slap across the face, so hard it snaps my head around.
I reach up, touch my cheek, the skin burning from where her palm caught me, my heart racing so fast now it’s painful. Hard to breathe. I feel a terrifying inevitability, and I wonder if it’s best to just let this happen. Let her do whatever it is she’s come here to do. I don’t think I have the energy to fight her. I feel an overwhelming exhaustion flooding over me, taking charge of every sense, every emotion.
Her hand clamps around my wrist, pulling me back from those dark thoughts, and I suddenly find myself being dragged along behind her, towards the pool, my legs crashing into tables and chairs. She doesn’t care that she’s hurting me
And then everything starts to fade.
Everything goes black…
Present Day
Yellow is such a happy colour, but this isn’t a happy room any more. The day I returned home from hospital, the day after I miscarried our baby, I stripped this room of all the furniture, got rid of all those things we’d already bought even though we’d only known our child for a short time. I got rid of it all. And even though none of it was Michael’s fault, for a while I couldn’t help but throw some element of blame in his direction. I was angry. I was upset and confused and angry. How could he not have noticed her behaviour? How could he not have seen this coming? He was her lecturer, for Christ’s sake! He’d tutored her one-on-one; hadn’t he noticed anything? Hadn’t he seen some sort of sign? I didn’t understand how a man as intelligent as him could have missed something like that. So I blamed him, and that was unfair, but I’d needed to blame someone at the time. We were both to blame, really. Both of us. All of us.
I get up off the floor and leave the room. It still hurts to be in here sometimes. But even though people tell me I should change the colour scheme, turn it back into the guest room it originally was, I can’t do it. I can’t … I can’t forget.
I go back into our bedroom, walk over to the window and look outside at the garden – at the higher fences Michael had erected after that night. Security cameras were installed all around the house, locks put on all the outside gates. I couldn’t feel safe until something had been done. It’s just that: I don’t feel safe. I’m not sure if I’ll ever feel safe again.
My eyes shift to the corner of the garden, to that space next to the summer house; that empty spot where a swing used to stand. Michael had bought it just two days before that night. I remember the huge grin he’d had on his face as he’d lifted it from the back of the car and hauled it into the garden. I remember him and Liam trying to build it, testing it to make sure it was safe, and I can’t help but smile slightly at the memory of them pushing each other like a couple of kids – the way I’d laughed so hard at their messing about – and I’d known, right then, that Michael was going to be an amazing dad. And then she came along, that night happened, and our entire future, everything we’d planned, was all ripped away from us, just like that. So yes. I blamed him. For a while.
‘Ellie?’
I don’t turn around. I don’t reply. I continue to stare out across the garden. I feel him come up behind me, and I flinch slightly as he touches my hip, causing him to pull his hand away. I want him to touch me, yet there are times when I hate it. His touching me. No wonder he’s looking for a distraction. And maybe that’s also why his touching me makes me flinch – because I know he’s touching someone else?
‘We really should think about redecorating that room…’
‘Because a lick of paint will help erase the memory? You tried that once before, remember? And I told you not to touch that room again.’
‘Ellie, will you look at me, please?’
No. I won’t look at him. Why should I? Why should he get to say how this all works?
‘This isn’t helping. This behaviour…’
I swing around and stare at him, this man I fell hopelessly in love with all those years ago. And I know he’s changed. Forgetting and moving on, that’s how he’s dealt with it; but I’m not him. The repercussions of those events spread wider than just that one night, and Michael blames himself. But he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t blame himself. Like I said, we’re both to blame. We both made mistakes.
‘What we did…’
He shakes his head as he backs out of the room, and I start to feel that barrier slowly rise up between us again. ‘No, we’re not doing this, okay?’
‘Because you don’t want to?’
‘Because you’re going to make yourself ill if you don’t stop this. Every time I think you might be…’
‘What, Michael? Every time you think I might be what? Getting over it? Forgetting it?’
He turns his back to me and walks out onto the landing.
I let him leave. I have to think of another way to win this. I have to find out what’s really going on with my husband. Only then can I start to fix what’s broken … if I want it to be fixed at all.
My father wasn’t a good man. I’m not saying he wasn’t a good father; he was, in the beginning. Before I knew the kind of man he really was; before I realised why my mum was always so sad, so reclusive. Their marriage was a lie, from start to finish. A web of deceit that ended tragically when my mum took an overdose of whisky and pills that saw her go to sleep and never wake up. Because she didn’t want to wake up. Because of what my father did. Because of his cheating. Because of his lies.
And I couldn’t stop it from happening. She hid how she was feeling just a little too well, even though we all knew something wasn’t quite right. Everyone knew she was unhappy; that much was obvious, even to me, and I was barely a teenager when I lost her.
Nobody had known just how deep her sadness had run, even after she’d found the courage to leave my dad. She kept it hidden from me, as much as she could – tried to make life after my father as happy as possible – but it became too hard for her. My mum was a good woman. She was one of the best. Kind. Caring. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for anyone, including my bastard of a father. She didn’t deserve what he did to her. His selfish weakness destroyed her, and I never forgave him. I never will. He killed my mum; that’s how I see it. Cheating, lying, deceiving – those actions destroy people. So to think that my own husband could be part of something like that … I won’t let it happen. I’m not my mother. She didn’t fight. I will.
Digging my hands into my pockets, I continue my walk through the centre of Durham. It’s one of my favourite places. Wandering around the compact streets of this small city is something I love to do. It’s calming – a chance to gather my thoughts, think about everything more clearly – and when the sun’s out and the weather’s a little warmer, as it is today, it fills me with peace. Out here, amongst all these people, I’m exposed, yet I don’t feel scared. Not today. Today I’m focused. I’m not feeling fragile or frightened; I’m fine.
Passing
