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, grey 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. I’ve failed as a mother. 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 seatbelt cuts into my throat as the car swerves sharply towards 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 seatbelt with both hands as we hurtle towards a 4X4. A cacophony of beeping horns fill my ears and then Brian yanks the steering wheel and we lurch left, speeding towards the grass verge then lurch back to the right so we’re back in the centre 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 breathe.
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 we nearly drove head first 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 letterbox 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 postie 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 down the side. It’s hard, like a shoebox, not floppy like clothes. It can’t be shoes. They’re the one thing I still insist on buying from the shops. When you’ve got feet as wide as mine ordering shoes off the internet can be a bit of a gamble.
‘Brian?’ I carry the parcel into the house and search for my husband. ‘Oh, hi Milly.’
She looks up from her prone position in
‘ Could being the operative word, Sue. You need to stay positive.’
I rest my head against the headrest and stare up at the dull, grey 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. I’ve failed as a mother. 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 seatbelt cuts into my throat as the car swerves sharply towards 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 seatbelt with both hands as we hurtle towards a 4X4. A cacophony of beeping horns fill my ears and then Brian yanks the steering wheel and we lurch left, speeding towards the grass verge then lurch back to the right so we’re back in the centre 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 breathe.
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 we nearly drove head first 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 letterbox 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 postie 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 down the side. It’s hard, like a shoebox, not floppy like clothes. It can’t be shoes. They’re the one thing I still insist on buying from the shops. When you’ve got feet as wide as mine ordering shoes off the internet can be a bit of a gamble.
‘Brian?’ I carry the parcel into the house and search for my husband. ‘Oh, hi Milly.’
She looks up from her prone position in
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