place where Mum now lives all alone with her wine and her twisted, knotted-up, revolting . . .
hope
.

‘Dad is gone, Mum. Get over it,’ I told her cruelly before I left for university again in the New Year.

I hate myself for that, too.

She’d been secretly praying that Dad would be back for Christmas, that he wouldn’t desert us at such a time. I’d heard her doing it, muttering and snivelling, curled up with her tears and her bottle, begging for someone to listen. What did she think – that Dad had gone on a month-long shopping spree to buy us the best presents ever, omitting to tell us when he’d be back?

She was living in a fantasy world, hung up on the season – that it was a time to forgive and forget, to love and
to celebrate, and, as everyone kept trying to tell us, to have
hope
.

I’d not had any fucking hope since the day Dad walked out the door.

Tom took me back to my halls and waited with me until another student came out of the security door, making sure I got inside OK. ‘Don’t want you sleeping rough,’ he said.

I wondered whether to ask him upstairs for a cup of coffee or tea or a Coke, but I didn’t actually have any. Mum had sent me off with a ton of provisions, but the little box she’d packed with all my favourite teas had somehow got left behind. It made me sad to think about it. As if I’d rejected her kindness.

‘You could come up for some water,’ I offered, sounding stupid. ‘Or I could scrounge a teabag.’ I pulled a face.

Tom laughed. ‘That’s a hard offer to turn down,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got a few modules to register for online. I have to do it tonight as tomorrow’s packed with team try-outs.’

I nodded, releasing him from my awkward offer while holding the door open, about to go inside. But he caught my hand, walking himself up my arm.

‘Thank you for the refreshing paddle, Miss Phone-Finder.’ Someone came past, but I was too caught up in the proximity of Tom’s face to notice – his eyes searching mine, his breath close enough to feel on my cheeks.

I laughed, but before I knew it his lips were on mine.
Kissing me just the way a kiss should be. Soft. Barely there. Taking me over.

Without thinking, my hands went to his shoulders, slipping down his back. I was vaguely aware of the door banging shut behind me. We folded into one another, but in reality we were barely touching – it was mostly in my mind. The three-second kiss that felt like a lifetime.

‘I just don’t know why everyone has to know our business, that’s all,’ I say to Mum. She’s barely picked at her breakfast and has pushed the plate aside. The waitress clears up, offering more tea or coffee. Mum politely declines.

‘Love . . .’ She hesitates, her breath held and stuck in her throat as she places her palms flat on the table. ‘I can’t carry on with my life the way it is.’

I’ve never seen her as a selfish person, but I’m beginning to.

‘I need things to change,’ she continues. ‘
I
need to change. I don’t want to be like this for ever.’

She reaches out for my hand but I whip it away.

‘I don’t know if Dad is coming back or not, and I don’t know if he’s dead or alive. Dear God, I pray every day that he will be found safe and well, but right now that’s pretty much all my life consists of. Praying. Hoping. Waiting.’

I can’t hold her gaze. It’s too intense and I’m scared of what she’ll see in my eyes.

‘It’s only been four months, Mum.’

‘I know, love, I know. And I’m not giving up. But
meantime, it helps me to confide in people. I’m not suggesting we sell the house and move to another country. I’m simply talking about being more open and honest. I feel stuck, Hannah. Stuck between two lives. And I at least want people to know that I’m stuck, even if I can’t quite find it in me to do anything about it yet.’

Mum sighs. ‘Anyway, Susan was very understanding.’

‘Fine,’ I reply, far too quickly for it not to sound anything but defensive. ‘I just don’t think we should keep broadcasting it.’

Mum’s hand reaches out, finally gripping my fingers.

‘Oh Hannah,’ she says softly. ‘Please don’t be angry.’

I shrug.

‘None of this is your fault, you know.’

Slowly I turn away, not knowing what to say. My fingers turn rigid within the comforting knot of hers.

It’s easier said than done – all this talk of letting go, of opening up, of not being ashamed and telling people my story. I might talk the talk, and I might listen intently to what Paula says, but putting it all into practice is quite another thing. Only a close few know what’s happened in detail. And now, of course, Susan.

‘Remember, four o’clock,’ someone says as Hannah and I walk side by side through reception. We both stop, turning to see Susan. ‘That’s when my son’s back,’ she reminds us, giving a friendly wave, going back to the customer.

We carry on to the spa with Hannah dragging her heels, reluctant to do anything except mope about all morning. Two facials are included in the break, and I’m hoping they’ll take away the after effects of last night’s overindulgence, not to mention the smarting caused by the exchange with Hannah over breakfast.

‘That was kind of Susan,’ I say. ‘She’s very keen for you to meet her son.’

‘Why does she think I even care?’

‘Love, she’s just trying to be friendly. Last night she asked me if you were bored. The average age of the guests here makes
me
seem like a teenager.’

‘I don’t feel like being sociable.’

‘Suit yourself then,’ I say, tired of arguing. We go through into the treatment area. ‘Though I’ve seen a picture of him,’ I add in a silly voice, winking at her.

‘So?’

‘So, my love, I can officially confirm that Susan’s son is very good-looking.’

She rolls her eyes and gives me a look, shaking her head as if she’s the mother and I’m the daughter. ‘For God’s sake . . .’ she mutters, though a small smile breaks through.

We wait for the therapists to call us through, having been booked into simultaneous slots, leaving time still to go out later. I want to make the most of our time together, especially as I have to waste several hours in the morning taking the keys back to Steph.

Lying on the couch, breathing in the scent of jasmine candles and soaking up the relaxing music, I play over last night in my mind. It was such a relaxed evening, the kind I miss so much since Rick went. Susan and I have much in common, and chatted for hours about everything from our husbands and kids – which felt unusually painless after a short while – to our work, our love of cooking, politics and health. By the time I left, we still had things to talk about, making another such evening inevitable, either before or after we leave. It’s rare to meet someone
who allows you to be yourself from the start, with the conversation flowing, the laughter easy and natural. I’m grateful to her for that.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to meet her husband, but even more wonderful would be to introduce her to Rick.

‘Everything OK, Mrs Forrester?’ the young therapist asks. Her skin is clear and make-up-free. Her gentle fingers slide various creams and tonics over my skin.

‘Lovely,’ I say, hoping I don’t look too ghastly. She’s wrapped a towelling band around my forehead to keep my hair out of the way. Hannah is lying on another couch just a few feet to my right, and her therapist is chatting incessantly to her – something about an actor they both like, then about music.

Remembering the photograph Susan showed me of her son, I hope Hannah changes her mind about meeting him. Having someone her own age to hang out with might help take her mind off things. In an odd way, he reminded me so much of Jacob – gentle eyes, a mysterious smile concealing thoughts that could only ever be guessed at. There’s a brief stab of something in my heart, making me tense up beneath the therapist’s fingers.

But then I hear Paula’s voice telling me that latching on to other people’s situations – situations that I may covet because it reminds me of how things were, how things could have been – is not helpful, and definitely not healthy.

‘It’s hard,’ I’d told her. ‘I look at other people, see them going about their lives, and I think, why can’t that be me?’

Last night, I tried to focus on the positive things as Paula had suggested, but all I could think of when Susan proudly showed me her son was what it would feel like if the boy in the picture were Jacob.

‘Tom’s obsessed with his mountain bike,’ Susan told me. ‘He goes all over the country with it, entering competitions.’

‘Jacob wanted to ride his bike to high school when he started,’ I replied, feeling ashamed for bringing the conversation back to my boy, although Susan was keen to listen. ‘But I wouldn’t let him. I told him that he was too young. That it was too dangerous.’ I let out an ironic laugh.

‘You did the right thing,’ she assured me.

‘But he got hit by a car anyway.’ It came out too loud, though Susan didn’t mind. She listened. She let me be sad.

‘It wasn’t your fault.’

Technically she was right, of course. It wasn’t my fault or Rick’s fault or Hannah’s fault. Plain and simple, it was the fault of the driver of the car. But losing my child made me see things askew, like a wrung-out version of what was real. Jacob’s death rolled into my life like a violent thunderstorm, weighing heavy on my shoulders, pressing down with the weight of a planet, forcing me to crawl through life to find answers, reasons and excuses.

‘He didn’t want to take the school bus that day,’ I said. ‘But I couldn’t fetch him later, so I told him he had to.’

Then he’d taken the wrong bus.

‘They never caught him, you know.’
Or her
, I added in my head, though I’ve never considered it was a woman.

‘That’s awful,’ Susan said. She was quiet for a moment or two, showing her respect, thinking. ‘And you’ve been left in limbo ever since.’

I nodded. ‘I’ve always hoped that whoever did it would one day come forward, that the guilt would be too much.’