Chapter Twenty-Three

 

 

I WAKE UP ON SUNDAY morning with a banging headache, pain whooshing across my skull when I sit up in bed. I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes and it appears I fell asleep in the spare room. Scattered across the bed are old photos and bits of Gage’s clothes I quite liked. There’s a half-drunk bottle of gin on the nightstand and the white top I’m wearing is strained with mascara.

I should’ve known Gage wasn’t coping. I should’ve known. He kept it so well hidden, though. I spent last night looking through all of his things, seeking a sign – but there was nothing. I wonder now if his depression made it difficult for him to truly let go in the bedroom, or whether we were never really right for one another – and neither one of us could admit that.

Still, it appears my infidelity pushed him to commit suicide. That, or he felt I might be all right if he left me – because I’d clearly found someone else. The worst thing is that I will never truly be able to put myself in his place and understand his mindset in those last few hours. I’ll never know what he was really thinking or what, ultimately, made him take those pills.

I heave myself off the bed, strip out of my clothes and throw them in the hamper in the bathroom. I start the shower and tie my hair back, which thankfully has survived intact since my trip to the salon yesterday. I don my frilly shower cap and hope for the best.

I sit under the shower for half an hour, waiting to feel better. The truth is, it’s not helping. Nothing ever will. I leave the shower and dry heave over the toilet for a while. Then I manage a glass of water and clean my teeth.

I find the baggiest clothes I possess – an oversized roll-neck jumper and some sweats I was fond of while pregnant. I pull on my Uggs and fill my travel mug with tea downstairs.

While I’m waiting for my drink to brew, I send a few texts. The first to Warrick:

I found out what happened. Sam not to blame. Speak later. I’m okay. Promise.

The second text I send to my mother:

Kids okay?

My tea is over-stewed by the time she replies, but maybe that’s what I need today.

Kids are fine. A joy as always. What time are you coming to get them?

What time suits you?

3 or 4. I’ll feed them lunch.

Thanks. CU then.

That gives me a bit of time to myself today.

I fire off one, last text: Meet me at Hessle Foreshore beneath the bridge? I’m heading there now.

Within thirty seconds, he replies: See you there.

 

 

I DON’T KNOW how, but as I park up, I spot Sam has made it before me – even though he lives further. I did suffer a bit of traffic, but still.

He looks anxious as I approach. It’s a blustery, bitter morning and I pulled on a woolly hat on top of my baggy clothes before I left the house, plus my biggest coat – my knee-length puffa. He’s wearing baggy jeans and a windbreaker jacket.

“Morning,” I croak, carrying my lifesaving mug of tea, keeping my head down as I motion we should move.

“Are you okay?”

“I need to walk for a bit before we talk, okay?”

“Oh…kay.”

We pass beneath the bridge and before we know it, we’re walking along the gravelled public pathway that runs parallel with the River Humber. Buffeted by the wind, it actually feels quite nice. It’s keeping me awake.

“What happened to your sister?” I eventually ask, trying to sound non-confrontational. “Tell me again.”

“She left. I was seven. I never saw her again.”

“She ran away?”

“I don’t know… I assumed that. It’s a bit hazy, you see. My parents never talked of it. I made assumptions. I was young.”

Kids at school talk, unless…

“You were home-schooled?”

“I had a tutor, yes. They made the decision to home-school me right after she left.”

“How old was she?”

“I said before, seventeen. I did say that, didn’t I? Have I said something wrong?”

“She was murdered, Sam.”

“What? Is this a joke?”

We stop walking and turn to face one another. A couple walking their dog pass us by, but we’re largely alone out here. Sam appears tired, stricken and distraught.

“I have a friend… in the police. He found out for me. I wanted to understand more about you.” Spinning a few white lies can’t hurt, right? I shan’t tell him that yesterday I had him pegged as a murderer, but that today is a whole new kettle of fish…

We set off again at a slow pace as Sam takes in the news. Eventually we come across a metal bench and sit down, able to watch the estuary flip backwards and forwards against the roaring wind.

“It explains everything,” Sam finally admits.

“The killer was never found. I expect that’s why they hid the truth from you. I expect they felt hopeless that they couldn’t tell you who had hurt your sister, nor why.”

Sam has his hands over his face, but he’s taking it in his stride, not crying – just digesting.

“You can’t expect me to let you move in, just like that,” I remind him.

“I know. I know. I got carried away.”

I like to come down to the foreshore. It’s elemental down here. Plus, you can see the land for miles around, across to the south bank and up towards Ferriby, then back all the way down towards the docks, marina and The Deep submarium.

“Why? Why did you get carried away?”

“Because I’m terrified,” he explains, “that you’ll change your mind, go off me, forget me… become so buried in your grief that we grow apart, never seeing one another. There have been weeks where you haven’t even texted me.”

Whether it’s the lashing wind or my heart, I don’t care, I let tears cover my face without trying to wipe them away. Grasping my travel mug in both hands, I take a few shaky mouthfuls before closing the cup again.

“I’m sorry, what more can I say?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I was looking for some reassurance, I guess.”

And I was such a bitch … when all he was doing was feeding my kids breakfast.

There will never be a good time to say it, so I just come out with it…

“Gage committed suicide.”

Sam is silent but when I turn to look at him, he’s peering at me, wondering if he heard right.

“How do you know?”

“I found a note… but more than that… I just know. I feel it.”

“A note? Where? Did it come by owl?”

I manage a half-hearted smile, looking down at my lap. “Gage had been tracking my phone without me realising. He must have always known about our coffee shop meetings on Saturdays, then that night we spent together at your place.”

Sam can only shake his head.

“This is crazy.”

“He had pills… for depression. He wasn’t taking them. Maybe they affected his performance… I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“What did the note say?”

“It said—” Either the wind just took my breath away, or Gage’s soul just washed over mine, because I feel dispossessed and freezing cold suddenly. “It said, ‘I’m sorry. Don’t hate me.’ Or it may have been the other way around, I don’t know. But that’s what it said.”

“Infuriating,” he gasps. “Absolutely reckless! Foul! How could he do this to you?”

“Please, Sam. Not now. Not today. Please.” I can’t take any more of this.

“Sorry, I know. I know. This is happening to you, not me. It’s just that this is why I acted like a maniac yesterday. I feel like he’s trying to sabotage any happiness we may have had the potential to enjoy. That’s how it feels… like he’s sabotaging us from beyond the grave.”

“They ruled misadventure because he’d had roofies. I think he expelled most of the evidence in the toilet, but I think he knew exactly what he was doing. I’m fairly certain he wanted to climb into bed and have a long sleep, never intending to wake up. He wanted us all to think it was a drunken misadventure, because even unto the end he was too afraid to admit he had a problem and needed help.”

I break down. It hurts. I wail. Sam just holds me while I do. Thankfully nobody else is around, or maybe the wind is carrying my cries to other people nearby, warning them to steer clear.

Eventually, I get a grip. I take control. “The worst thing is not having answers.”

“I’m with you there,” he says, and out of the corner of my eye I see him looking wistfully towards the riverbank.

“What do we do?” I ask.

He kisses my hand, then my cheek. “We take one day at a time. Together or apart, whatever you need. But I’d rather we were together. So we can get through it stronger.”

“I’ll try,” I whisper.

“I can’t ask for any more than that.”

I sit back against his embrace and let him wrap his arms around me. We do nothing but be close, and eventually, I feel as if I could sleep again.

“Let’s go to mine,” I suggest.

 

 

WE’RE LYING ON my bed, clothed. I’m being spooned but with all my layers, all I can feel is his breath against the back of my neck.

“Your hair looks pretty,” he murmurs.

“Thank you.”

There’s a painful silence that follows. I’ve hurt him. He’s hurt me.

I’m dealing with the most savage revelation of my life.

For so long, I suppose, I blamed Gage for my own shortcomings. I blamed him for hindering my writing career, with his constant advice: “You don’t need to work. I work for all of us. Just look after the kids.”

It feels like his depression has given him a get-out-of-jail free card, and I’m having serious trouble with that. I’m only human, after all. I feel wronged but at the same time, I feel bad for feeling this way. Yet, I still feel overwhelmingly wronged and upset.

“Is that why you shagged around a lot?” It blurts out of me suddenly, my mind trying to think of things to take the edge off thinking about Gage’s death. “Feeling… I don’t know… worthless.”

“It was rebellion, I suppose,” he whispers. “But the funny thing was, it was only detrimental to me.”

He pulls me tighter against him and it feels too good. Gage also gave great hugs. He was huge and muscular, but with Gage it was always like I was hugging a friend, not a lover.

“They must have distanced themselves from you emotionally… to prevent you finding out… only it didn’t have the desired effect, did it?”

“My mother was in mourning after it happened, but my father – never a fan of my elder sister’s notorious partying – didn’t appear as sad. So maybe that’s why they never talked about it with me. My mother didn’t want to reveal the truth, and she didn’t want my father saying something like, ‘Yeah, your sister got killed because she took too many risks.’”

“So, you knew bits and pieces, then?”

“I knew she was always gone. I was seven, she was ten years older, but I wasn’t stupid. You could always tell she’d been drinking… maybe drugs too, I don’t know. Maybe my mother was too ashamed to admit she’d allowed Clara to fall in with the wrong sorts of people.”

“I could try to find out more for you, if you like? Get the full report, or something.”

“No, there’s no point. She’s gone, isn’t she?”

“So, whenever you asked your parents about her, they said… what, exactly?”

“That she was gone and they had no way of knowing where she was.”

“And they’ve lied to you all this time?”

“Yep. It explains why my parents’ marriage was never the same again; why they seem to hate one another and sent me away to boarding school when I was eleven, even though that had never been the plan. My mother was more of a believer in holistic childrearing, hence the home schooling up until that point, but once I was of age my father was determined I’d go somewhere decent and become properly regimented, to stay out of trouble. In a way, I suppose he was right. I was safer there. I had friends. I didn’t have to stay at home surrounded by their toxicity.”

“How awful to never deal with their emotions… never coming to terms with it. How can they live like that?”

“I don’t know, Liz. It’s always bothered me that two people could be so bad for one another and yet remain together. I guess they’re trapped by their shared grief… shared guilt, even.”

I turn over and rest on his chest, holding his hand and bringing it to my lips.

The past two months have been a rollercoaster.

“I think I just need a little sleep,” I murmur.

“Okay.” He strokes the wispy bits of hair off my face and brushes it back into my mane.

Before I drift off, I ask, “Nobody can ever know what he did. It’ll have to be between us. I need to protect my kids.”

“Liza, no. I understand protecting them now, but when they’re older, they will need to know. It’s not good keeping secrets. They need to be made aware of these things. You can’t wrap them up forever.”

“Sam…” I start crying.

“Hey, I know, I know.” He kisses my cheek and holds me through it all.

Just how many tears have I cried? And how many more do I have in me?

It seems my pain is infinite.

It seems like it’s a part of me now.