It was eight weeks to the day.
One thousand three hundred and forty-four hours.
One thousand three hundred and thirty-eight hours over the record.
The fact no longer made her sick or sent her hysterical, instead it simply provided another layer of numbness, the words forming a barrier like one of those preserving jellies – aspic and such – to glide over her thoughts, cementing the horror in its latest form. Layer upon layer of fresh imagery that was too uncomfortable to contemplate; smothering the very essence of her, until it was buried, nothing more than a tiny, unreachable kernel where a seed of happiness and rationality lay.
Throughout the night, with the moon casting pools of silvery light on to their marital bed, she would look across at James with a mixture of envy, revulsion and deep sadness, and wonder how sleep like that was even possible for him. It gave an unpleasant tension to her muscles and a sour lick of distaste to her spit. Once or twice in the early hours he tried to reach for her hand; she would then hold her breath and roll slowly out of reach, unable, or more accurately unwilling, to give or receive comfort when everything felt so very raw. She could barely remember what it was like to fall asleep and wake with her leg cast over his hip, skin to skin. This was just another way in which she found it almost impossible to recognise him as the man she so loved, the man whose contact she had craved. The realisation saddened her less than it should. Her nights, by contrast, were busy with thoughts, memories, guilt and recrimination jostling to be heard. A jumble of images crowded her brain – recollections both loud and detailed. Sleep came pawing as dawn broke and seemed to fall deepest prior to the alarm that shook her husband from slumber.
James did as he always had: swung his legs and sat on the side of the bed, checking his phone, stretching his back and rubbing his hair and face. It would have been hard for her to explain the rage that swirled in her gut and the hostility that danced on her tongue.
How dare you! How dare you go through life as if it was any other day! Are you not aware? Are you healed?
Instead she said nothing and closed her eyes tightly, feeling the ache in her eyeballs as she tried to keep them closed, and the hot burn of his fingertips on her shoulder as he left the room.
‘Shh, go back to sleep, my love. Just sleep . . .’
Rachel rarely left the bedroom balcony. She was without the energy or inclination to do so. Shunning all normal conventions like washing, cleaning her teeth or brushing her hair – these tasks relegated to another lifetime when cleanliness and so much else was part of a ‘normal’ routine. Instead, she sat, day after day, in her crumpled pyjamas, her long hair wound into a greasy knot, ignoring the unpleasant dairy-like odour of herself and cradling her Tic-Tac box full of sand as she stared at the ocean in a constant vigil, calling to her boy.
Her eyes darted to each crest of white, every flicker of movement, any boat travelling a little quicker than the last, as if it might be carrying an urgent cargo.
Mayday! Mayday! We have on board a small child picked up from an unseen sandbar! A boy, no less, plucked from a sargassum mat. A miracle! Everyone listen! Oscar is coming home!
She liked to picture the headlines and smiled at the thought of the photograph that would accompany it: her kissing her boy on the face as she held him tight.
Cee-Cee moved quietly and slowly, as if her demeanour had shrunk to fit the mood of the house, depositing glasses of water or cups of chamomile tea on the nearest surface, running a sponge over the pristine bathroom and placing a tall vase of freshly cut agapanthus on the dressing table. Rachel could do no more than offer a whispered ‘thank you’, comforted by her presence and yet unable to meet her gaze, eyes fixed on the horizon. The tea would cool until an oily film sat on its darkened surface; the water would gather dust particles and the flowers wilted. Not that she noticed. She didn’t notice much other than what happened out at sea.
Shifting her legs on the wooden stool that sat in front of her chair, she became aware of her husband standing in the doorway behind her. She pulled her soft, cotton shawl around her narrow shoulders.
‘Rachel?’
‘Mmmn?’
He walked forward and stood by the glass wall of the balcony, looking out across the ocean, joining her on her quest, whilst addressing her over his shoulder.
She looked at the back of his head, his body inside the crisply laundered white shirt. The shape of him now changed, shoulders bowed, weight-loss rendering him diminished, slight even. The back of his dark hair peppered with grey that she hadn’t noticed before. He had returned to work a few weeks ago, which she found to be extraordinary. How he could entertain something so normal, familiar, routine and irrelevant when their lives had been irrevocably shattered was beyond her.
‘You are going back to work?’ she had asked with barely disguised shock.
‘I have to, Rach. I don’t want to, trust me.’
Trust you? Trust you? You couldn’t keep him from leaving the cabin! You bought that boat! You told me it was safe!
‘. . . but I have to. I can’t lose my job as well.’
He had told her that it was necessary and that whilst the words of condolence were sincerely offered by his peers, they were accompanied by nervous enquiries as to the state of projects and events for which he was responsible. He had to keep working, couldn’t let that aspect of his life unwind too. Watching him fasten his tie each day and reach for his car keys was mystifying when it was all she could do to keep her eyes open – not that she managed it all the time, still giving in to bouts of fitful sleep. He reminded her of the violin player on the Titanic, fiddling as the ship sank and all around gasped their last.
‘Is this how it is going to be?’ he asked flatly, pulling her from her thoughts.
‘What do you mean?’ She watched him grip the rails, his knuckles white.
‘Are you’ – she saw the almost imperceptible shake of his head and heard the sharp intake of breath – ‘are you going to stay up here, hiding away?’
She placed her hand over her mouth, embarrassed by the small laugh that had escaped.
Where else would I be? What else is there to do?
‘I am not hiding away, but there is nowhere else for me to be. I can see everything I need to from here.’
‘It’s hiding.’
‘Hiding?’ she repeated, staring up at him, as she pictured Oscar running into Cee-Cee’s arms. How many counts was that? How long did you look for?
‘Yes, Rachel.’ Her husband’s tone now a little more impatient, with an undercurrent of irritation for which she had no time, none at all. If he of all people did not understand this limbo in which she existed . . .
He turned to face her. ‘I mean, is this it? You, sat up here, staring blankly out towards the ocean, muttering to yourself, and me excluded, pushed away. Nervous. Skulking downstairs, wondering whether to come up and check on you, whether it’s okay to even speak to you.’
‘I don’t even . . .’ And then the words fogged and she lost the point she had been about to make.
‘Do you want me by your side? Is it possible we can talk? Or is it better to leave you alone? I am at a loss and I feel like a stranger in my own home and it feels horrible. I am grieving too and it’s made doubly hard by you isolating yourself and excluding me.’
‘You don’t need to come check on me.’ She swallowed.
‘Is that it?’
Go away and leave me alone! Leave me alone! Leave me alone!
She stared at him, uncertain if she had screamed this aloud or only in her mind.
‘Well, your silence answers some of my questions at least.’
Mentally his words and any deeper meaning were dismissed; she simply didn’t have the energy.
She shook her head at him and pointed towards the deep blue. ‘Can you imagine what it would be like if Oscar appeared in the water, waving or calling, and I only had a second to hold him in my sights, to pinpoint him, to let him know that I am right here and that we will come and get him? Can you imagine if I missed that second?’ She finished with a nasal snort of derision – how could he not get that?
‘This is how you spend your days.’ It was more a lament than a statement of fact. ‘No wonder you are so very tired, my love.’ He reached for her hand and kissed her knuckles before restoring her cotton shawl, which had slipped down. He left her alone to her lookout.
Days later, how many she did not know and it did not matter, she must have fallen asleep, as she was aware of Cee-Cee standing by the side of the bed. ‘You have visitors; they were insistent. Would you like me to send them up or send them away?’
‘Visitors?’ she repeated, sitting up and rubbing her eyes in a half-wakened state. There had been many callers – people from local churches, from James’s office, neighbours – all eventually dismissed by Cee-Cee, as Rachel was without the desire or energy to face anyone.
Cee-Cee bent low. ‘It’s some of the moms from Oscar’s school.’
‘From school? Oh! Oh, Cee-Cee! Oh God! I have to see them!’
Her heart beat quickly, and as she swung her legs over the side of the mattress, she felt light-headed at the possibilities; maybe one of his school friends had come with a boat and taken him for a play date! Maybe they got stranded and their radio broke! Maybe they had only just managed to get back! She jumped up from the bed, shoving her arms into her dressing gown and tying it around her narrow waist, as she raced down the wide sweep of staircase, her bare feet glancing from the edge of each step, fleet of foot like a child on Christmas morning.
She cast her eyes over the three women standing in the hallway. She had never noticed before how they all looked remarkably similar with high, glossy, blonde ponytails; weighty diamond rings on their third fingers; Tiffany bangles that slid down on to the backs of their hands; neat, loose, gold, rectangle-faced watches; white sneakers; tanned legs; and shiny, manicured nails. She could not imagine ever going to so much trouble over something as incidental as her appearance, not when there were things far, far more important to occupy her thoughts. But of course she had. A lifetime ago.
Swallowing the wave of nausea that leaped in her gut, she gripped the bannister, pausing on the bottom step as she pictured sitting on the top floor of Brown and Co. on Front Street where the bookshop and café with the best view in town resided. A chilled fruit smoothie in her hand, Rachel had laughed as she and these women sat with a clutch of stiffened cardboard shopping bags around their feet, filled with baubles, fluff and frippery – stuff . . . She remembered making a call to Cee-Cee: ‘Would you mind just picking him up?’ She had lifted her shoulders and widened her mouth, narrowing her eyes in mock contrition for the amusement of these women. ‘You are a star, Cee-Cee! I shan’t be too long, but the girls and I are just catching up.’
‘Rachel!’ Alison, Hank’s mother, stepped forward. With arms outstretched, she pulled her from the step into a hug. Rachel felt the quake in the woman’s limbs and stood reluctantly inside the loose embrace with her arms hanging down. She felt the pat of Rita’s hand on her back – her son Finlay was in Oscar’s class – and Fiona, Daisy’s mum, stood with a desperate expression, shaking her head and whimpering a little, a tissue clutched in her palm.
‘Oh Rachel!’ Fiona sighed. ‘How are you?’
She shuffled back, freeing herself from their grasp, wondering if it would ever be possible to answer that question. The three stood in front of her forming a little trio of bobbing heads. Rachel was surprised by the swirl of feeling that stirred in her gut. These were the women with whom she had shared lunch, drunk wine, played sport, shopped, consoled, hugged and complimented. These women were her friends, and yet their very presence sent a lightning bolt of jealousy and hatred through her very being. She clamped her teeth together to stop from voicing all that gathered on her tongue.
It’s not their fault. It’s not their fault. It’s not their fault.
This mantra she repeated in the hope that it might prevent her from firing hurtful, poison-laden verbal arrows into their mouths and down their throats.
Why do you all look so sad? So concerned? You have no idea what this is like, so don’t pretend you do. You have your children. You will collect them from school today, from a room where there is an empty desk. You will grab their coat and PE bag from a hook next to a redundant peg and you will write out party invites, recounting on your fingers because you can’t figure how twenty-eight has become twenty-seven. Then, with a momentary start, you will remember Oscar. But your thoughts of him will be fleeting, and more so as time goes on. But for me? It will never end. I don’t wish your children any harm. But a small part of me hates that you get to tuck your babies into their beds tonight and I do not.
‘We have called before,’ Alison began. ‘We know there are no words, but we wanted you to know that we are thinking of you. We all are. It’s all we can think about, all we can talk about. Everyone sends you their love. There have been prayers at St Ada’s – all the kids are devastated. Hank, you can imagine . . .’ Alison paused for breath.
Rachel took a step back. ‘Did . . . did anyone pick him up?’
‘Hank?’ Alison questioned and looked at her watch. ‘It’s not time yet, sweetie, they don’t finish until three thirty.’ She watched as Alison and Rita exchanged a knowing look.
Rachel shook her head. ‘No, not Hank, Oscar.’
‘I don’t . . .’ Fiona knitted her brows in confusion. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘Did anyone take a boat out on the day he went missing? Did anyone want to take him for a play date and come and get him?’
The women looked from one to another, their mouths flapping, lost for words. Rachel continued, ‘I think they might have. They might have moored alongside Liberté and taken him from the deck and they might have got lost or shipwrecked and maybe their radio stopped working, and I wondered if that was why you were here, to give me the details so that I can collect him, and I won’t be angry, I promise! No one will be in trouble. I will just be so pleased to have’ – her voice faltered and remerged thin and high-pitched – ‘to have my little boy back!’ She sank down and felt a pair of hands on her shoulders.
Cee-Cee, who had come down the stairs, now stood behind her. A sentinel. She placed her hands on her shoulders while talking over her head to the women who cried and reached for each other’s hands. ‘Mrs Croft is very grateful for your enquiries. May I see you out now?’
Rachel watched as the women walked slowly across the grand hallway, glancing back with stricken faces, shepherded by the housekeeper right out of the front door. Cee-Cee closed the door and looked back at her.
‘I thought,’ Rachel began. ‘I thought . . .’
Cee-Cee nodded. ‘I know, my sweet. I know.’ The housekeeper took a seat next to her on the bottom step and wrapped her arms around her, holding her close while Rachel cried silently.
‘That can’t be it, Cee-Cee, it can’t be! He has to come back to me. I miss him so much and it hurts. It’s hurting me!’ She placed one hand on her heart and the other on her stomach lest there be any doubt as to where the pain lurked.
‘You have been cut; you have had something wrenched from you and it will hurt. It does hurt. I know it.’
‘Make it stop, Cee-Cee! Please! Please make it stop!’ She fell forward until her head rested on the woman’s lap.
‘Shh . . .’ Cee-Cee cooed. ‘Shh . . . Just breathe. Breathe.’ She smoothed the hair away from her face.
A few minutes later Rachel had calmed a little.
‘Why don’t you go back to bed? Shall I make you some tea and bring it up to you?’
Rachel nodded and slowly made her way back up the stairs. Each step required effort, as if her feet were made of lead and the stairs were a mountain. As she passed Oscar’s room she hesitated and reached out for the handle. Twisting it slowly, she turned and pushed the door open. Scanning the room, it was instantly evident that her son was not in it, and this was less of a surprise than she might have imagined. The bed was beautifully made and his toys were, as ever, boxed or tidied by his devoted Cee-Cee.
On his desk was a flat Lego board studded with half-built creations, free-form sculptures and towers awaiting his embellishment. His lidded Batman cup, perfect for night-time sips, was in situ on his nightstand. His trainers, school shoes and football boots were lined up by the wall next to his wardrobe. Rachel inhaled the scent of him that lingered here strongly. His hooded towel with his name embroidered on the back was slung on a hook on the back of his door, and his bookshelf, crammed with stories, looked a little forlorn, abandoned. She sat on the end of his bed and let herself slip sideways until her head was on his pillow; she inhaled the scent of him and it was intoxicating. There was a lump underneath her head. Reaching up, she felt around, until her fingers touched upon something . . . Mr Bob!
‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Cee-Cee! Cee-Cee!’ she screamed as she hurtled once again down the stairs, this time with a newfound energy. ‘You need to call Mackenzie! Call him right now! And James too. They have to come here right now! This is important!’ She held Mr Bob to her chest. The raggedy, knitted ted whose arms and legs had gone rather floppy over the years and who had one eye that had become unpicked.
‘Oh, Cee-Cee! This is incredible!’ She bounded into the kitchen, while Cee-Cee abandoned the tea-making and quietly, with a look of embarrassment, made the calls.
A mere thirty minutes later James, shortly followed by Mackenzie and his colleague in a police car, pulled into the drive and almost ran into the house, their pace and expectant expressions matching her urgency.
Rachel bounced on the spot with fists clenched, eagerness spilling from her as the newly arrived trio congregated in the kitchen.
‘Are you okay, darling?’ James looked at her with a concerned expression. She couldn’t wait to share her discovery, knowing it would change the face of everything!
‘James, Mackenzie, I have something wonderful to tell you!’ She took a deep breath, hardly able to hide the grin that split her face. ‘Oscar has been here. Oscar has been in the house, and this means he is alive and he is somewhere, but not out there!’ She pointed to the wall beyond which lay the Atlantic Ocean. ‘I knew it! I told you! He has been home, he was in his bedroom, he . . . he must have snuck in or someone snuck him in and we have to find him, but the good news is, we can find him, we can, because he’s not in the sea!’
She tried to figure James’s expression, as he blinked at her and took a step forward. ‘Why do you say that, Rach, what has made you think that?’ The soft, placatory tone to his questioning irritated her beyond belief; she had wanted him to be as elated as her.
She beamed, knowing she was about to produce the proof. ‘I found this!’ Reaching inside her dressing-gown pocket, she pulled out Mr Bob, holding him aloft with both hands for all to see. James looked a little pale and Mackenzie stared at the floor.
‘Mr Bob! His ted! He can only sleep with him on his pillow and I just found him under the pillow on his bed, hidden. Oscar must have brought him home and put him there! So now we just have to find him!’ She placed Mr Bob over her nose and smiling mouth, twisting her body back and forth with joy, like a child with a gift, as she inhaled the imprint of her son.
James shook his head. ‘No, Rachel, Oscar hasn’t been here.’ Again that softened rasp that made anger ball in her gut. Was he not listening to her?
‘So how do you explain this?’ She shook the knitted doll in her husband’s face.
He glanced at Mackenzie, who looked away, and she again got the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that the two were conspiring. ‘I didn’t want to tell you, but I forgot to pack Mr Bob for our trip.’ He paused. ‘When I put Oscar to bed on the boat that night, we couldn’t find Mr Bob and Oscar got . . . He got a bit upset and so I sat with him for a minute or two and then he seemed to fall asleep anyway; he was tired.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose, seemingly exhausted by having to recollect that last night, those last moments.
‘You forgot him?’ She was aware of her harsh accusatory tone.
‘Yes.’
‘But why didn’t you say that to me?’ She stared at him, trying to catch up and deal with the latest blow to further sever the strands of hope that were trailing thinner and sparser with every day that passed.
‘I didn’t want you to know,’ James began, his voice breaking. ‘I didn’t want you to know that Oscar’s last night was spent without the thing that brought him comfort. Didn’t want that to be the thing that drags you from sleep in the early hours, like it does me.’
I have seen you sleep . . . I have watched you . . .
The exertion of events and the crushing disappointment of facts now revealed left her feeling weakened. Rachel leaned back against the countertop. ‘Sorry, Mackenzie, I thought . . .’
‘It’s not a problem.’ The man gave the briefest of smiles and adjusted his hat. ‘I wanted to come and talk to you anyway, Mrs Croft, and now is as good a time as any.’
James instinctively walked to his wife’s side.
Mackenzie pulled his shoulders back, as if hoping that a professional stance might aid this most difficult of tasks. ‘It has been eight weeks; I am sure I don’t need to tell you that.’ He ran the tip of his tongue over his top lip. ‘Whilst we will keep the file open, I wanted to confirm to you and I suppose ask you to prepare yourselves for the possibility that we may never recover your son’s body.’
She stared at the man, unsure what she was supposed to do and say in response to that information. She heard the wall clock ticking overly loud in her ears. James remained still by her side. She saw him nod in her peripheral vision; he had clearly already considered this.
‘The ocean can be a fearsome opponent and her depths are wide and far-reaching; sometimes people just disappear into her.’ Mackenzie paused and blinked, what else was there to say? ‘But you have my numbers; please call any time. And if anything else comes to light, if there are any developments, I will of course be in touch.’
‘Sorry for today.’ James spoke on her behalf and again she felt powerless. I thought, I really thought . . .
‘Don’t be.’ The policeman held up his hand, as if directing traffic. ‘As I said, I had to come and speak to you anyway. Far from easy, I know, but I do think it is important that you set your expectations.’
Rachel watched the policeman leave before making her way back upstairs to the balcony to continue her watch, this time with Mr Bob in one hand and her Tic-Tac box in the other.
Sixteen weeks. Sixteen weeks. Two thousand six hundred and eighty-eight hours . . . Two thousand six hundred and eighty-two hours past the record.
It was a rainy day, the first in a long time, and Rachel deliberated over what to wear, settling on a waterproof walking jacket, a hat James had used for fishing and a thick beach towel to cover her legs. Fat droplets of rain splashed on the balcony floor and made her view out over the ocean hazy at best. Her lack of vision frustrated her. The warm water ran in a tiny tributary from her scalp to chin, falling into the quickly sodden towel that felt quite uncomfortable against her chilled skin. She heard the door creak open and Cee-Cee appeared, the water gathering in her curly hair like tiny sparkles of glass. ‘You should come in, child. You will catch a cold.’
Rachel shook her head and continued to stare ahead. ‘What if today is the day, Cee-Cee? What if I see something? I can’t miss it. I can’t.’
Cee-Cee walked forward and closed the top of her jacket under her chin. She gave her soft, crinkle-eyed smile. Rachel barely acknowledged the sound of the door closing again, thankful that Cee-Cee didn’t try to cajole or push any further. She liked how it gave reason and acceptance to her task.
Any break in the clouds allowed her to see parts, but not all of the sea and something quite remarkable happened. It was as she focused on the small areas of blue turned green in the mist of the downpour that her brain somersaulted through possibilities previously unconsidered. This new thought process gave her a shot of energy and excitement. It was with an almost manic desperation that she ran from the terrace, into the house and down the stairs, skidding on the tiled floor in her wet socks.
‘Cee-Cee?’
She turned from the kitchen sink.
‘Goodness, I didn’t hear you come in. You made me jump. Are you okay?’
Rachel offered no apology; there was something far more pressing on her mind. ‘More than okay! But I can’t find my laptop, and I need it. Did James take it?’ She pulled off the fishing hat and slipped her arms from the waterproof jacket, bundling them and putting them on the kitchen table.
‘No, it’s in the study, I’ll get it for you.’ Cee-Cee shook her hands into the sink and wiped them on the blue-and-white checked dishcloth tucked into the waistband of her skirt.
Rachel sat at the table, poised, as she rubbed the excess of water from her hair and face. Cee-Cee returned and placed the machine in front of her.
‘Thank you, Cee-Cee.’ She smiled, placing her hand on the woman’s arm. Cee-Cee patted her fingers.
‘I feel . . .’ She tried to explain the bubble of joy in her gut.
‘You feel what?’ the housekeeper asked, softly.
‘I feel excited! Really excited!’ She bounced in the chair and decided to ignore the pained expression on the woman’s face.
‘We need to keep steady.’ Cee-Cee spoke calmly. ‘We need to keep steady and we need to breathe slowly.’
Rachel watched her head for the sink and gingerly opened up the computer, letting her fingers caress the keys that knew well the touch of her son as he scoured Nickelodeon and the Disney Channel in search of his beloved cartoons. She hesitated as the search-engine page sprang to life and she typed the word ‘Kelpie’ into the Google bar. Running her finger over the text, she read aloud: ‘Shape-shifting water spirit inhabiting the lochs and pools of Scotland. It has been described as a horse, but is able to adopt human form.’ She leaned closer to the screen and, squinting, she read on: ‘Narratives about the kelpie also serve a practical purpose in keeping children away from dangerous stretches of water.’
She sat back and considered this, before typing ‘Mermaids’, and again reading aloud: ‘Mermaids are sometimes associated with perilous events such as floods, storms, shipwrecks and drownings.’ She felt the breath stutter in her throat and swallowed, leaning in again. ‘In other folk traditions they can be benevolent or beneficent, bestowing boons or falling in love with humans.’
Cee-Cee walked behind her; Rachel turned in the chair. ‘Can you imagine anyone or anything not falling in love with Oscar if they met him?’
The housekeeper smiled. ‘Well, as the Lord is my judge, I can say that it was certainly that way with me.’
Rachel noted the tremble to the woman’s bottom lip. ‘That’s what I am talking about, Cee-Cee. This is why I am so excited!’
James was a little late home.
It was a whistling sunset with the tree frogs out in force, providing the Bermudian night music that had so enchanted them when they first arrived, but now was simply part of the background. Tonight, however, it was as if she heard it afresh.
Cee-Cee had left a chicken curry in the pot on the oven, the cushions were plumped, floors swept and steamed and the lamps were switched on. The atmosphere was one of peace. Thankfully the rain had stopped and, as ever, the island seemed to glow in the aftermath of the downpour. Leaves were shiny, roads and buildings washed free of dust and the air smelled damp, earthy and full of promise that things might bloom.
‘Hey.’ His smile was hesitant but genuine. He looked around the room and she guessed he was trying to gauge the reason why she had left the refuge of the bedroom and balcony and was seated in the kitchen for the first time in as long as either of them could remember.
‘That rain was really something today.’
‘Yes. I got drenched,’ she added.
‘Woodlands Road has flooded again and apparently there has been some water damage in St George’s.’
She nodded, trying to keep interest, but bursting with all the things she wanted to tell him.
‘How are you doing?’ he asked with caution, placing his backpack on the floor and slowly rolling up his shirtsleeves.
‘I’m good,’ she answered truthfully. ‘Really good!’
‘Really?’ He walked towards her, his relief palpable and his tone cautious. ‘That is wonderful news.’
‘Cee-Cee left you a curry.’
‘That’s great. Are you hungry?’ She was aware that they had not sat and eaten together since that night on the boat, the night before. . .
Rachel shook her head and tucked the wisps of her long hair behind her ears, as she sat up straight. ‘Sit down, James.’
He sat.
‘I need you to listen to me. Listen very carefully.’
‘Okay.’ He smiled at her.
‘I was sitting in the rain earlier and I saw something in the ocean and it got me thinking.’
‘Right.’ His smile faltered a little and he bit his bottom lip.
‘There are things in this world that we do not understand.’ She gesticulated with her hands, as if this might help enforce the point.
His eyes scanned her face. ‘Yep, I guess there are.’
She watched him knit his fingers and place his hands in his lap.
‘In olden times, people thought the earth was flat. They thought if they sailed far enough they would fall off the edge!’ she continued, with a slight smile playing about her lips. ‘But now we know that’s not true, we laugh at the idea.’
He nodded, trying to follow. She sensed his unease.
Get to the point, Rachel !
‘What I am saying, or trying to say, is that there are things we don’t understand right now that one day might seem very ordinary to us. And we should not discount those things.’
‘I’m not sure I am following.’ He scratched his scalp.
She threw her head back and laughed. ‘Okay, things like kelpies, merpeople and giant sea turtles that can carry a person for hundreds and hundreds of miles across the ocean! Underwater cities! Atlantis! Air pockets inside ships where lost fishermen can live! There are legends and stories that persist and have persisted for hundreds of years! Now, don’t you think that’s interesting? I mean, if these things were to be discounted, then I think they would have been by now; but they are not. Stories keep cropping up all over the world – tales from fisherman who see things, experience things, and they know the ocean and all its secrets like no others.’ She sat forward, her words bubbling from her on a river of excitement. ‘There was this guy in Peru I read about who was lost overboard from a ship and his crew searched and searched until reluctantly they gave up; they had to go back to shore and tell his wife and family that he was lost! Can you imagine? They even had a funeral! A funeral, James!’ she stated, wide-eyed. ‘But then months later, he walked up a beach unscathed and he told them he had been living in an underwater cave, carried there by a giant sea turtle!’ She watched his mouth twist, but he stayed quiet. It was her cue to continue. ‘If anything had happened to Oscar, I would feel it.’ She held her chest. ‘I would. I am sure of it, James! But I don’t, I don’t. Instead, I believe he is being cared for by something we don’t understand!’ She cocked her head to one side and leaned towards him. ‘That’s what I think.’ She laid her hands flat on the table, as if in conclusion.
There was a moment or two of silence while both allowed her suggestions to permeate. This was followed by his sudden and surprising gasp of sadness that seemed to start in his throat, as that was where he placed his hand, as if struggling for breath.
His apparent distress took a little of the shine from her discovery; she had hoped that he might be as excited as her at all the possibilities.
‘Do you know what a kelpie is?’ she pushed, convinced that if she could make him understand, as she did, his sadness would be replaced with hope.
James shifted back in his seat and held her gaze. ‘There’s no such thing,’ he whispered, squeezing his nose with his thumb and forefinger.
‘But, James, there are many tales of kelpies who can take on human form and—’
‘There is no such thing, Rachel,’ he interrupted, speaking a little louder, as he shook his head. ‘I wish there were . . .’
‘But, James, I have spent the day reading about—’
‘No!’ he yelled. ‘No! There is no such fucking thing! This has to stop! You have to stop or we are both going to sink under the weight of it! I am stretched so thin I think I might break!’
‘This is not about you!’ she countered. ‘It’s about the fact that our little boy might be out there somewhere.’
‘No!’ He stood and slammed the chair to the floor, kicking the table leg so hard it shifted from its position. He put his fingers in his hair, pacing, as he spoke. ‘No! That is not true, that is not the case. Oscar died. He died! He drowned, Rachel. He jumped off the boat or slipped from the boat or hit his head or whatever and he drowned and that is it!’ His voice cracked. ‘And as well as missing him, hurting for how he was lost, I am also going nuts tiptoeing around you because you are so fragile! And I don’t know what you are going to come up with next.’
She felt herself shrink in the chair, fear and a loss of reason lapping at her heels. ‘I . . . I can’t help it, I . . .’ she began.
‘I know, I know you can’t.’ He seemed to calm a little, as if this was what was required to make the progress he so desperately craved. ‘But I am so lonely, working so hard through my exhaustion and the truth is’ – he drew breath preparing himself to utter the words that he knew would cut, as surely as drawing a dagger from its sheath – ‘I can’t look at you. I don’t want to look at you. I’m able to distract myself with one million small things during the busy day, but the very second I step back through the door, just the sight of you drags me back to that moment with you staring at me from the cockpit of the boat, and me with two mugs of coffee in my hands with absolutely no idea how everything, everything was about to turn to dust! My whole life and everything I thought I could rely on slipped through my fingers in a matter of minutes! I will never forget the expression on your face. I see it all the time and I can’t stand it and I can’t stand that it is you, my Rachel, who I feel this way about.’
Your Rachel has gone. She left on that boat with Oscar.
She stared at him, taking in every comment, laying it down as law in her heart and noticing that, despite the intense nature of his words, she felt very little.
James carried on talking. ‘And you are lost in a world of kelpies and fucking mermaids and I can’t help myself, let alone help you! These conversations, these obsessions, they divert your grief but don’t help you heal, and watching you, listening to you – it feels like losing Oscar again, every single day!’
‘I do lose him every day! Every day!’ she shouted.
‘But, Rachel, you need to try, try really hard to move forward, to look up and see the world.’ James held the countertop.
‘HE WAS MY WORLD!’ she screamed.
James whipped around. ‘I think we both know that’s not true and I guess that’s the problem. You were busy on the island, you built walls of gin, tennis and having lunch with your girlfriends – and you lived within those walls; often you didn’t see him when you had the chance because you were out with the girls, shopping or hanging out at Brown and Co., and now those walls have fallen and you are left with nothing at all! You have nothing to say because the world you created has gone and you are aflame with guilt that stops you seeing clearly.’
She felt her body fold, as she sank to the tabletop, as if the hooks that held her up had finally been removed.
I wish I could go back, I wish I could go back and be a better mum, a different mum . . .
‘I loved him! He is my little boy and I love him, James!’
He stood with his hand at his throat, eyes ablaze, panting, until he calmed a little.
‘Oh my God! My God, Rachel, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know you loved him, I know you did,’ he croaked, pushing his thumbs against his eyes.
‘And I thought I had time,’ she whispered. ‘I thought I had time.’
‘We both did.’
She heard him give in to the tears that had been building, not that she made any attempt to comfort him. She couldn’t; her mind was entirely occupied with an earlier thought, which was loud, invasive and provided a single note of clarity.
Your Rachel has gone. She left on that boat with Oscar.
Sitting up, she dried her eyes on her sleeve, as an idea formed. A brilliant idea. The answer.
‘Are you working tomorrow, James?’ she asked with an unexpected lightness to her enquiry.
‘No, it’s Saturday.’ He sniffed. ‘I’ll be home.’
‘Can we . . . can we do something together?’ She asked slowly, holding his gaze, flattered by the wide smile that now broke across his face.
His words when they came coasted on something that sounded a lot like relief. ‘Yes, of course we can. Anything, we can do anything you want to Rach, together.’ He laughed through his tears.
Rachel hadn’t slept. Not that this was anything new, but what was new was how she spent the longest hours waiting for dawn. She let the cool, cotton sheets caress her skin and got lost in memories of carrying Oscar, of giving birth. The moment her parents laid eyes on him for the first time, her dad looking at his tiny feet and declaring with certainty that he could play for Rovers. Welcome, happy thoughts.
At mid-morning on the bright, sunny Saturday, Rachel shrugged off her pyjamas and showered, both of which were unusual for her of late. She slipped into her cut-off jeans and a T-shirt and sat on the balcony off the bedroom, letting herself get lost in the churn of the ocean, drawn as powerfully as ever to the dip and swell of the water, watching boats come and go from the dock and always, always looking out to the horizon, as the sun dappled its surface with sea diamonds.
She sat for some while enjoying the quiet and in deep contemplation, until she stood calmly and kissed Mr Bob before placing him on James’s pillow. Then she wiped her eyes and made her way down to the kitchen.
‘James?’ she called with a sense of urgency, wary that he might have changed his mind about an outing.
‘What’s wrong?’ He looked up from his laptop.
‘Nothing’s wrong, but . . . but I’m ready now, ready for us to go out together.’
He closed the computer and stood, smiling. ‘Where do you want to go?’ His tone was curious and at the same time she could see his concern for her latest whim. ‘I mean, I don’t mind, we can go anywhere. It’ll be good to get out of the house together, get some fresh air, walk a bit.’
She stared at her husband and spoke with hesitation. ‘I want . . . I want you to take us out on the boat. I think we should go out on Liberté.’ She watched the colour drain from his face as he double blinked.
He shook his head. ‘We haven’t . . .’ He paused. ‘I don’t know what to say. Do you think that’s a good idea?’
‘I do!’ She smiled her enthusiasm. ‘I really do, James! I wasn’t ready before, but now I am. I want to go out on the boat and I think it will make me feel close to Oscar, make us feel close to Oscar,’ she enthused. ‘I think it might help, I really do. I have been on the terrace going over everything in my head and something struck me last night while we were talking. I keep thinking of the last time we felt happy when we woke on the boat – in those minutes, those glorious minutes before . . . when everything was good, when we were wonderful!’
‘We were wonderful,’ he whispered, his expression one of sadness.
‘I think we should go out on Liberté and clear our heads! What do you think?’
‘I . . .’ He was seemingly at a loss for words. ‘Truthfully? I don’t know what to think. I feel nervous.’
She took a step closer and held his arm. ‘I do too, but that’s okay, James. I have spent so many hours staring at the ocean and what I want to do is be on the ocean. Please! Please!’
He rubbed his palm over his face, looking concerned. ‘I haven’t taken her out since . . .’
‘I know, I know. But that’s why it’s a good thing to do. Together. Please, James! For me?’ she implored, squeezing his arm and staring at him with a look of desperation.
‘Okay.’ He nodded, his response measured. ‘Okay.’
As the car drove along, hugging the coast road that took them around to Spanish Point, Rachel felt the swell of anticipation in her gut. It took all her strength not to turn and look at the back seat, which would confirm that Oscar was not sitting there, humming away to himself, as he did in her mind.
‘Thank you, James, for doing this.’
‘I have to be honest, Rachel, I’m still not sure it’s the best idea.’ He glanced over at her.
‘I think it is.’ She leaned towards him. ‘I realised that all I want, all I have ever wanted, is to be close to Oscar, and I can be by being on the boat – the last place he was – and by being on the water.’
‘I’ll go with it, Rachel, but if at any time you feel it’s too much; if you change your mind or you just want to come home, then just say the word.’
‘I will.’
She looked across at the man she had married, Oscar’s dad, and she felt a wave of affection for all that they had shared.
‘Just because I am lost, it doesn’t mean that somewhere in my mind there isn’t a perfect picture of the three of us. I think about us in Richmond.’ She smiled. ‘I think about our wedding day and I think about the day he was born and the look on your face when they handed him to you, all wrapped up, like I had given you the world.’
‘You did, Rach, you did give me the world.’
‘I did.’
They drove the rest of the way in silence, both smiling and with a feeling of quiet contentment, but for very different reasons.
Rachel walked behind her husband on the dock, inevitably thinking of the last time she had done so with Oscar running ahead. Be careful, darling! she had shouted after him.
Liberté had been cared for by Leonard and his crew, who had kept her clean and her engine primed. She felt a punch of nausea as she looked at the deck and the porthole on the side, the window into the cabin in which her boy had laid his head for the last time.
Night night, Mummy!
Love you!
‘Are you okay?’ James asked rather sternly, his way when trying to control his anxiety.
She nodded.
‘Don’t forget what I said, we can go home at any time; even making it down here is a huge step forward, Rach.’
‘I know. And I’m fine,’ she lied.
Rachel took a deep breath and gripped the narrow stanchion, placing her foot on the deck with trepidation. She had forgotten how the movement of the boat was quite unlike any other and closed her eyes briefly. The feeling underfoot was enough to take her back to that last day, the events of which now played in her head like a speeded-up showreel, ending with her on the floor of the police boat with the weighted blanket about her shoulders pushing her down, down until Dr Kent gripped her arm on the dock at Spanish Point, where he stood waiting with his needle poised.
She helped cast off the rope from the mooring and pulled up the fenders as they left the marina, as if it were any other sailing trip.
James called back to her, ‘Are you okay?’
She gave the double thumbs-up, making her way across the gangway, only briefly glancing at the stairs that led down to the galley.
Rach, Oscar! Coffee’s ready!
She reached the white vinyl cushions with the navy piping and sank down on the foredeck. With a genuine rush of excitement in her chest she stared ahead at the wide expanse of ocean dotted with rocky outcrops, sandbars, coral reefs and narrow archipelago clusters that made navigating the route to Bermuda’s shores so hazardous. James hit the throttle and they motored out.
Rachel rested now on her elbows with her feet planted in front of her and tilted her head back, letting the sun and fine sea spray coat her, connecting her to the ocean.
‘I’m coming, baby! Mummy’s coming, Oscar!’ she whispered into the wind as it whipped her hair around her face.
Liberté picked up speed. Twenty minutes later they reached deep water and James slowed the vessel, anchoring up. He came to join her on the foredeck and sat down by her side. They let the sun warm their skin.
‘I think you were right. This is difficult, but it also feels quite wonderful.’
‘It does.’ She agreed. ‘There is something about the gentle rocking of a boat. I have always thought so.’
‘There is.’ He yawned. ‘I’m exhausted,’ James confessed. ‘I am always exhausted, but it’s been one hell of a day. Who am I kidding? It’s been one hell of a week, month, year . . .’
‘It has. Go to sleep, James,’ she cooed, reaching out and smoothing his hair from his handsome face, savouring the feel of his skin beneath her fingertips; once so familiar, it now felt like something brand new. He raised his hand and touched her fingers with an expression of pure sorrow, almost as if the sweet longing for what they had once shared flared in his mind, as it did hers. She watched the furrows on his brow disappear under her gentle touch.
‘I don’t like to nap and leave you here with no one to talk to.’ As he spoke, his face fell to one side. Sleep began to claim him.
‘I’ll be right by your side.’ She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, an act once so commonplace, but today it was quite distinct. It was the sweet, sweet kiss of goodbye.
Rachel sat up straight. She pictured her parents probably in their little breakfast nook in Yate and she sent them thoughts.
I love you both, I do, and I want to thank you. Thank you for always being there for me. I know you will understand. I know that you cannot envisage a life without Peter and me and that is the life I face – one without my boy – and it’s not a life I want. And not a life I choose. She took a deep breath and felt nothing but a beautiful sense of calm. And you, Vicky, my best, best friend, be strong and grab all that life throws at you. You will watch Francisco grow into a wonderful little man, just like his dad, and know that I have always treasured you. Always.
This was it; the conclusion to this terrible chapter and with it an end to the suffering, the pain, the insomnia, the desperation.
Rachel felt a sense of peace and a flicker of something close to euphoria.
She had figured it out.
She watched as James lay back and before too long the twitch of his limbs stilled and his chest rose and fell with the deep, deep breathing of sleep.
Rachel knew time was of the essence. She stood slowly and would have found it hard to describe the serenity in which she found herself bathed, body and soul. It was a new and welcome peace. There was no fear. There was no hesitation; just a sense of calm resignation that had been missing from her life for so long. It gave her clarity and for that she was grateful. She trod softly to the back of the boat and took two, then three steps to the edge, and as quietly as she could, she lifted first one foot over the guardrail and then the other. Glancing quickly at the foredeck to check that her husband hadn’t stirred, she took a deep breath and looked forward.
Rachel Croft jumped.
The water was colder than she would have anticipated and certainly than she remembered. She plummeted down beneath the surface, dropping until she reached a point where her body hovered and her natural instinct was to kick her feet, pull with her arms and go back to the top. But this instinct, she knew, was one to fight against. The water was a little foamy around her point of entry, and she instantly lost her bearings.
Not that it mattered.
Nothing mattered now.
With her hair floating all around, she opened her eyes and, bar the sting of salt, was able to see quite clearly. She felt the air that had filled her lungs start to run out and she turned in the water, with her head down, preparing to dive deeper to take one.
Final.
Big.
Breath.
Her chest started to burn and she fought to control the rise of panic in her body, which despite her mind’s steely intention had yet to catch up. Rachel floated in a star formation beneath the water. She hovered in the sea, waiting for the moment when her body would do what had come naturally to her since the moment she had been born: take a breath. But this breath would be her last, making her one with the ocean that had claimed her boy.
The desire to breathe was strong and getting stronger.
Two things happened simultaneously. As Rachel opened her mouth to let water stream into her lungs, she saw a flicker of light in the distance. Her eyes narrowed and widened, and there, almost within touching distance, she saw Oscar! It was him! Oscar!
Her heart lifted and her spirit soared with joy.
She saw his face, his beautiful, beautiful face.
He looked directly at her and he smiled his cheeky grin. She took in his little straight nose, dotted with freckles, just as she remembered it. His fair hair sat around his head like a halo and as he turned in the water to dive deeper, Oscar looked back over his shoulder and waved.
Rachel used the last of her strength to lift her hand and waved back at her boy, who was spirited away beyond her gaze.
As deep as the ocean, Oscar, and as high as the sky. I am with you and I will always love you. Always.
A sharp, violent yank pulled her upward, a force so strong that she had no option in her weakened and disorientated state but to go with it. Her head broke the surface and she was aware of James yelling, ‘No! Don’t you fucking dare! Don’t you dare! Don’t you do that to me, Rachel! No fucking way! No way! Stay with me, you fucking stay with me!’ he screamed in her face, crying, dragging her through the water, pulling her hair and anchoring her head to him under the chin, as he kicked backward towards the hull of Liberté.
She began to cough, a brutal cough that drew water from her lungs, leaving her retching and hacking until she had cleared her airways and was left gasping for breath. James hung on to the ladder at the back of the boat and caught his breath, crying, as she clung to him. ‘I saw him, James!’ she struggled to speak through her tears. ‘I saw him! I saw him. And he looked . . . He looked happy!’ She sobbed, as she bobbed in the cool Atlantic. ‘I saw him! I saw him!’
James wrapped his free arm around her and held her close as they both concentrated on breathing between bouts of sobbing.
‘He’s not here any more, Rachel. He is gone! He died! He is dead . . . He’s dead and you need to let him go! I can’t stand it any more! He is dead! And you need to let him go. He is not in a cave or with a kelpie; he is not coming back, not ever! Please. Please,’ he shouted before the next bout of tears robbed him of the means to speak. The two bereft parents clung to each other in the ocean, wet clothes now weighing heavily on their skin.
‘I know,’ she whimpered. ‘I know! I know! I know! I know!’ she cried loudly, with her head tipped back in the water, shrieking for the whole world to hear as she howled at the big blue sky. She screamed and raged until she thought her lungs might burst.
Finally, righting herself, she placed her hands on her husband’s face and fixed him with her stare. ‘I have always known! He died, James! He died, didn’t he? My little boy. Oscar. He died. He’s dead. He’s dead. I know it, he’s dead and he’s not coming home! He’s not ever coming home . . .’
Rachel and James sat quietly on the foredeck with the duvet cast over their legs, until their clothes and bodies dried in the failing embers of the sun and they succumbed to stupor, quite exhausted by the events of the day. She took a deep breath and closed her stinging eyes.
‘Thank you for coming after me.’ Her voice was a husky rasp through a throat sore from screams and sea water.
‘I’ll always come after you, Rachel, always. That’s a given.’
They watched the sun begin to sink.
‘Did you . . . did you want to die?’ he asked with a catch to his voice.
‘I think I did at that moment,’ she confessed, and it was a hard admission to make.
‘And what about at this moment? Or in a moment tomorrow or the day after?’
Rachel shook her head. ‘I can’t lie, James, over the last few months I have always felt it was an option if things got too much for me to handle – a last-resort option, but an option nevertheless. But I have never planned it or truly considered how until this afternoon. I might have mentioned it vaguely to Cee-Cee but she just got angry, dismissive, and I get why.’
‘Because she loves you?’
She shook her head. ‘No, because she understands that it’s selfish and it causes ripples that are far, far reaching. We know this.’
‘Yes.’ He sighed.
‘And she told me that things get better.’
‘Do you believe her?’
‘I don’t know. I want to.’ She picked at the edge of her T-shirt.
‘Me too.’ He looked out over the horizon. ‘I can’t live like this, Rach. I can’t do it any more. I know I can’t make you happy and I don’t know how to help you. I don’t even know how to help myself.’
‘I know.’
Their conversation was calm, rational; gone was the whiff of hysteria that had book-ended all their exchanges for the last few weeks.
James continued. ‘I don’t know what the answer is. I try to think of it, but I keep going around and around in circles and every possible idea leads me back to that moment when we realised he had gone, and the pain is real and fresh every single time.’
She sat up and wrapped her arms around her raised knees. It was as if the fog lifted and she had clarity of sight and mind that had been missing for some time.
‘I can’t go through that again, what you did today . . .’ He sighed.
‘I can’t either. I need to break the cycle for us both.’ She nodded. ‘I need to leave, James. I need to get away from Bermuda. I am unravelling. I have bad thoughts about everything.’
She watched his mouth fall open, as if in shock, and he took a second to compose himself. ‘I thought you were going to suggest we go to counselling or, or have a break or something, but you are going to leave me, leave Bermuda?’ His tone was incredulous, eyes narrowed and a catch to his throat.
‘I need to leave everything. I need to leave this!’ She threw her arm around in an arc. ‘I don’t want to be wandering around with a face that could curdle milk in my seventies still wondering, still watching the bloody sea! I can’t do it! I need to figure out how to be . . . how to be without him.’
‘And without me,’ he whispered.
She looked at him, wanting for words.
It would only be later that she reflected on the fact that bar voicing his surprise, he had offered no real resistance, made no suggestion to the contrary. He hadn’t fought for her. This only added weight to her decision; it was what they both needed. Time apart to think clearly, to shake off the wearying shackles of grief that bound them to this place and to that point in time, when she had popped the kettle on the hob and casually wandered the boat, looking for her boy.
Rachel stood on the balcony and looked out over the ocean. Cee-Cee stepped from the bedroom and stood by her side. ‘The taxi will be here in half an hour.’
‘Thank you, Cee-Cee. I am really going to miss you.’
‘As God is my witness, I will do my best to care for Mr Croft. So try not to worry. I will keep you in my prayers.’
‘Thank you. I can’t quite believe that I won’t be seeing you both every day, but James and I are so broken, Cee-Cee, misshapen and I think if I stay here I might lose my mind.’ It was a stark admission that she wasn’t sure she had voiced out loud.
‘I understand. More than you know.’
‘Did you ever feel like you might lose your reason?’ She turned to look at the woman who had outwardly kept this ship running when they had come aground.
‘Yes.’ She gave a single nod. ‘And then one day, like you, I realised that I needed to navigate this new life. Start over. You need to find a way, like I did. Mine is not a life I would have chosen, but it’s my life and that’s all there is to it.’ She folded her hands together. ‘And I do believe that my time, my sadness, is part of a bigger plan – God’s plan – and therefore I am not meant to always understand it.’
Rachel gave a wry sideways smile. Oh, for the comfort of believing in heaven and hell; how much would that faith ease her burden? She gathered her thoughts.
‘Truth be known, I have started to feel angry. I had everything, everything. My James and my baby boy. That was all I needed, all I could ever need.’ She considered this. ‘And this new world of grief, this changed existence, was given to me in a split second and I didn’t ask for it!’ She shook her head. ‘I’m angry at the world, Cee-Cee.’ She swallowed the emotion that threatened. ‘It doesn’t matter how many times I play it over in my head; I can’t understand how it’s all gone, in just the blink of an eye. And I struggle with the fact that there is absolutely nothing I can do, because that world with my James and my boy – it doesn’t exist any more.’
Cee-Cee lifted her chin and looked Rachel in the eye. ‘That is about the sum of it. Yes.’
‘You said once that things will get better. Does it hurt any less?’ She watched Cee-Cee swallow as she reached out and ran her fingers over her cheek. Rachel welcomed her touch.
‘Things will get better, child, but no. No, it does not hurt any less.’ The woman spoke flatly. ‘I wish I could tell you otherwise. I wish I knew how to construct a lie that might sweeten your sleep, but I don’t know how.’
Rachel felt the crush of disappointment underpinned by a melodious note of thanks at the fact that Cee-Cee hadn’t felt the need to feed her a false cliché. She also felt some kind of relief that this tie to Oscar, this wearying yoke of grief she carried was not going to ease, as anything less, whilst it would be a more pleasant way to live, might dilute the strength of feeling she had for him and that would never do. Her pain kept her grief sharp, kept him in focus.
‘So what happens from here onwards?’ She hardly dared ask. ‘How do you go on?’
Cee-Cee shrugged and drew breath, drawing her cardigan around her form.
‘The fog of grief never lifts.’ She shook her head. ‘Never. But you find a way to travel through it, see beyond it, almost. There are times – most days, if not every day – when something stops me in my tracks and knocks the breath from my lungs and it’s all I can do not to topple over. That still happens, even now, and I know it always will, but it’s not raw, not physically painful like it used to be. I have got used to it and therefore know how to manage it. It is like a large chunk of me is missing and I had to adapt and figure out how to exist without it. I have somehow learned to forge a path forward. But I can’t lie: my boy still sits behind my eyelids and lies curled in the palm of my hand.’
Rachel closed her fingers; this she understood.
Cee-Cee looked out to the horizon. ‘And with each year that passes, the small details have faded almost in response to how hard I try to remember them and that is a new, fresh pain all of its own.’
‘Torture.’ Rachel offered up the word. ‘I know what you mean. I can only think about Oscar’s hair when he was a baby. It slipped through my fingers like silk, too insubstantial to grip, like something otherworldly: silky, thin, fairy-like. And its colour! Not one colour at all, but light brown with streaks of pure gold and pale yellow. All the colours of an autumn palette captured in those fine strands. This is what I do now. I remember him piece by piece, like the curator of something rare and fading, who needs to catalogue each tiny element, preserving it in memory. And it’s a race against time. I’m fearful I might . . . I might forget one tiny dimple above the knuckle of his toddler hand, or the slight lift to the outside arch of his right brow. And to forget these details? Not to have him preserved in my memory, complete, recreated in every single detail? Oh my God! That thought, that very idea is so horrific because that would be the beginning. The beginning of the end of forgetting every single bit of him and that would kill me. It would kill me.’
‘Yes, torture,’ Cee-Cee agreed. ‘But there is one irrefutable fact and that is that life does go on. It goes on for the world Oscar was part of and it goes on for you.’
Rachel looked at the woman whose words were a balm of sorts. ‘I . . . I am not always sure I want my life to go on.’ She thought of James yanking her from the water.
‘Hmph.’ Cee-Cee made a noise. ‘It is not about what you want or even what you need, it is about how it is. You are not the first and you won’t be the last and all you can do is make it part of your story and as I said, try to navigate your way through the fog.’
I know I won’t be the first or last, but I can’t believe anyone has ever felt this depth of sorrow and survived. I hope I have your strength, Cee-Cee. She looked down.
‘You feel unique, and of course the way you hurt is just that, but let me tell you that while you mourn your boy, I give nothing but thanks for him. He was a shining light, helping me on my journey. He brought me pure joy! An old woman, a stranger, and yet he gave me more happiness than I had any right to expect.’
Rachel smiled at the thought of this; she pictured Oscar laughing, as he jumped into the pool, landing on his inflatable shark with precision, gripping with his arms and legs. A rare feat topped and tailed by many big-splash failures.
Look, Mummy! Look! Watch me do it again!
‘Yes, he was pure joy. You know, Cee-Cee, I wish over and over that I had stayed awake that night or risen earlier on that morning.’
‘You think I haven’t wished every minute of every day that I had watched Willard closely in the hour that I lost him?’ Cee-Cee interrupted, sharply. ‘Of course I have! But I can’t change a thing and neither can you. I loved little Oscar. I loved him! I never got to tell my stories to Willard, I was denied the chance, but I got to tell them to Oscar – it was important! Because after we are gone, what is left if not our stories? And they have gone with him! And my heart . . . my heart weeps for my boy and my little Oscar, who gave me that second chance.’
Rachel fell into the arms of her housekeeper and the two stood locked in an embrace.
‘Safe travels, sweet girl. Safe travels,’ Cee-Cee whispered, as their hearts beat in unison to a rhythm that only mothers who have grieved for their children could know – and would not in a thousand lifetimes wish upon any other.
It had somehow felt easier not to say a long, drawn-out goodbye to James – easier and cowardly, yes, but it was he who had set the tone when he kissed her on the cheek in a platonic farewell and left early that morning for the office so she could pack and leave without his presence.
‘How long do you think you might be gone?’ he had asked, lingering in the doorway, unable to look her in the eye.
‘I don’t know,’ she answered truthfully. ‘Just until I figure things out.’
‘Right.’ He tapped the doorframe with his wedding ring and just like that, he was gone.
As her plane took off from L. F. Wade International Airport, Rachel pressed her face to the window, pleased that the craft lilted to the right, dipping as it turned and giving her a clear view of the wide expanse of ocean. At this height, she could make out the dark shadows of reefs and sandbars, the clusters of shipwrecks and the fade of turquoise to darker blue, as the water stretched on and on towards the horizon. She closed her eyes for a second and spoke to her boy.
I am always with you, Oscar. Always by your side . . .
The plane began to right itself, course set. She glanced down at the towering white lighthouse at Gibbs Hill; they had enjoyed many a supper in its shadow, sitting on the cliff edge with the sun sinking and a perfect view of Jew’s Bay with Heron Bay beyond.
Rachel delved into her handbag and shook a little pill from the brown plastic bottle that Dr Kent had prescribed. Her slumber was deep, instant and welcome, far better than sitting awake and counting down the three thousand four hundred-odd miles, each one taking her further and further away from the island that held her husband and her son.