must be some mistake. This isn’t addressed to me.’
Carole looks at the box in my hands, at the name Susan Webster printed in black, and then back at me. There’s pity in her eyes and she reaches out to touch my arm.
‘But it is for you, isn’t it?’
‘I think you’d better come inside,’ I say.
Carole is sitting on my ugly brown sofa, picking at the edge of the brightly coloured throw I put on there to cover up whatever dubious stains the previous tenants left behind. I’m standing, too agitated to take a seat. Neither of us has spoken for a few minutes.
‘How do you know who I am?’ She looks up at my tense words.
‘When I saw the name on the parcel I did some Google searches and eventually I found pictures of you when you were Susan Webster.’
And that’s how easy it is. I knew it would be possible for people to find out who I was, but I’d never imagined my neighbours trawling the internet to find grainy pictures of me. I’ve been so naive, so stupid to think people would be too busy with their own lives to care about mine.
‘I’m not going to tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about. What is it?’
‘I don’t know.’ The revelation that my cover has been blown has made me all but forget about the package Carole came to deliver.
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be prying. I just want you to know that your secret is safe. I’m not going to take out a full-page ad in the paper or anything.’ She makes to rise from her seat.
‘Stay.’ I realise I don’t want to open the box yet, and I don’t want to be on my own. ‘Let me make you a cup of tea.’ She’s not going to say yes. Now that she knows who I am, she’s probably going to run as far and as fast as she can.
‘That would be nice, thanks.’
She stays for almost an hour and we talk. I tell her how I still can’t remember anything of the day Dylan died, although I don’t tell her how it terrifies me to think that I can’t remember because my mind is protecting me from the fact that I’m guilty. I do confide in her my fear that I might never get the truth about what happened to my son. I don’t tell her about the photograph, or any of the other things that have happened to me since last Saturday. In return, she tells me a story of her own.
‘I suffered from post-natal depression too.’ I lift my eyes, but hers are averted. She’s not talking to me; she’s talking to the uplighter, the vase on the corner shelf, anything but me. ‘When my daughter was born. I looked at her and I expected this rush of love, like you read about. She was sleeping, and she didn’t look beautiful, she looked all wrinkled and her head was a cone shape from the suction cap. I didn’t want to hold her, like a proper mother would. I thought she looked horrendous.’ Finally she looks at me and there are tears in her eyes.
‘I’ve never told anyone that. Even though I got help, and I got better, and I love my little girl so much, I still never told a soul that I thought she was the ugliest baby I’d ever seen.’
‘Did anyone notice?’ I whisper.
‘My husband.’ Her hands work furiously at a stray thread on the throw. ‘But not at first. She was perfect for everyone else; they all said what a chilled-out baby she was. But for me . . . every time I picked her up, she just cried and cried. I found out afterwards that she could smell my milk; she wanted food whenever she was near me and that’s why she cried. But at the time I just thought she must hate me. She’d look at me with her huge blue eyes and I felt so guilty that I couldn’t just love her like everyone else did.’
‘What happened?’
She looks away again, takes a sip of her tea. ‘My husband left us on our own for the day, and from the minute he left, she just screamed. Nothing I could do would make her stop. I was so tired – I’d been up all night feeding her every two hours – and I couldn’t take it. I put her in the nursery and just listened to her cry
Carole looks at the box in my hands, at the name Susan Webster printed in black, and then back at me. There’s pity in her eyes and she reaches out to touch my arm.
‘But it is for you, isn’t it?’
‘I think you’d better come inside,’ I say.
Carole is sitting on my ugly brown sofa, picking at the edge of the brightly coloured throw I put on there to cover up whatever dubious stains the previous tenants left behind. I’m standing, too agitated to take a seat. Neither of us has spoken for a few minutes.
‘How do you know who I am?’ She looks up at my tense words.
‘When I saw the name on the parcel I did some Google searches and eventually I found pictures of you when you were Susan Webster.’
And that’s how easy it is. I knew it would be possible for people to find out who I was, but I’d never imagined my neighbours trawling the internet to find grainy pictures of me. I’ve been so naive, so stupid to think people would be too busy with their own lives to care about mine.
‘I’m not going to tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about. What is it?’
‘I don’t know.’ The revelation that my cover has been blown has made me all but forget about the package Carole came to deliver.
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be prying. I just want you to know that your secret is safe. I’m not going to take out a full-page ad in the paper or anything.’ She makes to rise from her seat.
‘Stay.’ I realise I don’t want to open the box yet, and I don’t want to be on my own. ‘Let me make you a cup of tea.’ She’s not going to say yes. Now that she knows who I am, she’s probably going to run as far and as fast as she can.
‘That would be nice, thanks.’
She stays for almost an hour and we talk. I tell her how I still can’t remember anything of the day Dylan died, although I don’t tell her how it terrifies me to think that I can’t remember because my mind is protecting me from the fact that I’m guilty. I do confide in her my fear that I might never get the truth about what happened to my son. I don’t tell her about the photograph, or any of the other things that have happened to me since last Saturday. In return, she tells me a story of her own.
‘I suffered from post-natal depression too.’ I lift my eyes, but hers are averted. She’s not talking to me; she’s talking to the uplighter, the vase on the corner shelf, anything but me. ‘When my daughter was born. I looked at her and I expected this rush of love, like you read about. She was sleeping, and she didn’t look beautiful, she looked all wrinkled and her head was a cone shape from the suction cap. I didn’t want to hold her, like a proper mother would. I thought she looked horrendous.’ Finally she looks at me and there are tears in her eyes.
‘I’ve never told anyone that. Even though I got help, and I got better, and I love my little girl so much, I still never told a soul that I thought she was the ugliest baby I’d ever seen.’
‘Did anyone notice?’ I whisper.
‘My husband.’ Her hands work furiously at a stray thread on the throw. ‘But not at first. She was perfect for everyone else; they all said what a chilled-out baby she was. But for me . . . every time I picked her up, she just cried and cried. I found out afterwards that she could smell my milk; she wanted food whenever she was near me and that’s why she cried. But at the time I just thought she must hate me. She’d look at me with her huge blue eyes and I felt so guilty that I couldn’t just love her like everyone else did.’
‘What happened?’
She looks away again, takes a sip of her tea. ‘My husband left us on our own for the day, and from the minute he left, she just screamed. Nothing I could do would make her stop. I was so tired – I’d been up all night feeding her every two hours – and I couldn’t take it. I put her in the nursery and just listened to her cry
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