How I Lost You (13 page)

When I don’t say anything, he pushes on. ‘I think you need to see your father, Susie.’

I hear this and I know it’s true, but the only thing I can think is that he called me Susie. Mark is the only person who has ever called me that, and hearing it coming from another man’s lips feels strange. How can it feel like I’m cheating on my husband by speaking to another man? I haven’t seen Mark in four years. I forced myself not to write to him or call him; it took so much willpower to cling on to the last bit of my self-respect when all I wanted to do was beg him to come and see me, to tell me that I wasn’t completely alone. In a way it was like another bereavement, losing Mark; he was in a place where I couldn’t ever see him, speak to him, lay my head in the crook of his arm and share my grief for Dylan. For all I know, he could be with another woman now, he could be remarried and – God knows I’ve thought this enough times – have another child. The problems we had conceiving were mine, not his, and I’ve tormented myself with visions of my ex-husband and his pregnant wife a hundred times. So why can’t I move on and let myself be happy? Why is it such a crime for me to want this man to hold me, make me feel better?

‘Now?’ I realise Nick is looking at me expectantly. ‘You want me to call him now?’

‘Well you want this sorted, don’t you? You want to know why he’s done this?’

No, I don’t really. The fact is, there can’t be any
good
reason; there can’t be anything in this that is for my benefit. What was it he wrote in my album? To make me see? To make me see what I’ve done to my life? To see what I’ve done to my family? Well congratulations, Dad. I see it more clearly now than ever.

I’m saved from an explanation by the front door opening. I know it must be Cassie – at least I hope it is – she’s the only one with a key.

‘Only meeee—’ She stops short, the smile gliding off her face when she sees Nick. ‘What are you doing here?’ And to me, ‘Has he been here all day?’

‘Nice to see you too,’ he replies, his face equally grim. ‘I could ask you the same.’

‘No you couldn’t. You have no right to ask what I’m doing here. I’ve been here countless times, I have a key.’ She produces it with a flourish. ‘I’m supposed to be here. You’re the one who’s out of place.’

‘Cassie, that’s enough,’ I warn. Like a dog defending her owner, she retracts her teeth, but only slightly.

‘I thought he’d have gone back home by now, that’s all.’ Is it my imagination or does she sound a little sulky?

‘There’s been something new.’

Cassie looks confused. ‘Another photo? But I thought . . .’ I’m certain she stops short of saying she thought I was responsible for the first one. She
thought
it was all cleared up. She
thought
Nick would be back in Doncaster.

‘Not another photo.’ I retrieve the box from the table. ‘Carole from the deli brought this round. It was addressed to Susan Webster but the delivery man let her sign for it because I wasn’t in.’

‘Oh shit. Is she going to tell anyone? What’s inside it?’

I nod my head towards the sofa. ‘You might want to sit down. This might take a while.’

Taking care not to agree with Nick in any way, Cassie insists I call my dad. I suppose if I’m going to do it I’d rather do it when they’re both here with me, so when she hands me the phone I take it. I almost hang up on the first ring, and the second, and the third, but somehow I manage to keep the receiver clasped tightly in my hands and wait for my dad to answer, which he does on the fifth ring. At the sound of his voice, just a simple hello, I almost lose my nerve a fourth time. It isn’t until he repeats himself that I remember that it’s my turn to speak.

‘Hello, Dad.’

There’s silence at the other end while my father processes a voice he hasn’t heard for four years. I wonder if he’s hoped for this call, waited for those words that never came. Cassie smiles encouragingly, rubs my free hand.

‘Susan,’ he whispers finally, and I can’t tell if he is pleased to hear from me or preparing to slam down the phone.

‘Yes, Dad, it’s me.’ I suddenly realise I don’t have a clue what I’m going to say next, and I end up saying stupidly, ‘I’m out now.’

‘I know, Rachael called me.’

Rachael called him? My lawyer Rachael? When? Have they kept in touch? Was it her who made him send me the blanket? My mind spins in confusion but I know now isn’t the time to ask this.

‘Can I come and see you, please?’ I hold my breath, waiting for him to say no, sorry, it isn’t a good time, and I’m surprised when he replies simply, ‘Of course you can, Suze, I’ve missed you.’

Tears fill my eyes as I once again picture him stooping in the gallery as the jury delivered their verdict. The lives of the people I love most, ruined, all in that one day.

‘Thank you,’ I whisper, unable to say much more. ‘I’ve missed you too.’

We’re meeting tomorrow. I declined the offer to go to his house, refusing to give the neighbours something to talk about; instead I’ve arranged to meet him at a pub we both know somewhere outside Bradford. It’s a two-hour drive but one I won’t lament making. Nick looks proud of me, and when Cassie’s not watching he squeezes my arm.

There’s no point trying to convince Cassie to crash in my spare room; ever since Oakdale she’s refused to sleep anywhere but her own bed, even if we’ve had a drink. Despite the ridiculous charge for the thirty-minute taxi ride, she always makes her way home no matter what the time. Luckily Oakdale never had that particular effect on me and I can fall into bed anywhere – which isn’t as exciting as it sounds. I offer Nick the use of my spare room, I feel safer when he’s around. I really want him to take me up on the offer. It’s been so nice to just sit and chat, all three of us. Even Cassie forgot for a couple of hours that she can’t stand Nick, although she still refuses to use his name and refers to him as ‘the reporter’, even to his face. Nick politely declines my offer and orders himself a taxi back to the hotel.

‘Good night, sweetheart.’ Cassie kisses me on the cheek and gives me a tight hug. ‘It’s all going to be OK, you know? Please call me as soon as you’ve seen your dad.’

I nod, wondering why on earth I’m beginning to well up. Cassie leaves my house all the time; I don’t usually start crying. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper, wanting to tell her how truly grateful I am that she’s trying to make sure I don’t spiral back into the depression that gripped me when I first went to Oakdale, but the words don’t materialise. Nick’s taxi arrives at the same time, and I’m suddenly convinced that the hatred is just an act, that they’re going to get into separate taxis just to go back to the same place. I picture Cassie running her hands through his hair and whispering how she may be a murderer but at least she isn’t crazy. Now tell me I’m not paranoid.

Then the house is empty. It seems extra quiet now – my front room is so small that three people makes it feel like a village meeting – and my mind wanders to the place I’ve avoided all night. More than anything I know I didn’t trash my own house and I didn’t imagine the intruder. And I’m certain it wasn’t my sixty-year-old dad breaking in to my house that night, so where does that leave my theory? Was it a coincidence? A vengeful neighbour who knows who I am? Or am I being watched? I shudder at the thought and cross the room to sit on the sofa furthest away from the door and windows, as if the short distance will save me from whoever might be outside. I turn the TV up louder so I can’t imagine that every noise is someone coming to get me, to really make me pay for what I’ve done. Three years in Oakdale isn’t enough, you see. I’ve always known it, that I got off too lightly for what I did. Now someone out there wants me to suffer, really suffer. My dad? I don’t know. But what I do know is that this isn’t over. It won’t be over until I find out who’s doing this to me.

20

When I wake, for the first few seconds I forget what happened the night before. Every day since Dylan left it’s been heartbreaking to wake up. There’s a few minutes, before I open my eyes, where I’m still in the dream I just had: my son is back in my arms, I’m giving him a bath or feeding him. Sometimes I swear when I wake my breasts still ache, heavy with milk that has long since dried up. When the truth dawns, my heart takes on that familiar heaviness, the constant ache that comes from remembering. Now I remember something else. The voice of my father, an image of Nick lifting Dylan’s blanket from a brown shoebox. The intense dread in my stomach tells me this is just the beginning of what someone wants to put me through.

I want to close my eyes, roll over and sleep again, dream of my little boy, but I can’t. Someone is outside; the doorbell’s intrusive ringing is what pulled me from my dreams. I have to face the real world again.

‘I wanted to be here when you got up.’ It’s Nick, and he looks concerned. ‘I didn’t want you to . . .’ His words trail off but I know what he means. He doesn’t want me to do anything stupid. I move to the side to let him in, my eyes sweeping the front step, the lawn and the bushes outside. He hands me a paper cup of steaming coffee.

‘What time is it?’

‘Nine thirty,’ he replies, the concerned look still on his face. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Of course I’m OK.’ I stiffen. ‘Why, what’s happened?’

‘Nothing’s happened, don’t worry.’ He sits down on the sofa, the uncomfortable look he gives me reminding me I’m still dressed in my flimsy cotton dressing gown, only a vest top and a pair of big pants underneath.

‘Sorry, I’ll just go and get dressed, give me a minute.’

He looks embarrassed and I hope he can’t see through my dressing gown. They really are hideously big pants.

‘Yes, of course, take your time. I shouldn’t have come so early . . .’

Do I really look that bad? Seem so volatile that he felt the need to rush round here at the crack of dawn to check I’m not filling my water glass with pills? Christ, what must he think he’s got himself into?

I pull on a pair of jeans, a vest top and a fitted jacket, drag a brush through my hair and slap on some mascara. The result is that I look slightly more together than I feel. Maybe if I make more of an effort to look sane, people will actually believe it. When I return downstairs, Nick is leafing through yesterday’s newspaper. He smiles when he looks up at me.

‘Hey, you look better. I mean, like you feel better. I mean . . .’ He sighs. ‘Will you be OK seeing your dad today?’

I nod reluctantly. ‘I guess I’ll have to. I mean, I want this to be over . . .’ But I’m not sure I do. If this is over, Nick goes back to his life, back to Doncaster, and I have to deal with my father punishing me. Would I rather just not know?

Nick sighs again as he sees my face crumple. ‘Shit, sorry.’

‘Just hearing his voice . . .’

‘Should I call Cassie?’

It must be bad for him to suggest that.

The sound of a mobile ringing saves him. ‘I’d better get that.’ He fumbles in his pocket.

I realise I have no idea who would be calling him, no clue of his life beyond my problems. Does he have family? Does he play football on Sunday or learn a language at community college? Does he prefer Facebook or Twitter, McDonald’s or Burger King,
EastEnders
or
Coronation Street
? How crazy that I’ve leant on him as an emotional crutch and I don’t even know where he grew up.

‘It’s just my colleague. I’d better call him back, check everything’s all right at work. Are you OK?’

I nod because I can’t trust my voice to lie for me. He leaves the room to take the call and I hear him go into the kitchen. I have to resist the urge to follow him, to listen in on what is probably an innocent conversation and definitely none of my business.

I’ve tried so hard to remind myself that Mark was right to walk away from my situation, and that I gave my dad no choice but to give in and leave me on my own, yet I don’t think I’ve really ever forgiven either of them for actually doing it. I have to realise that I was the one who turned my back on them, and that if I’d just let them in, shared my pain, things could have been different. I have to learn to let people in, I have to learn to trust again, and for a split second I wonder if Nick could be the one to teach me.

21

I drive myself to the pub. Sitting in the car outside, it finally hits me just how big a deal the next few hours are going to be. I’ve avoided thinking about what I’ll say and feel when I see Dad again after all this time, but now it’s almost upon me, it’s unavoidable. I’d always thought the bond between my dad and me was unbreakable; he was always my hero growing up, and after Mum died that bond only grew stronger. Mark and I had him over for lunch every Sunday; he was the first person we called when Dylan was born, and he was at my bedside within minutes of the call. I was both amused and touched to find that he had been sitting in the hospital car park whilst I’d been giving birth.

Dad fell head over heels for our little boy from the very first heart-wrenching moment that he held him in his arms. The clumsy, sometimes gruff man I knew transformed into a soppy, gooey mess right in front of my eyes, letting the tears roll unashamedly down his cheeks as Dylan grasped his pinkie finger with his tiny little hand, then fell instantly back to sleep in the arms of a man that he somehow knew would protect him against the world. Dylan’s death devastated Dad every bit as much as it did Mark and me. I know why I made the decision not to let him come and visit me in Oakdale: I knew that every time my father walked through those doors I would see that vision, him holding tightly on to Dylan as though he might be snatched from him there in the hospital. Looking down into his little face and whispering that he would love him forever, not knowing that forever would be cut so short.

I swallow down the lump forming in my throat and blink furiously to push back the tears that threaten to spill down my cheeks. I’m grasping Dylan’s blanket, partly to convince myself that I’ve not imagined all this. I picture my dad sitting at his kitchen table folding it into a neat square, then taking it down to the post office and handing it over at the counter, and I don’t feel angry, just sad. I made this relationship what it is; the only question is, can I fix it? Is it too late to just be father and daughter again? I can forgive him for a few days of hell, but will he ever be able to forgive me for four years of it?