“Bit early for me.” Then, after a pause, “Any word?”
I sigh heavily, remind myself what’s at stake, and collect myself. “Yes. I spoke to Dad yesterday.”
“And?”
I’m not quite sure what makes me say it. The implication that Freddie and I were not serious, perhaps. Or her calmness in the face of my rising anger. I come out with the lie before I can think it through. “They’re having problems. The wife’s not attracted to him anymore. Thinks he’s too old. Divorce might be on the cards.” I don’t use her name with Mum if I can help it. It always elicits a catlike hiss from her lips, as though it dredges up some animalistic instinct within her that is out of her control.
Mum’s hand goes back to her hair. “Are you sure?” And there’s the emotion I’ve been looking for, except it’s not aimed at me.
I shrug, a petulant child. “Not a hundred percent, but it doesn’t sound good.”
“I should…” Mum swallows and gestures to the door. “Go,” she finishes somewhat feebly, and she hurries out.
It is only after I hear her door close that I notice what she was carving into the table with her thumbnail. My sister’s name is crudely written into the plastic, spiky and uneven. Just like Marcie was. And I know she has carved here what she wouldn’t say to my face.
Twenty-two
I wait until thevery last minute to make my entrance. Once everyone’s seated. Settled. Through the small window in the door, I watch Fiona checking the clock. No doubt wondering where I am. Matt shifts uncomfortably. He’s looking worse this week: pale and drawn. Hannah—as always—has her hands folded in her lap and is staring straight ahead. Charlie looks as though he might be contemplating running into the road. Rita’s wearing too much makeup, but it is, once again, in vain. Jack’s not here. That’s OK: I didn’t expect him to be, and, honestly, if this is going to work, it’s better he’s not. These people, whether they know it or not, are my guinea pigs.
I fix a wide, open smile to my face and push through the door. “I’msosorry I’m a bit late,” I say, and I make my voice softer. I hoick my tote bag—another improvisation—up onto my shoulder and cross the room. It’s filled with things I may need tonight: tissues, tampons, paracetamol. I hold an apologetic hand up in the air to Fiona.
“Sorry, Fiona. It won’t happen again.”
She looks taken aback. Good. I’m going for different, and so far—judging by the shocked expressions around the room—it’s working.
“It’s all right, Iris,” she says, frowning, trying to collect herself. “Just try and be here five minutes before the start next time.”
“Of course,” I say, nodding hard. “Absolutely. I just lost track of time. I can be such a scatterbrain sometimes.” I release a girlish giggle that seems to derail Fiona once more.
“Right. Well then. Let’s get started, shall we?” She casts one final look toward Jack’s empty chair and begins. We run through the usuals: how this week has been (I tell them I’ve taken up baking sourdough—“it’ssotherapeutic”), whether anyone has anything to build on from last week (for this, I take a deep breath: “I think I’ve come to realize that I need to have a different outlook: I should be grateful for the relationship Freddie and I had; any other bumps weren’t reflective of the love we shared”), before Fiona opens the floor.
Hannah sticks her hand in the air. It trembles slightly: She doesn’t like being in the limelight, but she comes every week without fail. I could do with taking a few leaves out of her book, to be honest. She strikes me as the sort of character I could put to use: inoffensive, kind, meek.
She starts tremulously. “I found a box of photos from when I was younger this week. And it just hit me. That I’m never going to see her again. It’s all my fault.”
This statement isn’t entirely untrue. She bears the responsibility, even if she wasn’t driving the car that killed her mother. They were very close, had the sort of mother-daughter relationship that I’ve always half coveted, half feared. The sort of relationship where you tell each othereverything. Hannah’s father was not on the scene, which only drew them further together. Alas, it wasn’t a relationship destined to last. Because with that level of closeness there comes a certain degree of expectation. And when—on the morning of the interview for the job Hannah was desperate for—her mother didn’t ring to wish her good luck, Hannah threw her toys out of the pram.
“I can’t stop going over it. If I hadn’t called her that day—if I hadn’t got soangry—she wouldn’t have been in the car to come and apologize. If she hadn’t been thinking about me, maybe she would have been more focused on the road.”
She gives a loud sniffle, and I reach into my bag for the tissues. I lean over and hand her one.
“You’re doing really well, Hannah,” I say, keeping my voice low and earnest. “When I lost my father, I felt exactly the same. Well, notexactlythe same, but I know what you’re going through.”
These sorts of questions are something we must all grapple with. The dreaded “what-ifs.” What if Freddie had simply stayed in the office a bit later the night he died, rather than running out? Could I have saved him, if I’d held him back to ask just one question? Was he still thinking about our argument when the lorry slammed into him? Perhaps. Perhaps not. It doesn’t do to dwell on these things.
I rest a sympathetic hand on Hannah’s back and rub slow circles. I don’t like touching someone I don’t know—particularly when I have no idea where she’s been—but I grit my teeth and hope my face doesn’t betray my discomfort. She’s one of the least offensive people here, luckily. If it was Fiona or Matt, it would be a different story.
Fiona is watching my hand with a furrowed brow. Like she can’t make sense of it. I ignore her. Hannah gives a delicate little hiccup that I quite like. I log it for later.
I’ve been logging a lot of things for later, since Catherine replied to my message. It came through in a chaotic flurry two agonizing days after I sent mine.
You are so sweet to get in touch, darling. What a lovely idea. I’m afraid I’m terrible with my phone. I can’t figure out how to send you any photos.
I’ve never been able to do it. Such a pain!
I can send you some thoughts, if you’d like?
Such a darling girl.
