Who We Were Before
Read Who We Were Before Online
Authors: Leah Mercer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Leah Mercer
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503938151
ISBN-10: 1503938158
Cover design by Lisa Horton
For my father
CONTENTS
2 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 12.15 P.M.
12 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 3.30 P.M.
31 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 7.30 P.M.
37 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 8.45 P.M.
42 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 9.45 P.M.
1
ZOE, SATURDAY, 12 P.M.
P
eople always say a child’s death is the worst thing a parent can suffer, but that’s not true. The worst thing is knowing your child died because of you.
One second. Less than a second, even. That’s all it took for Milo to slip from my fingers, and then he was gone. Forever.
No one said I was to blame, of course. No one except for my husband, as we faced each other over my son’s unmoving body. So much easier to think of Milo as still, rather than dead. Even now, I can’t get my head around that word.
Why weren’t you watching him? Why didn’t you stop him? How could you let this happen?
Three sentences that hammer my brain each time my heart beats, along with the look on Edward’s face – a look I’ll never, ever forget. To describe it as hatred is like saying scalding water is tepid. In that moment, he could have easily killed me, if only it would bring his son back. I was the enemy, someone who’d taken away what he loved the most.
But I didn’t need Edward to tell me I was to blame. He was right. I should have grasped harder, run faster, lunged quicker. In the two years since Milo died, countless people have pressed my arm, touched my hand, and said there was nothing I could have done. But there was. There was.
I turn from the train window and gaze at my husband, trying to feel something,
anything,
as I trace his familiar silhouette. Long black eyelashes Milo inherited – midwives always commented they were wasted on a boy – along with an aquiline nose and dimpled chin. Edward’s apologised for those words countless times, saying he didn’t mean them; it was just the shock. Of course he knows it wasn’t my fault. It could have happened with him, too.
But it didn’t happen with him. It happened with
me
, and that has hung between us ever since: a concrete barrier frosted with jagged glass. No matter how many times he tries to hug me, or comfort me, or even just talk, I’m already ripped to shreds. I can’t bear any more.
Two days together in Paris, and then we can go home – back to our quiet, four-bedroom house in an idyllic village both of us now hate, and where neither of us spends any time . . . not that he knows what I do with my days. We wouldn’t even be on this trip if my parents hadn’t sprung it on us, saying wouldn’t it be nice to have a romantic getaway? If they knew the last time we had sex (I can barely remember), they’d realise just how laughable a weekend of romance is.
The tannoy comes on, announcing we’re about to pull into the Gare du Nord. Edward stops fiddling with his phone and raises his head. ‘Almost there.’
God, he sounds as excited as me. I nod, shifting my gaze to the couple across the aisle. They look about mid-twenties, still young enough to believe nothing can go wrong. I wonder what they think of Edward and me? We haven’t touched this whole ride; we’ve hardly spoken. I bet they’re telling each other they’ll never be this way: a stale married couple who’d rather be anywhere else than with each other.
How sad
, they’re saying.
How do you get like that, anyway?
I can tell them: lose your son. Have a huge, gaping hole in your life, a kick in the stomach each morning you wake up, and a pain that leaves you struggling to breathe. That’s how you get like that. Like us.
The brakes squeal as we pull into the station, and Edward stands to get our case. I can barely recall what I threw in there. It doesn’t matter what I wear, anyway. Edward rarely looks at me – I mean,
really
looks. I could show up one morning in a clown suit and he’d carry on crunching his burned toast as usual, then kiss me quickly on the cheek and dash out to get the 7.07 a.m. commuter train to work. That kiss makes me feel worse than no kiss: dry lips, eyes already on the door, heart already gone from our home. Just like it has been for two years.
‘Zoe? Come on.’ Edward’s voice is tinged with impatience, and I jerk towards him, blinking to clear my thoughts. I spend a lot of time inside my head. I like it there, blanketed from the world. It pisses off Edward, though. That much I notice.
I follow my husband down the platform, the tannoy bleating out muffled announcements in French. The misty air is cold and clammy, and I cross my arms to keep warm. Edward turns to make sure I’m behind him, then swings back, striding along with our case clicking across the tiles. There was a time when he’d give me his jacket, or put his arm around me, gently slapping my hands against his to warm up my perma-blue fingers. Now, he doesn’t even walk beside me.
He reaches the main concourse and stops, grabbing his phone from his pocket as he waits for me to catch up. That bloody phone! He and his mobile have more of a relationship than we do, not that it would take much.
‘I need to find a cashpoint and get some euros,’ he says, still tapping away. ‘Why don’t you have a mooch around, and I’ll ring you when I’m done?’
‘Leave the case here, then,’ I say, but he’s already gone, cutting through the crowd and heading in the direction of a cash icon. I wonder why he’s so anxious to hit the cashpoint on his own, but I’m not complaining. As soon as Edward disappears, so does the heavy tension pressing on my chest whenever we’re together. I almost feel like I can breathe again. He probably feels the same way – or does he? I can’t begin to read him any more.
I wander around the station, turning aimlessly in this direction and that. As far as train stations go, the Gare du Nord is rather grim. It doesn’t even try to pretend it’s a mall – not like St Pancras, with the world’s longest champagne bar and myriad of shops. I can almost picture this place doing a Gallic shrug while blowing smoke across the Channel.
I glance at my watch, eyebrows rising as I notice Edward’s been gone twenty minutes already. I should be used now to time slipping by, the hours moving on a conveyor belt past my foggy gaze, but sometimes it still catches me unawares. What’s taking him so long? I have to say, I’m a little surprised he’s waited until now to get euros. He’s like a Boy Scout: always prepared. Even a
trip to the supermarket requires a half-hour preparation and endless lists, whereas I usually just wing it. Funny, I can’t remember the last time I was actually in a supermarket. There’s no need. Edward’s never home for supper, and I’m lucky if I can choke down a sandwich from the corner shop on my way home
.
Twenty-five minutes now. Maybe I’ll give him a ring. My hand slips into my bag in an automatic gesture, patting the sides for my mobile. Where the hell is that thing? This bag is like a black hole. Sighing, I swing it off my shoulder and crouch down on the grimy station floor, rooting through old receipts and random tissues to catch a glimpse of its silver case. Frustration rising, I dump out the contents then sift through them, staring in disbelief. It’s not there. And . . . My gut clenches. Neither is my brown leather wallet.
Shit
.
I scoop up my stuff and throw it in the bag, rising on shaky legs. Did I forget them at home? I shake my head, my mind’s eye clearly seeing me slide both items into my handbag. I did pack them; I know I did. So where are they? I spin left and right, as if the answer lurks somewhere around me, then drop to my knees and examine the floor in case I dropped them.
Nothing.
I stand up slowly, my head buzzing. Somewhere, in my wanders around the station, I must have been pickpocketed. What a great start to our romantic rendezvous! At least cancelling my cards will give me something to focus on in the hotel room. I’m already dreading the silence between us in such a close space.
My eyes widen as a thought enters my head. Without a mobile to arrange meeting up again, I’d better run to catch Edward at the cashpoint. I head in the direction he went half an hour earlier, my legs churning as I dodge suitcases and travellers. Finally, after what feels like a marathon, I reach the cash machine. There’s a long queue, but Edward’s not in it.
I lean against the wall, wiping my sweaty top lip as my breath tears at my lungs. Okay,
think
. If he’s not here and he couldn’t reach me on the mobile, he must have gone back to where he left me. That’s what I would do, but then, I’m not him – that’s never been clearer than in the past little while. Our differences have become magnified, mountains we can’t traverse.
I retrace my steps to the busy concourse, but there’s no sign of my husband. Frantically, I scan the moving crowd, hoping to
catch a glimpse. People flow past my eyes in waves, and after a while, they blur.
I slide down the wall onto the grungy floor. Edward’s not here. Or if he is, I can’t find him. What the hell am I going to do now? He has our case, not to mention the folder with all our accommodation information – I can’t for the life of me remember the name of our hotel. Even if I’d been paying attention, it’s unlikely I’d remember, anyway. French is not my strong suit.
So, here I am. Alone, in a foreign place, with no clue where I’m
going.
Not much different from my life at home.
