I don’t even remember driving toward Treetops, Thomas’s mum’s care home. But I found myself sitting at the junction, just half a mile away, being beeped and honked at.
You’ve got one more chance, I said to myself, as I hit call on Thomas’s mobile number.
The tone ran long and constant, as if flatlining. Even the robotic woman had given up on him.
“Fuck!” I said, slamming the steering wheel.
I didn’t know what to do. I sat at the junction, debating which way to go. Turn right, and I go to my mother’s and tell her what I’ve done—what he’s done. Turn left, and I go toward the only link that I have to Thomas. The car behind blared its horn with impatience—I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw an agitated man waving his hands at me, forcing a decision.
There was a different girl on reception as I approached the desk, feeling sick with trepidation. If she told me I couldn’t see Joyce, I feared I might burst out crying. I took a deep breath—I needed to stay calm and in control.
“Oh, hi,” I said, trying to sound casual—as if I came here all the time. “Is Elise not around?”
The girl looked covertly from side to side. “She’s been dismissed,” she whispered.
“Oh,” I replied, shocked. “Why?”
She leaned in. “Apparently she wasn’t checking credentials. She let just about anyone in—didn’t even take their name.”
“That’s not good, is it?” I said. “You have to be so careful.”
“Exactly,” she said. “So we’re asking all visitors to sign in with their name and who they’re here to see.”
I picked up the pen hesitantly, allowing my overactive imagination to wonder if they’d already been put on alert. Had Thomas warned them that I might come looking?
Just in case, I wrote a false name and moved slowly away from the desk, as if waiting for someone to pounce. But I’ve not done anything wrong, I countered in my head. If they’re going to ambush anyone, it should be him.
“Is Joyce in her usual place?” I asked nonchalantly.
“Ah,” she said, and I froze, waiting for my heart to start beating again. “Her son’s already here. I think they’re in the lounge.”
Of all the scenarios I’d allowed for, Thomas being here wasn’t one of them. Shit.
I briefly thought about running away. But I’d come here to find him, and shockingly, despite being together for almost six months, this care home and his mobile phone number were my only hope of tracking him down.
I saw Joyce, in her chair over by the window, talking animatedly to a man with his back to me.
I wanted to run over to him, throw my arms around his neck, and beg him to tell me I’d got this all wrong. That something had happened to his phone. That he wasn’t having an affair. That he’d invested my mother’s money wisely. That he was still the man I’d fallen in love with.
My pace quickened as I got closer. My ragged breath came in short, sharp pants as the enormity of the next few seconds dawned on me. They would dictate the rest of my life.
“Thomas?” My voice didn’t sound like my own.
He turned around to face me.
It wasn’t him.
In that split second, I tried everything to turn this man into the person I wanted to see. Expected to see. If he just had blue eyes, instead of brown, a straighter nose, a stronger jawline, it could have been him. But it wasn’t.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
I looked to Joyce for help, but she was looking at me as if she’d never seen me before.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” I asked.
He looked taken aback, his features clouding over. “I’m Ben Forrester. Who are you?”
“There must be some mistake,” I said, ignoring his question. “The lady at reception said you were Joyce’s son.”
“I am,” was all he offered, warily.
“So, you have a brother?” I asked, clutching at straws.
“No, I do not, just a sister. Can I ask what this is all about?”
I felt my insides crumble, as if a tiny pickax was chipping away at my core beliefs, my morality, my self-preservation, slowly destroying everything I held true.
“Joyce,” I said, breathlessly, leaning down beside her chair. “Do you remember me? I was here a few days ago with your son Thomas.”
“Now, just wait a minute,” said the man, starting to stand up as Joyce shook her head fearfully.
I racked my brain trying to remember what she’d called me. My real name wouldn’t mean anything to her. “I’m … Helen,” I said, remembering. “I was here with Thomas. We spoke about Frank and The Beatles. You told me how you’d sneak out of the house so that your dad didn’t see you in your miniskirt.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” said the man, grabbing my arm tightly and hauling me up.
“Joyce, I was here with him,” I screamed as he pulled me away. “You called for help. You said it was him. You kept saying, ‘He’s here.’”
I felt the grip on my arm tighten. “Please, Joyce. Try to remember.”
“Who were you here with?” asked Ben Forrester, his nostrils flared.
“I don’t know,” I said, sobbing as the truth of the words sunk in. “I honestly don’t know.”