hasn’t actually opened her eyes and—”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
“Brian! Can I just finish my sentence? Please?”
He shoots me a sideways look and raises his eyebrows.
“I’m worried because of the other thing Mr. Arnold said, the part about the longer Charlotte stays in a coma, the more likely it is that she could develop a secondary complication. She could still die, Brian.”
“ Could being the operative word, Sue. You need to stay positive.”
I rest my head against the headrest and stare up at the dull gray interior of the car. I’m snapping at Brian, and it’s not fair, but I can’t shake the feeling that this is all my fault. If I’d been closer to Charlotte, if I’d encouraged her to talk to me, if I’d run up the stairs after her instead of returning to my book, maybe she never would have walked in front of a bus and maybe she wouldn’t be at risk of pneumonia or a pulmonary embolism now.
“I should have protected her, Brian,” I say quietly.
“Don’t, Sue. It’s not your fault.”
I look at him. “I didn’t protect her but I can now.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I find out why she did what she did and tell her that I understand, that I’m here for her, maybe she’ll wake up.”
“Not this again.” Brian sighs heavily. “For the hundredth time, Sue, it was an accident.”
“It wasn’t. Charlotte tried to kill herself, Brian. She talked about it in her diary.”
There’s a squeal of tires on tarmac and my seat belt cuts into my throat as the car swerves sharply toward the oncoming traffic. I want to scream at Brian to stop but I can’t speak. I can’t scream. All I can do is grip the seat belt with both hands as we hurtle toward a 4×4. A cacophony of beeping horns fills my ears, and then Brian yanks the steering wheel to the left and we lurch left, speeding toward the grass verge, then lurch back to the right so we’re back in the center of the road.
My husband’s top lip is beaded with sweat, his face pale, his eyes staring ahead, fixed and glassy.
“You nearly killed us,” I whisper.
Brian says nothing.
He says nothing all the way home, then he turns off the engine, opens the car door, and crosses the driveway without looking back. I stay in the car, too stunned to move as he lets himself into the house, crosses the kitchen, and disappears into the hallway. I don’t know what scared me more—the fact that we nearly drove headfirst into another car or the look in Brian’s eyes as it happened.
My hands shake as I reach for the handle and open the car door, and I pause to collect myself. I’m being ridiculous. Brian would never have risked both our lives like that when Charlotte still needs us. He was angry , I reason as I cross the gravel driveway and approach the house. He asked the other day if there was anything in Charlotte’s diary he needed to know about and I said no. I lied to his face and he knows it.
“Brian?” I open the front door gingerly, expecting Milly to come bowling over but she’s not in the porch. She must have followed Brian into the living room. I’m about to step into the kitchen when something red and chewed in Milly’s bed catches my eye. It’s a “Could not deliver” slip from the Royal Mail. How did that end up in her bed? I turn and see the mail “cage” we erected around the letter box on the floor. It’s the third one that Milly has managed to wrench off the door. The older she gets, the wilier she becomes. I crouch down and pick up the remains of the card, smiling when I see what the postman has written—“in the recycling bin.” Brian thinks the postal worker is probably breaking Royal Mail rules by putting our undelivered parcels in the recycling bin, but I think it’s a fabulous idea. It saves him from hauling them back to the depot and it saves me a trip to town. I duck back outside and lift the lid on the recycling bin.
I reach down and pick up a green plastic parcel with Marks and Spencer splashed
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
“Brian! Can I just finish my sentence? Please?”
He shoots me a sideways look and raises his eyebrows.
“I’m worried because of the other thing Mr. Arnold said, the part about the longer Charlotte stays in a coma, the more likely it is that she could develop a secondary complication. She could still die, Brian.”
“ Could being the operative word, Sue. You need to stay positive.”
I rest my head against the headrest and stare up at the dull gray interior of the car. I’m snapping at Brian, and it’s not fair, but I can’t shake the feeling that this is all my fault. If I’d been closer to Charlotte, if I’d encouraged her to talk to me, if I’d run up the stairs after her instead of returning to my book, maybe she never would have walked in front of a bus and maybe she wouldn’t be at risk of pneumonia or a pulmonary embolism now.
“I should have protected her, Brian,” I say quietly.
“Don’t, Sue. It’s not your fault.”
I look at him. “I didn’t protect her but I can now.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I find out why she did what she did and tell her that I understand, that I’m here for her, maybe she’ll wake up.”
“Not this again.” Brian sighs heavily. “For the hundredth time, Sue, it was an accident.”
“It wasn’t. Charlotte tried to kill herself, Brian. She talked about it in her diary.”
There’s a squeal of tires on tarmac and my seat belt cuts into my throat as the car swerves sharply toward the oncoming traffic. I want to scream at Brian to stop but I can’t speak. I can’t scream. All I can do is grip the seat belt with both hands as we hurtle toward a 4×4. A cacophony of beeping horns fills my ears, and then Brian yanks the steering wheel to the left and we lurch left, speeding toward the grass verge, then lurch back to the right so we’re back in the center of the road.
My husband’s top lip is beaded with sweat, his face pale, his eyes staring ahead, fixed and glassy.
“You nearly killed us,” I whisper.
Brian says nothing.
He says nothing all the way home, then he turns off the engine, opens the car door, and crosses the driveway without looking back. I stay in the car, too stunned to move as he lets himself into the house, crosses the kitchen, and disappears into the hallway. I don’t know what scared me more—the fact that we nearly drove headfirst into another car or the look in Brian’s eyes as it happened.
My hands shake as I reach for the handle and open the car door, and I pause to collect myself. I’m being ridiculous. Brian would never have risked both our lives like that when Charlotte still needs us. He was angry , I reason as I cross the gravel driveway and approach the house. He asked the other day if there was anything in Charlotte’s diary he needed to know about and I said no. I lied to his face and he knows it.
“Brian?” I open the front door gingerly, expecting Milly to come bowling over but she’s not in the porch. She must have followed Brian into the living room. I’m about to step into the kitchen when something red and chewed in Milly’s bed catches my eye. It’s a “Could not deliver” slip from the Royal Mail. How did that end up in her bed? I turn and see the mail “cage” we erected around the letter box on the floor. It’s the third one that Milly has managed to wrench off the door. The older she gets, the wilier she becomes. I crouch down and pick up the remains of the card, smiling when I see what the postman has written—“in the recycling bin.” Brian thinks the postal worker is probably breaking Royal Mail rules by putting our undelivered parcels in the recycling bin, but I think it’s a fabulous idea. It saves him from hauling them back to the depot and it saves me a trip to town. I duck back outside and lift the lid on the recycling bin.
I reach down and pick up a green plastic parcel with Marks and Spencer splashed
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