E
It’s difficult to concentrate on driving when all I can think about is what might or might not be happening up north. My calm has evaporated and I’m stressing that the owners of the barn didn’t put the parcel and letter in the right place, that the drama of the moment I choreographed won’t unfold the way I want it to.
I try to quell my nerves by imagining what might happen after the wives have read the letter and opened the gift. It works, a little. I feel a little nub of excitement in the pit of my gut when I think of what their reactions might be.
When my phone rings, the sound slices right through me. It can’t be the burner and it shouldn’t be my personal phone either. Unless—
My blood runs cold. I’ve made a rookie error. Stupid, stupid me. I meant to turn off my phone when I made this journey, so I couldn’t be traced. I can’t pull over here so with one hand on the wheel, eyes half on the road, I reach across to the passenger seat and scrabble through my bag, finding my phone just as it goes to voicemail.
I see it was Imogen calling and the phone almost slips through my sweaty fingers. She shouldn’t be ringing now. I have her schedule memorized and right at this moment she should be rehearsing for the final performance at her music camp, which I’m so looking forward to watching.
What if something’s wrong?
I’ve been thinking so much lately about Imogen. I always longed for a daughter of my own, longed so hard that it hurt.
I pull over into a layby created by an entrance to a field. My nerves are skittering all over the place. I must call her back. Ignoring her or returning her call later isn’t an option because I promised myself that I would never let her down again.
Plus, I might as well use my phone now that it’s pinged every tower between here and the city. That’s a problem I’ll have to figure out how to deal with later.
Imogen picks up instantly.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Can you come and collect me early?” Her words are rushed and tense, simmering with emotion, as if she’s on the brink of a meltdown. What the hell has happened? She was fine when I spoke to her yesterday. I pinch the top of my nose, a useless gesture I make when I feel a migraine coming on.
“Why? What happened?”
“I nearly did it again.”
“What do you mean?” I think I know. I feel as if someone has poured icy water over me.
“I wanted to cut myself.”
My gut takes a swan dive. I have longed for her to confide in me more this year. And now she finally does, it’s this unbearable thing. “Oh, no,” I breathe.
She talks over me. “I can’t keep up in rehearsal because I’m rubbish and I feel like I’m letting everyone down. Can you come and get me? Now?” She starts to cry and chokes on her sobs.
“Please don’t say these things.” It hurts me physically when she talks like this. “You’re brilliant. A star. Everybody says so.”
I mean every word. If your child makes music the way my girl does, it can make your heart bloom, even if you’ve been through the longest, darkest few months imaginable. I’m not someone who cries much, especially not in public, but the last time I watched Imogen play, I blubbed until my face was red and ugly and didn’t care who stared.
Rob felt the same. Her concerts made a mess of him.
“What about your final performance?” I ask. It’s tomorrow night. I plan to be there. Front row.
Imogen’s sobbing escalates, becoming such a broken sound that I feel as if it might shatter me, too. But all the closeness we had when she was younger suddenly feels tantalizingly within reach, if I can just support her now, in the right way.
“I can’t. Please don’t make me stay. Everyone made fun of me at rehearsal today.”
“What? Why?” It’s impossible to keep the anger out of my voice, but I could wring the necks of whichever spotty little—
“I kept messing up,” she says. “I left early. It was then I got the urge to cut.”
“But you didn’t?” The thought of her taking a blade to her skin is horrific. I’ve had nightmares about it since it first happened, soon after Rob died. She told me after the fact, refused to show me the scars on her stomach, she was so ashamed of what she’d done. She was also terrified, she told me, that she wouldn’t be able to stop doing it. And here we are.
“No,” she says.
The relief is incredible. I let my forehead rest on the steering wheel, grateful she can’t see me. “That’s awesome and it’s also awesome that you’re sharing this with me and not keeping it to yourself. I’m coming now. Pack up, tell whoever you need to tell, and I’ll be there as fast as I can. Five at the latest, I would hope.”
