The build up to Meg’s tenth anniversary has followed a familiar pattern of emotions: the growing sense of impending doom; the tension during the day itself as I relive Meg’s last hours and imagine her torment; the brief respite that I allow myself when I go to bed having survived another year without her; waking up this morning to begin the countdown to what should be Meg’s twenty-eighth birthday on Sunday.
When Geoff decided to go into work today, leaving me home alone, I felt nothing but relief. Yesterday had exhausted us both and the only reason we managed to get through the anniversary without a cross word was that we didn’t talk that much at all. I’m all talked out.
Luckily, the TV report was the last in a series of interviews I’ve given in recent weeks – my last desperate attempt to get people to take notice of our work before Geoff has his way and we wind up the foundation. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. The press had grown weary of the retelling of the version of Meg’s life that satisfied the coroner but has never satisfied me.
Don’t get me wrong, I accept that Meg had suicidal thoughts but on that last morning, I thought she’d turned a corner. She said she had plans. I never thought … Something else had to have happened. The note we were left with didn’t explain it. She had written just twenty-two words, twenty-three including her name, and I can recall each one by heart.
I’m doing this because of you.
I don’t expect anyone to understand why I chose this way. Bury my shame with me.
Megan x
It’s not enough. My Meg had more to say and it was about Lewis. In her final texts to him, she demanded that he answer her messages and, when that failed, she asked him not to hate her. He would have known she was about to expose him and despite an alibi that placed him in the gym all afternoon, he was there. Witnesses can be bought, or threatened. They can also be silenced and that was what he did to Meg when he tore the note in two.
I’ve been quiet for too long, and I could tell Geoff wasn’t happy with me as we wrapped up the interview. He’d been skulking in the background and I thought I was prepared for the argument, but after thirty-two years of marriage, I still can’t predict my husband’s reactions. It had never crossed my mind that it wasn’t what I said about Lewis that had upset him as much as the fact that I had shared our home videos of Meg.
After she died, Geoff had spent an age collating and digitising every image and recording he could find of her. The painstaking task had occupied his mind for a while, bringing light relief to our darkened world, and when it was complete he’d presumed we would sit down and watch them together, but I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to see our beautiful girl shine, only to watch her light dim before my eyes, or face the finality of the blank screen when the recordings came to an abrupt end.
Tipping back my head, I stretch my spine and listen to a low whine coming from the floor above. I’m sitting alone at the breakfast bar in the cavernous kitchen I designed myself. We had the house remodelled the year after losing Meg, extending out to the side by knocking down the garage with its indelible memories, repositioning the kitchen, and adding a fifth bedroom upstairs. Not that we needed another bedroom. Sean had decided to stay in Stratford after completing his degree and our nest had been well and truly emptied. Geoff wasn’t the only one who needed to find a way to stay connected to our daughter, and while he has his library of videos, I have my kitchen.
Resting my hands on the cold granite counter, I stare up at the ceiling until my focus adjusts to the middle distance. I don’t generally tell visitors this is where Meg died. I expect most would think it ghoulish but after ten years, her death no longer holds the power to shock me. I’m aware of her absence constantly and there’s something comforting about being this close to the spot where my daughter’s soul left her body.
It’s one of the few aspects of my grief that I don’t share during my campaigning, that and how I chat to Meg whenever I’m home alone. Lately, I’ve been telling her my worries about the future and how Geoff’s plans are diverging from my own. I promise her I won’t forsake her memory and give up on the helpline because the two are inextricably linked. I know there are national charities that have the resources to do our job and more, which is why the demand for our services has been in decline, but I can’t let it fail.
‘God, Meg, I hope this relaunch works,’ I whisper.
As always, the returning silence is deafening. The high-pitched whine I’d heard earlier has stopped too, replaced by light footsteps moving about upstairs. The palm of my hand is ice cold as I place it over my fluttering heart. For the briefest moment, I let myself imagine it’s Meg. How I’d love to hear her giggling, or the creak of the bed as she and Jen use it as a trampoline until I have to yell at them to stop.
My breath catches in my throat. I wish I’d never shouted at her. If I had my time again, I wouldn’t worry about them breaking the bed, I’d run up and join them. But it’s not Meg’s footsteps I hear and no amount of wishful thinking will make it so.
Hiring a cleaner was a spur of the moment decision. Jen had been telling me how well Charlie’s business was doing and how he might be expanding from domestic to commercial services. I suspect she was sounding me out about taking on our office cleaning but we have years to run on the current contract and it was at home where help was needed.
Geoff and I are at the office five days a week and we often bring work home at the weekend. What free time we have is usually spent wining and dining potential clients or, in Geoff’s case, meeting them on the golf course. Hiring help made sense but I never expected to be sitting here imagining that it’s Meg upstairs. It’s no good, I can’t bear it any longer, I simply can’t.
My heart is thumping and I’m about to shout up to Helena and ask her to leave when I hear the growl of Geoff’s Audi pulling onto the drive. I check the time. It’s not yet four but for once I’m glad to have him home. I’m filling the kettle when he appears at the doorway and hesitates. Whereas I can spend hours in the kitchen, tucked away in the quiet corner I created with an overstuffed sofa and well-stocked bookcase, Geoff finds no comfort in this room and steels himself before stepping across the threshold.
I often wonder why he didn’t raise an objection when I drafted the new plans. We had agreed we didn’t want the garage left as a mausoleum, and moving out of the last home we shared with Meg was never an option, but he could have offered an alternative suggestion. He didn’t because my husband is generally happy to go along with whatever I want – or at least he was.
‘Did you let everyone have an early finish?’ I ask.
‘Everyone except Jen. She insisted on hanging around till whoever’s on the helpline arrives.’
‘It’ll be Alison tonight,’ I tell him.
The helpline is open from five until eight on Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings. It used to be open five days but we had to cut back when the calls dwindled and it became increasingly difficult to expect what had been a merry band of volunteers to give up their evenings when there were so few calls, or occasionally none at all. There are only five of us now, including me and Jen.
‘I was thinking,’ Geoff says as he sidesteps the breakfast bar to join me. ‘It’s not too late to take Sean up on his offer. We could be in Stratford in a couple of hours.’
I suppress a sigh. ‘But we’ve already told them no and they’ll have made alternative plans.’
‘We could
