RACHEL
When I got home, Zhang asked me if I wanted her to come in with me but I declined, saying that my sister would be there, even though I didn’t know if that was true. I still felt detached and strange as if all my senses were dulled and the only thing that mattered were the thoughts that were at a rolling boil inside my head.
Nicky was there. She was sitting in the kitchen and her packed bag was by the front door, her coat draped over it.
‘I waited because I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye,’ she said.
She didn’t notice my disorientation. She did ask me what I was cradling in my arms.
‘Ben’s books,’ I said.
I put them carefully down on the table and then we just stood facing each other and she reached forward to hug me. It was an awkward hug, just as it had been the first morning at the police station, although this time it was worse because her body offered none of the softness that it had before. We were both too wary of each other, and we made do with the minimum of contact, because for the first time in our lives neither of us knew where we stood with the other. And then, as if she knew that was inadequate, Nicky stood in front of me and put her hands on either side of my arms, and rubbed them up and down.
‘Will you be OK?’ she asked.
I nodded.
‘I can come back whenever you want, just call me, if it’s too much being on your own.’
‘I can ask Laura to come over,’ I said, and my voice sounded strange, as if I were speaking with a thick tongue.
She hesitated just slightly before saying, ‘OK, good.’
Then we stood there again and her hands fell away from my arms and she looked at me in a way that made me want to start screaming with the uncertainty and the awfulness of it all, so with the last reserves of my strength I said, ‘Just go, Nicky.’
‘Now I’m not sure I should,’ she said. ‘Looking at you now. You’re not OK, are you?’
And I shouted. I shouted, ‘JUST GO!’ because I felt as if I would implode if anybody said anything else to me, and it shocked her so much that she took a step back, and from her reaction I could tell that my expression must be ugly.
She stared at me, and then started to say something, but I couldn’t stand to hear it, so I shouted ‘NOW!’ and it was more of a scream than a word, and then I ran up the stairs so fast that they pounded and I didn’t hear the sound of the door clicking shut behind her, but I did hear the press badgering her to tell them who had been shouting and why, and if she replied to them she did it very quietly or not at all, because within minutes all I could hear were the sounds of my empty house.
Laura came to mop me up. I didn’t ask her to, she just arrived. As I went to answer the door I heard her chatting with one of the journalists on the doorstep. When I let her in she said, ‘How funny. I trained with one of those guys out there.’ She said it lightly, as if they’d run into each other at a party. I wondered which one of them it was. There were a few regulars. Most likely, I thought, to be the youngest of the bunch, the one who could outrun the others and was the last to stop beating on the windows of the car when I was driven away. I didn’t ask her.
She’d brought takeaway food and a bottle of wine with her. Before she arrived I thought I’d tell her everything that had happened. But I didn’t. I couldn’t find the words, they felt trapped inside me, made prisoner by my numbed senses and my decaying ability to trust. Within my head I was jittering, like a withdrawing addict, obsessing over my sister, and what she’d told me, replaying my loss of consciousness at the school.
Laura let me jitter. She calmly laid out our food on the kitchen table and poured us glasses of wine. ‘I know you probably don’t feel like this,’ she said, ‘but I’m going to do it anyway and I won’t be offended if you don’t want it.’
The food and drink she’d brought looked like ancient relics of a life that I’d once enjoyed, but I went through the motions of appearing grateful. I picked at one or two of the dishes, managed just a sip of the wine, which had lost all of the comforting qualities it had before Ben disappeared and tasted like acid in my mouth.
‘Do you want to talk about him?’ Laura asked, breaking our silence. ‘Would it help?’
Laura never ate much; she had the appetite of a sparrow. She toyed with her food for a few moments, while I failed to answer her question, and then she said, ‘Do you remember when you had him? At the very beginning? We couldn’t believe how tiny he was, do you remember that?’
I found my voice. ‘You wouldn’t hold him at first.’
Laura hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him when she came to see me in the hospital. I lay exhausted in the bed, my body bruised and sore, hormone-drenched and soft, and watched her while she’d stood beside his Perspex crib all trim and well dressed and tanned and pretty in a little summer dress and big sunglasses pushed up on her head – like a postcard from my life before motherhood. I told her she could pick him up, but she’d shaken her head at first.
She smiled at the reminder. ‘I’d never held a baby before. I didn’t want to break him, or drop him.’
‘But I made you.’
‘And he puked on me.’
‘He puked everywhere for the first few months. It was constant washing.’
‘But it was love at first sight, wasn’t it? For you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I envied you that. It was so intense, so private.’
Her fingers sat on the stem of her wine glass and she turned it slowly, delicate wrists flexing. Then she refilled it. More than half the bottle was gone, and I hadn’t had more than a sip.
For the first time I noticed that lines were beginning to form on her elfin face. It was just an impression, they seemed to be there one moment, and gone the next, but they were a reminder that she was ageing, that we were all ageing. I stretched my hand across the table towards her and our fingers linked briefly.
‘I can’t believe this is happening to you,’ she said. ‘It’s like a bolt of lightning came out of nowhere and struck you, and Ben. I can’t imagine what you must be going through.’
‘All my feelings hurt.’
Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears, and she said, ‘Can I tell you something? I want to say it so you know that other people know how you feel. Just a little bit of what you feel anyway.’
‘Tell me,’ I said, and instinctively I felt a reawakening of the feelings of dread that our reminiscences about Ben had briefly put to sleep.
‘I had an abortion.’
‘When?’ This was startling news, shocking too. I thought Laura and I had had the kind of friendship where you lay yourself bare, where the only secrets you keep are to do with your plans for each other’s Christmas or birthday presents.
‘Before you had Ben.’
‘I don’t know what to say. Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘You were pregnant.’
And there it was: a wedge in our friendship that I’d never known about.
‘Who was the father?’
‘Do you remember Tom from Bath?’
I did. He was a married man, who she’d met through work.
‘Did he know?’
‘He paid for it. God, Rach, I’m sorry. It’s stupid of me even to mention it now. I don’t even know why I’m telling you. It’s nothing compared to what you’re going through.’
And here’s the thing: I couldn’t deal with it. If Laura wanted us to feel solidarity at that moment then she’d just said completely the wrong thing. It was simply too much to cope with: the intentional loss of a child.
A week previously I would have been there for her, supported her, but at that moment it was viciously, unbearably painful to hear, and my brain, addled with her news, with everything, did a flip.
The exquisite and painful pleasure of our reminiscences about Ben disappeared in an instant. The earlier warmth of her friendship, and her company, suddenly felt frosty and brittle. Goose bumps ran across my skin like squalls agitating glassy water.