It is a horrible thought, the idea that this is it, that there is nothing else for me now. Have I lived the life I was due, destined from here on to linger in some sort of purgatory?
My father is still waiting for an answer, nibbling on the frame of his glasses. ‘It’s not just that you didn’t tell me about them, Dad. It’s the fact that even now, even though I have seen their pictures, even though I know they existed, they still don’t mean anything to me.’
I have been trying ever since I first found out to remember something about our life as a family. The sound of Joshua’s cry, the smell of his freshly washed skin. The feel of Andrew’s hand on mine. But I can’t recall anything. Even the things I think might be memories, like the image of me standing in church holding a bible, won’t come into focus, won’t reveal my son as an element of my past.
My father raises his eyebrows, slips his glasses back into place. ‘Time, Chloe. Time is a great healer. And with time you will also begin to remember them.’
‘I hope so.’ It is obvious that time can work wonders; you only have to look at my physical condition for that. I am still a mess, with scars decorating my body, ribs that were once broken still tight when I breathe, and according to my neurosurgeon an ongoing risk of seizures and cognitive impairment for at least another two years. But time has allowed me to walk again, talk coherently, and leave the hospital. Still, I know none of these things would have been possible without some sort of intervention. If I am to remember, I must do something to help myself rediscover my old life. And I must do it not only for me, but for Joshua; only by revealing the truth of the life I lived before will I know whether or not I intended to crash my car. Whether I killed my son. ‘But Dad,’ I say, ‘I feel like I need to be doing something towards getting well. I can’t just sit in this house for the rest of my life.’
He tops up his wine, takes a sip. He seems relaxed. ‘I totally agree, which is why you have a physio appointment tomorrow. Plus we can sit down together for another therapy session and see if you can remember anything more about your life. About your boys.’
I take a deep breath, knowing he isn’t going to like what I have to say. ‘It’s not just physio or talking I need, Dad. I need to remember the past, and to do that I need to revisit it in any way I can.’ He folds his arms across his chest as a light breeze skirts past the curtains. The fire crackles. ‘I want to go home. To my home, Dad. Even if it’s just for one day.’
He slips his fingers underneath his glasses, pushes them against his eyes to pinch away the tiredness. ‘We have discussed this before, Chloe.’ He takes a heavy breath in. ‘Several times in fact.’
‘I know we have. But you don’t seem to understand how much it would help me. All I have from my house are the clothes you packed.’ I pull with disgust at the twee grey cardigan I am wearing. ‘It’s as if I don’t have a life of my own any more. I feel so alone, Dad.’
Since I discovered that I was once married with a child he has begun to tell me more about my life. He has told me how I studied law in London, and that afterwards I went on to work for a charity helping people with addictions; how I used to swim in the sea all year round. But none of these details feel real. They are elements of a life that no longer belongs to me. I can’t go back to work, or head to the beach and dive beneath the waves. They are both lovely ideas, but untouchable, intangible. I need to understand who I was, and who I still am. Discover what part I played in this mess.
‘I feel so unconnected to my own family. I need to go back,’ I continue.
‘We’re your family,’ he says. But he knows it is pointless; his words trail off into nothing and he reaches across the table towards me, takes one of my hands in his. ‘Chloe, we must try to focus on the future.’ It is his work voice, the sound of a stranger. This is how he speaks to me when I lie back on the couch and let him into my mind. It’s the kind of voice that might soothe your pain as he roots around inside your skull. ‘You’ll begin to do that here with us.’
‘But I can’t remember anything,’ I tell him. ‘I need to go there. Don’t you want me to remember my son?’
He brings his hand up to my face and smoothes the back of his thumb across my cheek. The pressure sends a shooting pain up into the wound on my head. ‘I want you to think about this.’ He speaks slowly, his words drawn out, cautious as an animal coming out of hibernation. ‘Have you considered how you might feel if, when you return home, you are still unable to remember Joshua? What then?’ I sit motionless, unsure how best to respond. ‘At the moment you are able to excuse yourself this failing, based on a subconscious belief that the accident has resulted in huge gaps in your memory. But what about when you see the place in which you lived together? In which you bathed him, nursed him, cared for him while he was sick. What if he still means nothing to you then, what would you do? How would you feel? I’m only trying to protect you, Chloe. You are very fragile. We need to give things time.’
At that moment my mother enters the room carrying an apple pie. The sweet smell seems out of place. Jess is behind her holding four bowls and a tub of stracciatella ice cream, whistling a tune that seems too cheerful for the mood of the room. They realise something is up the moment they walk in.
My mother looks nervous as she sets the pie dish down, edging a small candle out of the way. She nibbles on her lip and tries hard not to look at either of us. Jess hangs back, lingering in the doorway.
‘What’s going on?’ Mum asks eventually.
‘Nothing for you to worry about, Evelyn.’ My father pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and offers it to me. I realise I am crying, but still I don’t take it.
‘She’s upset,’ my mother says, still without looking at me.
‘It’s nothing.’ He reaches for her arm, encourages her to sit. ‘She wants to go to her house. She’ll be fine in a moment.’ He turns to me. ‘It just wouldn’t be a good idea. Not yet.’
I should have expected this answer. Still, I have to find a way to move forward, so I try something else. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I say. ‘Maybe going to the house is a risk. But I can’t just sit here like nothing has happened. I have to do something. I have to acknowledge they’re gone. At least we should start organising the funerals. We can hold them here in Rusperford. They can be buried in the churchyard. Close to where I grew up.’
My mother stops slicing the pie before she’s even finished with the first cut. Jess sets down the bowls and sits quietly in her seat.
‘Please, Dad,’ I say. ‘I have to start doing something practical. It will help me to accept things, start to move forward.’ I’m not even sure he hears me. Instead he just stares at my mother, a light shake of his head. She looks down into her lap. Her hands are shaking as if she is nervous, as if she has done something wrong. ‘Dad,’ I say, reaching forward. He turns sharply at the feel of my touch. ‘Tell me where their bodies are being held so that I can start making plans.’
The mention of the bodies shakes my mother. She sets down her wine, reaches for the table to steady herself. My father turns to me, his face calmer.
‘Chloe, you have been very unwell. You had a bleed on the brain. It’s just not a good—’
‘But they were my family. My son. It’s my responsibility.’
Jess pushes back her chair, hurries from the room. ‘Where are you going?’ my father asks her, ignoring me. ‘Jessica, you haven’t been excused.’ He leans across the table to get a better look as she flees through the hall. ‘We haven’t finished eating,’ he calls.
‘Oh Thomas, just tell her.’ My mother is on her feet, her voice desperate. ‘Just put an end to this, for goodness’ sake. I can’t stand it. I can’t, I’m telling you. I’ll break if it goes on much longer.’ She starts to cry, her face red as blood rushes to her cheeks, her chest rising and falling so fast she is practically hyperventilating.
‘Evelyn, I…’ my father tries, but he is lost for words. He brushes his fingers clean, then sets down his napkin before guiding Mum into her chair. When he tops up her wine, she swallows it down. ‘It’s OK, Evelyn,’ he says, his voice controlled, ordered once more. Work voice again. ‘Just relax. Really, it’s OK.’
She starts to mumble something, then looks up at me. ‘I’m so sorry, Chloe.’
But it isn’t her apology I want. I want to know what it is she is urging him to tell me. I want to know what my father is hiding from me. ‘What should he tell me, Mum?’
‘Chloe, not—’
‘No, Dad.’ A lucent glimmer of sweat washes slick across his brow. I take one more look at Mum but realise she is terrified, although I’m not sure of what. My father, or the truth? ‘What did she mean, Dad? Whatever you tell me can’t make things any worse.’
‘Very well,’ he stammers, his voice croaky. My mother rests her head in her hands, elbows on the table. ‘Chloe, you can’t begin to organise the funerals because they have already taken place.’