Ian flops into the car and fastens the seat belt. The windscreen is streaked with rain and he’s soaked from the walk. The glass steams up and he closes his eyes. Just a moment’s rest, he thinks.
The car has been parked in the supermarket car park all afternoon. There’s a risk of clamping according to the signs, but it costs £3 to park at the hospital and this week alone he’s saved £18 by ignoring the big yellow warnings. It occurs to him that parking in the supermarket in defiance of the warning signs may be an act of dishonesty. Are you honest in your dealings with your fellow men? is a question he must answer satisfactorily in order to be worthy to enter the Temple. Is it dishonest to park illegally? Probably. Lying to everyone about Claire is dishonest too, but he can’t think what else to do. Eyes closed, he fumbles to adjust the seat, sighing as it reclines. Just five minutes’ peace and quiet, that’s all.
He is woken by the sound of his own snores. When he tries to sit up he is held in place by the seat belt. He checks his watch and groans – he’s been asleep for more than an hour. He unclips the belt and adjusts the seat then he wipes a circle in the steamed-up window with the cuff of his suit jacket. It isn’t raining any more, the wind is blowing tides into wide puddles and people are fighting it as they heft trolleys across the car park. He turns the key and switches on the fan to clear the windows properly.
There’s something exhausting and stultifying about sitting next to a hospital bed and there’s a heaviness, a melancholy quality to the air that, given recent events, means it’s difficult for him to be there at all. No one has thought of it, and he doesn’t like to say. Brother Anderson is not particularly forthcoming at the best of times but during today’s visit he was virtually mute and Ian had to resort to delivering a running commentary on the weather as it blustered past the window. At least the weekend starts tomorrow and Brother Stevens can take his turn at the hospital. ‘It’s so lucky you’ve got a week off, Bishop,’ Sister Anderson said when she realised it was half-term. ‘I hate to be a nuisance but it’s like an answer to prayer.’ Ian bristled but he was trapped by scripture: I was sick and ye visited me … inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. Would he go and visit Jesus in hospital? Of course he would. Should he go and visit Brother Anderson in hospital? Of course he should.
As soon as the windscreen is clear, he refastens his seat belt and begins the drive home. Jacob will be waiting. He has promised to take him to the beach and he will keep his word, even though it will be cold and incredibly windy there this afternoon.
It hasn’t been much of a holiday for poor Jacob. Before Issy, when things were normal, Ian could help people and not feel the slightest bit guilty about being away from home. But it’s suddenly difficult to balance the scales of service. Alma isn’t prepared to do his bit and it’s not fair to expect Zipporah to do everything. When he was called as Bishop he was promised the family would be blessed if he did a good job; if he put the Lord first, everything else in his life would fall into its proper place. He still believes this, he does. And if he can just keep going until Claire gets back to normal, the blessings of his service will be made manifest, he is certain of it. No one needs to know what is happening at home. If people find out, President Carmichael might decide that early release is the best option – a failure so enormous Ian can’t countenance it. In fact he’s only aware of one occasion when a Bishop was released early and he remembers how awful it was.
Bishop Davie was released when Ian was twelve. He’d only served for two years, which was strange because bishops usually serve for at least five. Ian was aware of whispered exchanges between his mum and dad and there was a funny atmosphere at church for a few weeks. Then Bishop Davie disappeared. His wife and children kept coming to church at first, but it wasn’t long before they disappeared too. Ian overheard Mum saying that Sister Davie couldn’t cope with the shame.
Several months later Ian was shopping with Mum and they saw Bishop Davie. Of course, he wasn’t ‘Bishop Davie’ any more, but Ian didn’t know his first name and couldn’t think of him as anything else.
Mum grabbed his arm. ‘Quick,’ she said. ‘He might see us.’ Ian was supposed to turn round but he couldn’t help staring at Bishop Davie. He’d grown a beard in the months since he’d been released and he looked tired. When she thought Bishop Davie wasn’t looking, Mum tried to march Ian away, but it was too late.
‘Sister Bradley!’
Mum had to stop. She pretended to be surprised. ‘Ah, Keith,’ she said, which sounded all wrong. ‘We haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘I’m still around and about, Sister Bradley.’
‘We’ve – we’ve missed you at church.’ Mum kept glancing at Bishop Davie’s trolley as if she was expecting to find something awful in it, so Ian stared too. It was full of normal things. He couldn’t see any coffee, tea or beer, nothing that gave a clue as to why Bishop Davie had been released.
‘Well, we still live in the same house, Sister Bradley. There’s no need to miss us. I think Sister Davie might appreciate – you’re always welcome to visit.’
Mum said they were late for something and pulled Ian away. In the car on the way home she told him Keith was an adulterer. There’d been a woman at work – that was the problem with having women in the workplace – Keith had confessed to the Stake President immediately, which went in his favour, of course. There’d been a Church court. Mum knew this because Dad was on the High Council. Sister Davie had begged for leniency because she didn’t want anyone to know. She said if she could forgive her husband it was none of anyone else’s business. But Keith’s punishment was excommunication. Mum explained that Keith wasn’t a member of the Church any more, he wasn’t married for Eternity or sealed to his family, and he couldn’t serve in the Church until he had repented properly and been re-baptised. That was why he had to be released as Bishop.
Ian stops the car and then reverses onto the drive. Bishop Davie’s release is the only early release he’s encountered. He pulls the handbrake up. Whatever happens, no matter how sad Claire is, he can’t be released early, especially while Mum and Dad are away. They would be horribly disappointed at his failure to lead the family through a crisis. No other success can compensate for failure in the home – that’s what Mum would say, and she’s right. Heavenly Father must have already known what was going to happen when He inspired President Carmichael to put Ian’s name forward as the next Bishop, therefore there must be some greater purpose, some special lesson in all this.
When he walks through the front door, Jacob is sitting on the stairs.
‘I’m so sorry. I’ll just get my wellies. You fetch your coat and we’ll get going.’
‘It’s all right, Dad. I’m just going to stay here.’
‘Oh, it’s not too late. If we go now we can have a good walk and a bit of a splash-about before it gets dark.’
Jacob has got a colouring book balanced on his knee and Issy’s pink pencil case sits on the stair beside him. ‘No thank you,’ he says. ‘I’m just going to stay here.’
‘But you wanted to go. You always go to the beach with Mum in the holidays.’
‘Mum’s in bed.’
‘And she’ll get up as soon as she feels better. In the meantime you’ll have to put up with me.’ He pulls a funny face and when that doesn’t work he bends down and starts to unlace his shoes.
‘I just want to stay here, Dad.’
Ian steps out of his shoes and pads up the stairs. He lifts Issy’s pencil case and sits down next to Jacob. ‘What’s so good about sitting here then?’ he asks.
‘I can see through the glass in the door. I can see who’s coming.’
‘Well, I’m here now. You don’t have to watch out for me any more.’ How sad that Jacob has been waiting for him like this. He’d like to say something to make it better, but he has already apologised. He puts his arm around Jacob and squeezes. ‘Shall we go upstairs and ask Zipporah what she’s going to make for tea?’ he asks.
‘You ask her, Dad. Then you can come and tell me if you like.’
‘Oh, all right.’ Ian stands. He feels humoured. ‘I’ll just check with your sister then, shall I?’ he says.
Jacob resumes his colouring. He doesn’t reply.
They have pasta mixed with tins of tuna and mushroom soup for tea. Pasta in one form or another is all Zipporah seems able to cook.
‘Can we have something different tomorrow?’ Alma asks.
‘Yeah, if you want to cook it.’
‘Why don’t they teach you how to cook at Youth? It’d be better than dressing up and pretending to get married.’
‘Why don’t they teach you how to cook?’
‘Stop it,’ Ian says. ‘If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.’
‘That’ll render Alma mute for the rest of his life.’
‘I said stop it. Fetch Mum’s plate and take it upstairs.’
‘There’s no point.’
‘There’s every point.’
Zipporah disappears with the plate and they hear her sighs and huffs as she trudges up the stairs. Alma smirks and continues eating, barely chewing before he swallows. Jacob picks at his food. Ian knows he should ask Jacob what’s wrong but what if it’s something unfixable?
Zipporah is on her way back down the stairs when the doorbell rings and Ian decides to leave it to her. He hopes it’s a double-glazing salesman or a Jehovah’s Witness – someone she can get rid of without his help.
There are voices in the hall, then Zipporah calls, ‘Dad, it’s President Carmichael and Brother Stevens.’
Ian gets up from the table and rubs his face hard with both hands, trying to arrange it into a welcoming expression. ‘Come on,’ he says to Jacob and Alma. ‘Come and say hello.’
The three of them spill out into the hall where President Carmichael greets them.
‘Good evening, Bradleys! How are you? Brother Stevens and I just wanted to come and see if you’re all right.’
Ian swallows and glances at the stairs. ‘Come in and sit down,’ he says, pointing to the lounge. ‘Make yourselves at home.’ He grabs Zipporah’s hand as she passes. ‘See if Mum will come,’ he whispers. ‘Tell her I said please.’
She shakes her head at him. ‘She won’t.’
‘She has to. Do you want people to think there’s something wrong with her?’
He watches Zipporah head back up the stairs and then joins the others in the lounge. President Carmichael and Brother Stevens are wearing their suits, which means they have come on official Church business. They have arranged this. He wonders whether they did it on the phone or in person, whether they met to discuss him, whether his name is on a meeting agenda under a list of concerns. ‘What can I do for you both?’ he asks.
‘We just wanted to make sure everything’s OK.’
‘Well, it is!’
‘That’s good to know.’ President Carmichael clasps his hands together. ‘Are you having family prayer and daily scripture study? It’s important not to let these things slide when you’re facing trials.’
‘I, well – we try.’ Family prayer and scripture study have always been Claire’s responsibility. ‘Could do better, must try harder,’ he jokes feebly.
‘Brother Stevens has brought the Visiting Teaching Message with him, for Claire. Sister Stevens made it, specially.’
Brother Stevens holds up a home-made card. It has a pink ribbon glued to it and there is writing on the front.
Ian stretches out his arm, but Brother Stevens doesn’t pass it over. ‘What does it say?’ He hasn’t read any of the Ensign this month. ‘What’s the Visiting Teaching Message for October? I haven’t got that far yet.’
‘Bless you, Bishop, for ever reading the Visiting Teaching Message since it’s just for the sisters – trust you to go the extra mile! This month’s message is Do Not Doubt. Sister Stevens has written a quote from it right here. “Women who recognise that their strength comes from the Lord’s atonement do not give up during difficult and discouraging times.”’
Ian’s stomach swoops. He needs to tell Zipporah to keep Claire upstairs. What on earth was he thinking? ‘That is so true,’ he says. ‘Excuse me, I just need to –’
‘Dad, wait, watch this – can you do the elephant song, Brother Stevens?’ Jacob asks. ‘Go on, please!’
‘Oh, I don’t know, I –’ Brother Stevens is bashful, his round cheeks pink.
‘Please!’
Jacob’s pleading moves Ian. Here is something Jacob wants, something that might make him feel a little bit better. ‘I’d like to see this elephant song too,’ he says and settles back into his seat.
‘Oh, Bishop!’ Brother Stevens laughs. ‘I do it with the kids if I’m helping out in Primary. It’s just me kidding around. I kinda –’
‘Please!’
‘OK, OK!’
Brother Stevens gets up and hunches over. He lifts one arm out in front of him, like a trunk, and starts to sing in a deep, tuneless voice. ‘One elephant began to play upon a spider’s web one day.’ He lollops around the middle of the room in an awkward loop. ‘He found it such enormous fun that he called for another elephant to come.’
‘Pick me, pick me,’ Jacob calls.
Brother Stevens lumbers up to Jacob and tickles him with his elephant trunk. Jacob giggles, gets to his feet and joins in the song.
‘Two elephants began to play upon a spider’s web one day …’
President Carmichael leans around the lumbering elephants. ‘Where’s Claire?’ he asks.
‘She’s in bed. She’s still not well. In fact, I should check on her.’
‘She isn’t in bed, Dad.’
Alma points to the doorway and Ian hardly dares to look. The singing stops and he turns in his chair. Claire is standing in front of Zipporah. She looks startled and slightly mad, hair askew, her nightie grubby and scrunched like an old tissue.
President Carmichael stands. He extends his hand towards Claire but she doesn’t step forward to shake it.
Jacob rushes up and hugs her. ‘Mum,’ he shouts as if he hasn’t seen her for months.
Claire pats him, absently. Her legs poke out of the bottom of her nightie like dolls’ legs; shiny and improbably white. Zipporah is standing behind her, mouth flat, throat bobbing. It looks like her hand may be resting on Claire’s back, and Claire’s fixed expression reminds Ian of a ventriloquist’s dummy.
Brother Stevens steps forward with the card. ‘Here, Sister Bradley. Ashlee made it specially for you. It’s the Visiting Teaching Message.’
Claire doesn’t say thank you, she just holds the card and stares at it, as if she can’t remember how to read.
Ian hurries to the doorway. ‘Let’s get you back to bed,’ he says. He puts his arm around her but it’s as if she’s frozen to the spot and he almost has to push her along the hall. When they reach the stairs he pulls the Visiting Teaching card out of her hand. Then he tugs her and she shuffles after him, like a toddler. As he reaches the top of the staircase he hears President Carmichael say, ‘Your mum looks terrible, Zipporah. What on earth’s wrong?’
When they get to Issy’s room Claire’s steps become more purposeful and Ian stands on the landing and watches as she crosses the room and crawls back into the bottom bunk. He waits until she pulls the covers over her head then he folds the card in two and slides it into his trouser pocket.
‘Mum’s not lazy,’ Jacob is saying as Ian approaches the lounge. Zipporah is still standing in the doorway and he has to squeeze past her in order to sit down.
‘Of course not,’ Brother Stevens replies in his loud, emphatic American voice. ‘Your mom is kinda sick right now, huh? And I’m guessing you guys could use some help.’
‘We’re fine, thank you,’ Ian says.
‘Aw, come on, Bishop. We’re here on behalf of the Lord, as His servants, and I’m sure He’d want you to know that accepting service is as important as giving it. How about I tell Sister Stevens to organise some more Relief Society meals?’
‘Yes!’ Alma thumps the air with both fists.
Brother Stevens grins at Alma and they high-five each other.
‘How long do you think you need, Bishop? Has Sister Bradley had a blessing? Do you think a blessing might make her feel better?’ Brother Stevens’ voice drops to a whisper, which Ian assumes is for the sake of the children, though they can still hear. ‘Is she, do you think – she seems kinda depressed?’
Ian looks at the children, at President Carmichael and finally at Brother Stevens. Are you honest in your dealings with your fellow men? – the question pops into his head as he tries to think of a reply. What is wrong with Claire? She’s not grieving properly. She isn’t behaving like a pioneer. She’s lying down next to a grass verge on her life’s path and he doesn’t know how to make her get up again. He can’t say any of that.
‘She’s so … tired,’ he says. ‘She can’t – she can’t sleep.’
‘Aha.’ Brother Stevens is pleased with the answer. He nods his head. ‘Sleep deprivation – it’s been used as a kind of torture, hasn’t it?’
‘She’ll be a lot better when she can sleep properly.’ Ian is aware of Alma’s hard gaze and the anxious crouch of Jacob’s brow. He doesn’t even look at Zipporah.
‘There’s great purpose in the struggle of life,’ President Carmichael says.
Brother Stevens nods and Ian forces himself to join in.
‘I’ll tell Ashlee about the food as soon as I get home,’ Brother Stevens promises. ‘Can we have a prayer with you before we go, Bishop?’
When Alma and Jacob are in bed, Zipporah approaches him.
‘Dad,’ she says, and he knows what it’s going to be.
‘What?’
‘I think Mum should go to the doctor’s.’
He bristles, has to stop himself from saying it’s none of her business.
‘I told her you said she had to get up. I asked her to get dressed and she didn’t – she wasn’t listening properly, it was like she couldn’t even hear what I was saying. I tried to stop her from coming downstairs like that, but I couldn’t.’
‘Things will get better.’
‘How?’
‘It’s time for you to go bed.’
‘Maybe she should see a counsellor.’
‘No. It’s not …’ He can’t put his hope into words or explain his faith that if they just carry on and keep to the path, Claire will pick herself up, dust herself off and rejoin their trek to salvation. ‘If you take something to pieces it’s harder to stick it back together.’
‘What does that mean? You can’t take people to pieces.’
‘It’s time for you to go to bed.’
‘But, Dad, Mum’s upstairs. And no one’s helping her.’ Zipporah pauses. ‘She’s ill, and it – it reminds me of Issy.’
Ian puts his arms around her. ‘Everything will be OK,’ he says.
At night, after the children have gone to sleep, he has started to talk to Claire. Sometimes she doesn’t say anything, other times she says things he doesn’t understand. Last night he told her about the pass-along cards.
‘I don’t know how I’m going to get rid of them,’ he said.
She said something that sounded like ‘Rumpelstiltskin’. When he asked what she meant she said, ‘Spin the straw into gold, Ian,’ and he didn’t like to ask again in case it didn’t make any sense at all.
Tonight, the plate of rubbery pasta is still on the floor; he can’t tell whether any of it has been eaten – she may have had a mouthful or two. He nudges the plate to one side and sits on the floor next to the bed. The bed is becoming Claire’s bed but it’s not hers, it’s Issy’s, and he feels a thump of frustration at her refusal to vacate it.
He tells her he visited Brother Anderson again and starts to explain what it was like sitting in the hospital then stops, uncertain as to whether he is being insensitive. He remembers falling asleep in the car but he decides it’s best not to mention it. He wants to say something about her appearance downstairs in front of President Carmichael and Brother Stevens but he doesn’t know how to broach it, and since there’s no point in asking about her day, he quickly runs out of things to say. While he searches for more words, he realises she hasn’t moved at all since he sat down next to the bed. He tries to mimic her stillness. The tension it takes is surprising. His neck hurts after a few seconds and it occurs to him for the first time that she may blame him; she may not see the bigger picture, may not recognise that what has happened must be the Lord’s will, and regrets and what-ifs are futile.
‘Are you angry with me?’
Finally her head moves. ‘You blessed her to live. And she didn’t.’
Her words hurt. ‘Sometimes live means live unto the Lord, Claire.’ The words don’t taste right, they sound half baked and inadequate.
‘Sometimes to live means to die – is that what you’re saying?’
‘That’s what it says in the scriptures.’ He can hear weakness when he says it and he is worried that her anger may be stronger than his conviction.
‘I don’t just blame you,’ she says.
‘You mustn’t blame Heavenly Father.’
‘Well, I do.’
‘Please don’t,’ he begs. He would rather she blamed him than God. Her eternal salvation isn’t dependent on faith in Ian Bradley.
‘And I blame myself.’
‘That’s ridiculous, Claire. It’s not your fault.’
‘I went shopping. I cooked sausage rolls and played musical statues while she was dying. She was upstairs. All by herself.’
He hears the approaching tears in the wobble of her voice and he extends his hand and slides it under the covers, feeling about until he finds one of hers. It is limp and unresponsive, but he holds it anyway.
‘You said … you said that …’ She tries to swallow a sob, but it jumps straight back out of her mouth. ‘You, you said she’d get better, when you gave her the blessing. You said she’d get better if I had enough faith, you said it. But I didn’t have enough faith. I knew she was dying.’
‘That’s OK,’ he says. ‘You knew. To some is given the word of knowledge – that’s what it says in the scriptures; you knew before I did. That’s OK. It’s no one’s fault.’
‘What’s the point of blessings then, Ian? What’s the point?’
He is about to answer when he realises her question is about more than blessings. ‘You know the point of everything,’ he says. ‘To come to earth and gain a body. To be tested and found worthy.’ She sighs and closes her eyes. He squeezes her hand. ‘It’s – it’s been weeks, Claire. You can’t stay here forever. It’ll be Christmas before we know it. The children need you.’
She opens her eyes. ‘Do you think this life is a short time?’ she asks.
‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘The blink of an eye.’
‘A very short time?’
‘Yes.’
‘So when someone dies it seems like a long time to the people left behind, but it isn’t a long time at all.’
‘That’s right.’ He knew she would understand eventually. He squeezes her hand again. ‘It’s just moments.’
‘You’d be OK if anyone died, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he says with more confidence than he feels. ‘With the Lord’s help and an eternal perspective I’d be OK. But it’s unlikely that anyone else will die soon. Is that what you’re worried about? Is that what all this is about? Statistically it’s very unlikely. I can work it out if you like, if it’ll make you feel better.’
‘No, no, it’s OK.’ She pulls her hand away from his and reaches out to touch his face. ‘You’re all right, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he lies, turning to kiss her palm. She doesn’t move her hand so he grasps it and rubs it against his cheek. ‘I mean, I miss you.’ He laughs – it sounds like something he should say on the telephone or write on the back of a postcard. ‘I’d like it if you’d come back. Any time soon would be good.’ He tries to smile, to offer some encouragement. ‘But I’m all right. Everyone’s all right.’
‘And you’ll be all right no matter what happens, won’t you?’
Although he is beginning to realise the answer to her question is no, he doesn’t want to disappoint her. ‘Yes, I’ll be fine.’
He looks at her bare face. Her skin is oily and grey. She smells of sweat and bed, but he doesn’t care. These past weeks have been so lonely. Her hand is a stroke of consolation and a reminder of sex. He turns his head to kiss her palm again and she just watches, so he kisses the heel of her hand and then her wrist. She doesn’t turn away as he edges closer on his knees, already thinking about undoing his belt, about squeezing into the bottom bunk, squeezing into her. She isn’t saying no with her eyes. She isn’t saying anything. He leans under the roof of the bunk and kisses her cheek. It feels slick and buttery. He lets go of her arm. It drops onto the pillow. He places his hands over her breasts. They are smaller. She is thinner. He gets up and closes the door. Then he hurries back to the bed and peels Issy’s duvet away.
Claire’s nightie is rucked around her waist and he can see the poke of her hips through her Temple garments. One of Issy’s teddies lies in the bed beside her. He places the little white bear on the floor and then he grasps the roll of Claire’s nightie and slides it up to her armpits. He does the same with her garment top.
Her belly is criss-crossed by silvery stretch marks. She usually covers herself with her hands if he tries to look too closely, despite his insistence that he doesn’t care about the snags that lace her skin, but she doesn’t cover herself today. She’s the only woman he has ever seen naked and, even now, he is sometimes struck by the fact that he is allowed to look at all of her and experiences a burst of gratitude as he removes her clothes. He pushes his hands along the bumps of her ribs until he reaches her breasts. They seem sad, punctured. He covers each breast with a hand and pumps, as if he might reinflate her, but when he lets go they shrink back into slack pockets.
If he can make her feel something else, he thinks, something besides her grief – if he can just wake her up a bit. They’ve never gone this long without sex. Even after the children, things were always back to normal within a month, and it’s not as if he can take care of it himself.
He stands and unfastens his belt. He lets his trousers fall and kicks them off, steps out of his garment bottoms and folds them carefully. He doesn’t bother removing his shirt or his socks. He kneels back down, he’ll stop if she gives him the slightest sign, but she just lies there, bleached and cadaverous, arms flung back against the pillow. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of her garment bottoms and pulls them all the way down. She smells briny and sour. He folds the garment bottoms. Then he parts her legs and climbs onto the bunk. He leans over her, on all fours, taking care not to bang his head on the slats. She looks past him with empty eyes. There are goosebumps on her arms and he can see the knot of bone where her humerus and ulna lock. There is something about the lay of her limbs that reminds him of chicken wings and he is startled by a sudden remembrance of his mother, each Sunday morning before church, holding an inert, raw bird under the kitchen tap as she rinsed its insides.
He closes his eyes and kisses Claire’s jaw and her neck. He doesn’t try her lips. Her skin salts his mouth and as soon as he’s inside her, he knows he isn’t going to last long enough to wake her up or make her feel much of anything. The warmth surrounding his penis, the friction of her indifference – it’s too much. He stops moving, holds his breath for a moment, tries to retrieve the image of his mother holding a decapitated chicken, but it’s no use.
‘Sorry … sorry … uh, uh … sorry.’ He pants his apology into the hollow where her neck meets her shoulder and it blows back at him, hot and wet.
He climbs off, one hand cupped around his seeping penis, the other supporting his weight.
‘Sorry,’ he says again.
He hurries to the bedroom door and opens it carefully. The landing is empty and he steps quickly into the bathroom. When he has washed himself in the sink he picks up a flannel, runs it under the hot tap and tiptoes back to the bedroom. He kneels on the floor and wipes the trickle of semen from between her legs. She looks straight up at the roof of the bunk. He isn’t sure whether she is shocked or just vacant. She didn’t ask him to stop. But she didn’t say he could.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I just, I’m …’ She isn’t listening properly. ‘I didn’t think to – are you – have you been taking your pill?’
He waits for a moment, scared, then hopeful. Another baby might bring her back to herself. Issy can never be replaced, never. But another child might raise Claire from the bed.
She doesn’t reply and he can see that she has used up all her evening words. He puts the flannel down on the carpet and gently slides her legs back into her garment bottoms. He tugs her top and nightie back down and then he lifts Issy’s bear off the floor and places it beside her.
‘I love you,’ he says.
When he picks up the flannel it is already cold and a sluggish trail of semen glistens across its folds.