Look Behind You by Sibel Hodge

anything.’
    A strangled cry escapes from my lips.
    ‘In the early hours of the morning after you told me, you had the miscarriage. Then you started to get depressed. You were crying a lot and didn’t want to get up in the mornings. Your sleep was erratic. You didn’t want to talk. Couldn’t be bothered to get dressed. You didn’t even want to teach anymore. The doctor signed you off work and prescribed antidepressants and sleeping tablets, but a few days in to taking the antidepressants you had some kind of reaction to them. That’s when I came home and found you out in the garden.’ His expression softens as he shakes his head. ‘It was awful to see you like that.’
    I try to imagine what I looked like then, scratching away at the path with wild eyes, screaming at the top of my lungs about people chasing me. Dying to get away. Dying inside. Losing Chloe and turning into a crazy woman. My mind disintegrating into paranoid delusion. I can’t picture it at all.
    ‘I called the doctor, and you were sectioned. Dr Drew treated you with anti-psychotic drugs before they realized it must’ve been some kind of side effect of the antidepressants. So they stopped the anti-psychotics and waited for the antidepressants to be purged from your system.’
    ‘And when I came home?’
    ‘You were coping better. You were functioning, getting dressed, making dinner, and you had an interest in certain things. But you were still very sad, understandably, and you couldn’t sleep. You said the baby was haunting you at night.’
    ‘Did I write a journal? Dr Drew said he encouraged me to write one to help with the grief.’
    ‘A journal? No, not that I know of.’
    I swallow past the golf ball-sized lump in my throat and lick my lips to bring back some moisture. ‘Then what happened?’
    ‘I was working hard getting this new diabetes drug ready for production. I had to visit our manufacturing plant in Scotland, but you assured me you would be OK for the week I’d be away.’
    ‘DI Summers mentioned that you didn’t phone me when you were in Scotland like you said you did.’
    ‘Well, you were already very upset at the hospital. I didn’t want to upset you more by telling you what really happened.’
    ‘That’s very considerate of you,’ I say.
    His eyebrow quirks up a fraction.
    ‘What really happened with the argument before you left?’ I grip his hand. ‘I need to know.’
    He lets go of my hand and lifts his glass to his mouth. Takes a sip. I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down, and it’s as if he’s delaying his answer, forming it in his head before he says it aloud. ‘I brought you breakfast in bed before I left.’
    ‘How thoughtful of you.’ I smile. ‘What did you make me?’
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘What did you make me for breakfast?’
    He shrugs dismissively. ‘Tea and toast with marmalade.’
    I bite my lip to stop myself speaking.
    ‘Anyway, you just freaked out and started going mental at me. You said I’d given it to you on the wrong plate. That you never used the one I brought up to you, and it wasn’t what you wanted. You were being irrational, angry. You knocked the plate out of my hand, and it smashed on the floor. Then you started crying. You curled up under the duvet and told me to get out. That you wanted some time on your own, and that I shouldn’t call you while I was away.’ He takes another swig of wine, his fingers tight against the glass. Any tighter and it might break. ‘I thought it might agitate you more if I tried to calm you down, so I left to go up to Scotland.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘And that’s all I know. When I left you were upset and in bed. When I came back home after the hospital called, I found your suicide note.’
    I stare at my feet, ignoring the queasiness lurching up to my throat. The thing is I hate marmalade. Never touch the stuff. Can’t stand the smell or the texture. He’s never once given it to me in all the time we’ve been together, because he