Authors: Janelle Harris
I wonder what kind of mother could leave her child in the cold ground and never return to visit the grave. Some poor child cruelly forgotten.
I try to read the faded inscription painted in white on the cross, but too many letters have succumbed to the hardship of the weather. The wind and rain have erased them. There’s no name, just a date. A newborn baby lies resting in the forgotten grave.
‘Why are you showing me this?’ I ask
Mark looks at me blankly.
‘Have we not suffered enough? We don’t need to see this, Mark.’
I turn to walk away, but Mark places his hands on my shoulders and spins me back around.
‘Look,’ he says.
‘I am.’ I soften. ‘Are you trying to show me that others have suffered like us? I know they have. We are not the first people to lose a child, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.’
‘You’re not looking, Laura. Not really.’
‘I want to go,’ I say trembling. A combination of bitter cold and heartache challenges me to remain upright, and I contemplate giving up. I want to fall to the ground and just never get up again.
Mark and I sit in silence in the driveway at our house. It’s dark outside. The thick grey clouds completely hide the moon. The sitting room curtains are closed and no lights are on inside; the house is miserable and uninviting. It’s obvious that the house has stood unoccupied for a while now. Mark must not have been back since I ran away. I wonder why. I guess the memories inside are too painful for him too, and I dread to think how I will feel as I walk through the front door. I try to be brave and convince myself that I’m finally ready. We can face it together, and hopefully, time will help us move on.
A light comes on in the hall, and I freeze. I turn towards Mark and wait for him to panic at the thoughts of an intruder, but he doesn’t flinch. The light on the porch flickers a little before deciding to remain on and illuminates most of the driveway. The hall door creaks open and it’s time to accept we have company.
Nicole sticks her head around the door and smiles. I’m about to explode into a lecture directed at Mark when my mother-in-law’s head appears close behind her. A flock of millions of tiny butterflies gather in my tummy.
The kids must be inside too
, I think with giddy excitement
.
The fluttering increases and my delicate butterflies became more like hungry pelicans trying to fly to freedom through the wall of my stomach.
What if they don’t remember me?
What if they have learned to love Nicole more?
I should never have left.
I make myself feel sick as I continue to berate myself with the regrets of a bad mother.
Mark climbs out of the driver’s seat and walks around to open my door. The vicious December chill fights with the comforting heat inside the car. He reaches his hand out to me.
‘You ready?’ he asks softly, and I sense his enthusiasm.
I nod, but my contorted face is protesting. I’m so far from ready. I can’t wait to hold my children, but I can’t do that without going inside, and I really, really don’t want to go in the house. My heartstrings aren’t being tugged at; they’re clumped together like sticky spaghetti.
‘Come on. No one will bite, I promise,’ Mark assures, tugging me by the hand.
It’s easier than I think it will be. I just put one weak leg in front of the other and soon I’m standing inside the hall door with Patricia hugging me and crying. I’m taken aback by her lack of composure. I was never in the running for daughter-in-law of the year, but standing there, with the air being squeezed from my lungs as her arms wrap tightly around my neck, I could be forgiven for thinking she is actually glad to see me.
Nicole stands with her back to the wall, and I know that’s because I’m making her uncomfortable. And even though I know my hatred for her was misguided, I still can’t bring myself to like her.
Mark takes my coat, hangs it on the end of the stairs, and ushers me into the sitting room to sit by a roaring fire. Nicole potters towards the kitchen and mumbles something about making a pot of tea. I sit back against the soft suede of the couch. If I close my eyes for longer than a second, then I’ll fall asleep, so I didn’t allow myself to relax completely. It isn’t difficult; I’m sandwiched between Mark and his mother.
Patricia’s hand is on my knee and she’s patting it gently as she speaks. ‘I’m so glad you have your memory back, sweetheart. Mark has been out of his mind with worry.’
I smile lovingly at my husband. It’s a relief to know that all the time I was convinced he didn’t love me anymore; he was actually just hurting and just struggling to show it.
‘When did it all start to come back to you?’ Patricia asks.
Mark takes my hand in his and strokes the back of my palm with his other hand. ‘Mom, Laura is tired. I think we should leave the questions for another time.’
‘I’m not tired,’ I assure Mark. ‘I remembered when I saw the photo. As soon as I saw Lorcan’s face,’ I say.
Patricia grabs me for an unexpected hug, and my spine cracks in protest.
‘Aww, that’s beautiful. I’m so glad you finally decided on a name. Lorna is a pretty little name,’ Patricia says, still holding me.
Mark glares at his mother through squinted eyes. He’s desperate for her to shut up, but she’s on a roll.
‘Did you visit the grave?’ she asks, finally releasing me to blow her nose into a fancy, embroidered handkerchief.
Mark hops up from beside me and waves his hands crossing one over the other. ‘No, no! This is a happy day. Laura is home now; we don’t want to spend the evening talking about things that are going to upset us all.’
‘It’s okay, Mark,’ I say with a sniffle. ‘I want to talk about it. It helps me deal with it.’
Mark sits reluctantly back down. He’s decidedly uncomfortable.
Just because I’m coming to terms with all this doesn’t mean he is.
Maybe I’m upsetting him.
Patricia continues to ramble on and my eyes weigh heavy as I try to stay awake. I’m not listening to a word she’s saying, but I’m enjoying the company. Nothing matters more to me now than family time, no matter how tedious the conversation.
Nicole rattles back into the room as she carries a large silver tray I didn’t know we had with four teacups, some milk, sugar, and even some inviting chocolate chip cookies.
She pushes a couple of magazines off the coffee table and lets them fall to the floor before placing down the heavy tray.
‘Biscuit, Laura?’ she offers timidly.
‘Yes, please,’ I say reaching out to take one. I look at Mark; certain he will commend my effort to be polite. I’m right. His eyes smile happily at me.
I bite into the cookie happy to be offering my growling tummy something at last.
‘Ugh, yuck,’ I say spitting the flaky, soap-tasting cookie into a serviette I grab from the tray. ‘Where did you get these? I think they may be stale.’
‘I baked them myself,’ Nicole stutters.
My face flashes bright red. I hope she doesn’t think I'm rude on purpose. She slams her cup down on the coffee table. Some tea spills over the edge and leaves a brownish-yellow circle on the pine table. Mark races after her with Patricia following soon after.
The heated conversation from the kitchen filters through to the sitting room where I sit staring at the ceiling. I can’t understand the muffled sounds, but I imagine Patricia and Nicole are giving Mark an earful. I’m tempted to press my ear against the kitchen door, but I decide against it. Patricia is still my mother-in-law. The once a month family dinners at their house are hard enough already – with the five hundred pieces of cutlery that I never know which to use, appetisers with names I don’t understand, and Patricia watching me with beaded eyes as I try to swallow something that I often suspect is made from sour milk. If I hear Patricia say something cruel and unforgettable, then I will never be able to sit opposite her at the table again.
I decide instead to creep up to the kids’ rooms and check on my sleeping angels. I’m almost at the top step when Mark runs into the hall calling after me. His mother and Nicole follow irritatingly behind.
‘What you doing?’ he shouts. ‘You okay?’
‘Shh,’ I say placing my index finger over my lips. ‘You’ll wake them.’
‘Wake who?’ Mark asks ignoring my request for hush.
‘The kids, you wally. Who else?’
Patricia’s hand covers her mouth, and she stumbles back almost falling against Nicole. ‘I thought you told her,’ she says angrily, staring at Mark. ‘You said everything was okay now. You promised, Mark. Nothing has changed, has it?’
Mark is pale and silent.
‘Has it?’ Patricia screams.
Nicole holds Patricia tightly in her arms and strokes her hair softly until she calms. It’s all so over that top that I want to slap someone.
‘Will someone please tell me what is going on?’ I say beyond irritated.
Mark looks from Nicole to his mother and then at me. He opens his mouth, and I pause waiting for what I assume will be his answer, but he closes his mouth again.
Nicole finally speaks. ‘They’re not here,’ she says. She steps back towards the kitchen dragging Patricia with her. It’s as if she was expecting me to have some sort of horrid reaction and she was preparing to protect herself.
‘If they’re not here, then where are they?’ I snap.
Again, an annoying silence falls over everyone, and I notice they all appear to be holding their breaths involuntarily.
‘Where in the hell are my children?’ I bellow so loudly I give myself an instant headache.
‘They’re in my house,’ Patricia says finally passing Mark her handkerchief to wipe the tears swelling under his eyes.
A small twitch has made its way into Mark’s body and it jerks him back and forth on the spot. If I blink, I’ll miss it, but I see enough to know Mark isn’t coping. And I know Patricia sees it, too.
‘I thought you would need your rest after the long trip, so I suggested that I keep them with me tonight. Okay?’ Patricia says.
I want to shout that of course it’s not okay. I want to tell the interfering old woman that it’s a stupid idea; that I miss my kids more than I can bear and another day waiting to see them is a lifetime. But I don’t say a word. Anything I say now might tip Mark to the breaking point.
‘Well, I best be off,’ Patricia says nervously as she reaches for the front door handle. She can probably sense the vibes I’m shooting her way, and I don’t blame her for wanting to leave.
‘I’ll drop you home,’ Mark suggests.
Nicole’s bottom lip begins to quiver. I know we’re never going to be the type of friends who sip tea in the afternoon while chatting about the latest celebrity scandal, but I honestly never realised that I intimidate her quite so much. She almost seems afraid of me.
‘No, Mark, I’ll go,’ Nicole says gripping Mark’s arm and silently pleading with him.
‘That okay, Mom?’ Mark asks sweetly.
‘Why don’t you all go,’ I suggest. ‘I’ll be fine by myself. I think I’m just going to head straight to bed. You’re right, Patricia. I
am
exhausted.’
I step off the bottom step of the stairs that has taken me a long time to descend and lean forward to kiss Mark.
Nicole shudders a little as I stand beside her and the damsel in distress act is doing my head in. Nicole mumbled goodbye and flings her handbag over her shoulder almost knocking out my front teeth. I notice the tattered key ring that hangs from the zip. It’s a silver crescent moon with a pretty painted face. It’s handmade. The giveaway is it looked a lot more like a squashed silver banana than a moon. Nicole must have always had it, but I never noticed it before. It only catches my eye now because it reminds me so much of the little sun that Nigel is so endearingly attached to. The key rings share the same wobbly, bright red smile. I wonder if Nigel would have had the same meltdown had he known it wasn’t lovingly handcrafted after all, and more likely a buy-one-get-one-free offer from a corner brick-a-brack shop.
‘Bye,’ I say as I stand on the porch and wave at our car pulling out the drive. Mark was ridiculously reluctant to leave me alone. But I couldn’t wait to be alone. I have an extensive amount of snooping to do. Even though I’m back in my own home, it has changed so much since I was last here that I need to research every nook and cranny. I have a weird feeling there’s something I need to find, even though I have no idea what.
The house has been stripped to skeletal remains of what I remember. The chocolate handprints dotted along the bottom of the doors are no longer visible. No scribbles in brightly coloured marker wiggle up and down the walls. It’s as if Nicole called in pest control. The cleaners have fumigated the place, removing any evidence that children once lit up the house with giddy laughter and playful games. It really pisses me off that Mark would allow the messy slate that is our family life to be wiped so clean.
I decide to investigate the playroom first. A painful ice filters through my veins and into my heart as I stand looking in from the door arch. The room has been completely redecorated. A large and impressive dining room stares back at me. A solid oak dining table and six chairs replace the large plastic train set in the centre of the floor. All the colourful storage shelves are absent and a large, built-in unit housing scented candles and shiny picture frames stands tall at the back of the room. It’s a beautiful room. Homely yet stylish, but it’s wrong. It doesn’t belong in my house. Where are the messy toys and biscuit crumbs that usually litter the floor?
Memories of the day of the funeral rush back to me. No fog covers the images anymore. There’s nothing to protect me from the pain. I can remember clearly, and God, how much I wished I couldn’t.
Distant family members shaking my hand and kissing my cheek. The offensive, cheap incense wafts around me. It engulfs the whole room. Slender white candles lit on a small table hidden in the corner. There’s a picture of Lorcan in a pretty, silver frame. He’s only a few days old in the shot, and I wonder why we’ve chosen that photo instead of a more recent one. I remember how precious it felt to hold his tiny body as a baby. I long for the touch of his soft wrinkled hand or another chance to inhale the distinctive smell of his newborn skin. I miss him so much that I think my grief will choke me. I wouldn’t fight it if it does; I wouldn’t want to.
I shudder as the bitter sting of loneliness grabs me. I see the house full of people, some chatting and laughing…some hugging in silence…and some, like me…standing alone. I recognise most people. My parents console each other in the corner. My sister tries to busy herself cutting apple tarts and offers a piece to anyone who’s brave enough to make eye contact. People tell me they’re sorry for my troubles and that they will pray for me. Others avoid me completely because they don’t know what to say. Everyone hurts, but no one hurts like me. Remembering is hell.
I wander from one empty room to the next. The house is so silent. I hate being here. I want to be back in New York. Everything is better there. There are no demons there. I resent Mark for making me come home to this. It’s not even a home anymore. Now it’s just a poignant house that teases me with thoughts of what could have been. I find the key to the back door and race towards it. It’s becoming increasingly hard to breathe, and I have to get out of the house. Fresh air has to reach my lungs or I feel I will explode. I burst through the door and inhale deeply.
Every step I take now brings with it a torrential downpour of memories. It’s bordering dangerously on a mental overload. I drop my head and tuck my face into my hands as the images of the past parade across my mind.
I remember standing alone on the patio. It’s raining, but I don’t notice the cold wet soak of my clothes and it makes me shiver. My back is turned, but I can feel Mark’s presence behind me. He’s crying. He reaches his hand out to me, but I pull away. He tries to embrace me, but I push him back so roughly I stumble and tear my palm off the rusty side gate as I attempt to keep my balance.
‘It’s all your fault,’ I shout. ‘I hate you.’
‘It’s nobody’s fault,’ Mark disagrees sadly.
‘I hate you,’ I scream over and over. ‘I told you I never wanted kids. I told you.’
Mark looks at me blankly. He’s already suffering so much, but my hysteria is making it even harder for him to cope.
‘But you wanted to be a mother,’ Mark says.
‘I did, so much. But now our little one is gone, and I want to die. If you didn’t get me pregnant, then the baby would never have been born and would never have died. I would never have to hurt like this. I hate you for it. I will never forgive you.’
I close my aching fist and watch the blood trickle past my knuckles. Mark’s words ring in my ears, over and over again. It wasn’t my fault! What wasn’t my fault? Mark tries to walk towards me, but I back away. He has such pain in his eyes.
~~~
I want to stop the memories now. They’re too vivid and awful, but I my head is reeling and I can’t make it stop. They continue to pop like hundreds of pins attacking shiny balloons. I pull out a chair from the dining room table and sit down. I fold my arms and drop my head against them.
I was the one who pushed Mark away. I was cold and out of character. I’m surprised he still loves me at all. I’ve destroyed our marriage because I blame him for something he had no control over. But now I know the mistakes I’ve made. I won’t make them again. I can fix everything, and we will be okay.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
The back of my chair cracks loudly as it collides with the floor. I can’t get up the stairs fast enough. I dash into the spare room and frantically pull everything out from the wardrobe. Black sacks full of Christmas decorations, an old hand-knitted cardigan, and a duvet cover spill out on top of me. I push the heavy pile to one side and stare at the little metal box that hides at the back of the empty wardrobe. It’s just as I remember; a small white box sealed with some yellowing adhesive tape. The dark blue handles are tattered and close to falling off, but to me, the precious little chest is beautiful. I sit cross-legged on the floor, my fingers quivering as I tug at the edges of the tape. I lift the lid and gasp at the treasure inside.
My eyes first light up as I stare at the delicate pink baby booties and a tiny white baby vest, barely big enough to fit a doll. A small, white hospital bracelet is also peeking out at me. I try to place the bracelet on my index and middle fingers, but it’s too tight to fit. I remember stroking my new baby’s little hand as the bracelet spun around on the tiniest, most fragile wrist I had ever seen. There’s a note stuffed inside one of the booties and I pull it out and read it out loud.
Dearest baby,
Happy 21
st
Birthday, my princess.
As I write this letter to you, my paper is resting on my enormous bump and you’re kicking up a storm inside. You’re due in less than a week and your dad and I are so excited to meet you. I can’t wait to hold you in my arms, kiss your little forehead, and tell you how much I love you. I can’t wait to be a mom. Your mom.
I hope I’ve done you proud over the years. I hope that at twenty-one years of age, you love me as much as I loved you even before you were born. I hope that we are not just family but friends and I hope that every day of the last twenty-one years I’ve made sure you know how very special you are.
I struggled with the decision to give up my career in New York and move back to Ireland. Did I ever tell you that? But day after day, feeling you grow inside me, I am so grateful for the decision I made to become a mother.
Today is one month to the day until Ava and Adam’s wedding, and if you don’t hurry up and pop, I’m going to be the world’s most heavily pregnant bridesmaid.
I hope you and Bobby have grown up to be great friends. Just like Ava and I. Adam once told me that his family aren’t just in his heart, they are his heart. I didn’t understand at the time, but I do now. You are my heart, little one. You’re not even born yet and already you are the centre of your dad’s and my world.
We love you so very much, princess.
Mom x
I fold the paper neatly and place it back in the bootie. There’s something else in the box, a folded sheet of newspaper. I don’t remember putting that in. The edges of the pages are rough and it appears the article was ripped from a larger page. I unfold it carefully and my eyes struggle to remain in focus as I read the black and white print.
A five-year-old boy, Lorcan Kavanagh, has died today after last Wednesday’s car crash on the M50 North Bound. Lorcan, a pupil of St. John’s Primary School in Lucan, County Dublin had been on life support since the accident.
This brings the number of fatalities in the two-car collision to four. The driver, a close family friend of the boy, was pronounced dead at the scene. Her three-year-old son also died later at The Saints Children’s hospital. The heavily pregnant driver of the other car is reported to have been discharged from the hospital in recent days. Her baby girl died as a result of her injuries.
Police are continuing to investigate the cause of the accident at the notorious black spot. Lorcan’s mother, speaking outside the hospital, has requested that the family’s privacy be respected at this tragic time.
A short, sharp scream escapes my mouth, so loud it leaves my ears ringing. I crumple up the paper and fling it in the corner. I think about tucking my knees into my chest and rocking back and forth on the spot.
But what good will that do?
Instead, I take out my phone and hit speed dial. The phone rings twice before I hang up. I forgot the time difference. It’s the middle of the night in New York. I desperately need to hear Ava’s voice, but I will have to wait.
Vomit swells in my mouth as I stand up. My head is shaking so hard from side to side that I lose my balance and scrape my shoulder off the corner of the radiator. I’m grateful for the pain it causes. It takes my mind off the article, but only for a second. There’s something familiar about the piece of paper; something my body knows but my head doesn’t. A sharp pins and needles sensation pinches my skin.
‘It’s just a joke,’ I shout out loud even though I know there’s no one there to hear me. I need noise, any noise. This silence is unbearable.
My shaking is getting worse. I lie on the ground. My eyes close, but I can’t escape the words that spell out a cruel, alternate reality.
Faint, goddamn it
, I tell myself. It doesn’t work.
Faint, you stupid bitch…just faint.
My eyes remain closed, and I remain awake.
I scurry to the corner in pursuit of the article and read it again and again and again. I hate myself for reading it. I hate my eyes for seeing the words, and most of all, I hate my brain for believing them. I reach for my phone once more, dropping it several times. Time anywhere in the world is no longer of consequence. My trembling fingers try hard to cooperate, but it takes numerous attempts before I manage to dial the correct digits.
‘Hello,’ a sleepy voice answers.
‘It’s me,’ I explain. ‘I know the truth.’
I hang up and stuff the article into my pocket.