Behind the Lie Page 4

  I want to pull away but I force myself to stay focused on him. He’s right. I do always think the worst. But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s something I have done and it’s my fault that our boy is smaller than he should be. It did cross my mind when I fell pregnant that my drug addiction and wild lifestyle might have damaged my body, my organs, in some way. Perhaps I’m not fit enough to sustain two lives…?

  Simon kisses my lips and I lay my head on his shoulder. A huge sob bursts out and then I clamp my hand over my mouth to smother any more. I need to get a grip, be strong and think positive. I owe that to my babies and my husband. Simon has told me that everything will be okay as far as he can tell, and he knows what he’s talking about. So I have to believe him, don’t I?

  Chapter Six

  Three weeks later…

  ‘If you could just get some rest you’d feel better, love.’

  My mum is hovering again. She’s been doing that for days and it’s beginning to drive me insane. From the corner of my eye I see her hands twisting themselves together. Then they stop and retidy the already tidy pile of nappies, creams and wipes next to the Moses basket in which my daughter is sleeping.

  ‘I’ve told you I can’t rest. My son is dead and everyone is behaving as if he never existed.’ My voice is flat, monotone, empty. I didn’t plan to say that to her, but I can’t bear all the pussyfooting around on the one hand and the think-positive speeches on the other. Everyone does it, not just Mum. Simon, nurses, everyone I come into contact with. What do they know about how I feel? What does anyone know?

  ‘Oh, love.’ Mum’s voice catches. ‘Holly… we know the poor little mite existed. It’s only been three weeks, you’re bound to feel like this… but it’s true what they say, that time is…’

  ‘A great healer – yes, so you and everyone else keep saying. And the “poor little mite” had a name. My son was called Ruan.’

  Anger has filled the emptiness in my voice and my hands are beginning to tremble. Simon tells me I’m probably depressed – no shit, Sherlock – and that I might need to go back on the happy pills if I’m not careful. He says he’d hate that to happen because it reminds him of what a mess I was in when he first met me. I’m not like I was then. I’m worse. My son’s death has made me into another person. Someone I don’t recognise, someone that scares me. The thoughts in my head scare me. The anger that builds in my chest scares me. It rages. It screams from my core as I sit silently looking at the ocean.

  I’m looking at the ocean now, trapped in my own head, even though Mum is talking, talking, talking, talking. That’s all she ever does. Words don’t mean anything. Words can’t help. Advice leaflets from support groups say I should talk about what happened, how I feel; but unlike everyone else’s, my words remain stuck, unformed, hidden.

  The doorbell rings and I remember that Demi is visiting. It will be the first time she’s seen me and Iona, my daughter. First time I have actually spoken to her. Mum broke the news. How will she be? Will she cry, avoid the subject of Ruan, be overly cheerful or something else? Anything has to be better than the three days I’ve spent here at the beach house with Mum. She loves me, of course, wants the best for me, grieves for her lost grandson, but she has this knack of making me want to yell. She doesn’t know how to be around me and I’m not sure I do either.

  ‘Holly, it’s Demi!’ Mum says as she comes back to do a bit of hovering on the balcony. I want to say, yes, of course it is. Who else would it be, Father bloody Christmas? But I bite back those words. Funny how nasty, peevish little retorts have no problem finding their way out into the world, while the ones that would let me articulate my feelings have no such luck.

  I turn and look up at Demi. She’s doing a bit of hovering of her own, a handful of forget-me-nots and freesia, a shift from one foot to the other, a nose that’s pink from trying to hold back emotion and eyes that have failed. So she’s crying. I think I prefer that to the overly cheerful scenario. The coldness of my thoughts is melted by the biggest – albeit wobbly – smile she can muster, and all of a sudden I’m on my feet and we’re hugging.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ she whispers and tightens her hold.

  ‘Me too.’ I nod over her shoulder at Mum who’s making a ‘T’ sign with her fingers at me. She goes to the kitchen to put the kettle on and her absence gives my eyes permission to fill with tears. Odd. Maybe I don’t cry too much in front of her because I don’t want her to do the same?

  I pull back from Demi and force a smile. We sit down at the table and let the sea breeze dry our tears a bit and she clears her throat and points at the flowers. ‘I thought forget-me-nots were appropriate given the circumstances… and freesia because they have such a wonderful perfume.’ She looked over at the Moses basket. ‘Little girls always smell like freesias, don’t they?’

  Thank God for Demi. How perfect is she? No beating about the bush and a touch of humour to temper the heartbreak. ‘Oh yes. Iona always smells of freesias, even when she’s thrown up over me and filled her nappy.’

  We laugh and I feel more normal than I have since…

  ‘Would you like to see her?’ I don’t wait for a reply, just jump up and lead the way over. We look at my sleeping baby, daft soppy grins on our faces. Iona always makes me smile, even when I’m crying at the same time. Her head is a perfect round, topped with a cap of light hair, and her skin is peachy. Some babies take a while to become peachy, but she was peachy from the word go.

  ‘I had a tiny glimpse of her when I came to the hospital… I didn’t stay more than a few minutes though, of course. I can’t decide who she looks like… I think you though,’ Demi says, carefully taking Iona’s tiny hand. ‘She has your nose.’

  ‘I’m sorry nobody told me at the hospital that you had come to see us, Dem… You weren’t to know what had happened…’ She shakes her head and says it doesn’t matter, but it does. ‘No. You’re one of the few people I would have seen at the time.’ I stroke my daughter’s hair. ‘Yes, I think she does look more like me. She has blue eyes, but then they all do at first, I think.’

  ‘And light hair…’ Demi looks at me and I can tell she’s struggling to fight tears, so I lead the way back onto the balcony.

  I pick up the flowers and inhale their heady fragrance. ‘Ah yes, essence of Iona.’ We smile at each other. ‘And I’ll press some of these forget-me-nots and put them in a box of remembrance for Ruan. Not that I will ever forget…’ I put the flowers down, aware I’m gripping them too tightly. ‘I just wish I had more to put in the box apart from these, a teddy… and my favourite outfit I bought for him.’

  Demi blows her nose and takes a deep breath. ‘Were there no photos you took of him… you know, when he was born?’

  ‘A few. But I never held him. I have his ashes in an urn we’re going to give to the ocean, when I feel the time is right… and that’s all. Simon organised a funeral… well, not exactly… more of a little ceremony for him, but I didn’t go.’ My voice sounds distant, second-hand – as though it has been borrowed by someone else. That aside, I realise I am relieved that at last I am actually talking about that day, the details of afterwards. If I’m relieved, it must mean that I think talking helps, mustn’t it?

  ‘But… but I thought…’ Demi stops and shakes her head.

  ‘What? Say what you think – I’d rather that than pussyfooting around the issue, believe me.’

  ‘Well, I thought that when babies… you know… the family always spend time with the child, take photos, prints of their feet… say goodbye – that kind of thing.’ Demi wrests her hair from the wind and secures it behind her ears.

  ‘Yes. I wanted to hold him, kiss his face…’ A lump forms in my throat and I swallow it down with anger. I am so sick of being on the edge of tears. ‘But I couldn’t face it because Simon said I wouldn’t want to see him; he was so small, you see… he’d been starved of nutrients. He asked if I’d like to see a photo though… I could hardly bear to look at him, im
agine that? Such a pathetic excuse for a mother. He was very underweight; his face was…’ I can’t bring myself to tell Demi about his sunken eyes and the paper-thin skin drawn tight across his cheeks. ‘He was in a Moses basket wrapped in a little blue blanket and wearing a yellow hat with teddies on. He looked like he was sleeping but of course he was… he was… And I can’t help thinking it was all my fault.’ I am sobbing again and hate myself for being so weak, but Demi’s face had crumbled and that was me finished.

  Demi puts her arms round me, pats me on the back. ‘How was it your fault, love?’

  ‘Because of my past. The drugs, pills… like I said, I’m a pathetic excuse…’

  ‘Hey, hey, you’re not and you can’t think like that,’ Demi says and hands me a tissue. ‘It was just one of those things. Simon said so, didn’t he?’

  I nod but I’m not convinced and then Mum breezes in. ‘Here, let’s all have a cuppa and talk about something else, eh?’ she says in a ridiculously cheerful voice as she sets the tray of tea and cake on the table in front of us. ‘No use in going over it all because you’re obviously upset and…’

  ‘I WANT to talk about it! Don’t you get it?’ I thump my fist on the arm of my chair. Mum blinks in shock and her bottom lip trembles. Oh good. I’ve managed to upset her too, but I can’t stop. ‘I haven’t talked about it yet, not sure you’ve noticed? Because I couldn’t. Couldn’t physically shape the words, release them… Now I find I can and I want to, is that okay?’

  Mum makes a thin line of her lips and nods. ‘Of course, love. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be… come on, let’s have that tea and I’ll try and talk about it without getting in too much of a state.’

  ‘I’m not helping, am I?’ Demi blows her nose again and takes a drink of her tea.

  ‘You are, actually. I think it’s your straightforward manner – just what I needed.’ I notice Mum look down at her twisty hands and I pass her some cake to occupy them.

  ‘So do you think that not having seen Ruan was the right thing?’ Demi asks.

  I can tell by her tone that she thinks it wasn’t. ‘I really don’t know, Dem. Simon is the doctor, he knows best, but I do wonder if seeing him might have helped me to accept it more. But it’s done now. We can’t go back. I just wish it wasn’t so fucking painful!’ I notice Mum’s lips purse briefly. She’s not a fan of the F word.

  Demi puts her hand on my arm. ‘It must be. I wish I could do something to make it better but I can’t,’ she says simply with a shrug. ‘It will take time and…’ She stops and shakes her head.

  ‘Yes, Mum said that earlier and I bit her head off.’ I give Mum an apologetic smile. ‘But you are both right. Time does ease the pain. It did with Dad, even though I never thought it would.’ Mum nods and dabs at her eyes. ‘The thing is…’ I pause, wondering if this is going to sound crazy. ‘The thing is, in a way, because I hurt so much… physically hurt in my heart sometimes… it means he was real – existed… and I know that wherever Ruan is, he knows that I love him. Because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t hurt so much, would I?’

  I look from one to the other but neither can speak. Strangely, I don’t feel like I want to cry now. Instead there’s just peace and calm somehow.

  ‘It makes perfect sense to me,’ Mum says thickly.

  ‘Me too,’ Demi manages.

  ‘Good. Right, I think I’ve done enough talking about that for now. Let’s eat all this cake before Freesia Child wakes for her next feed.’ On cue, a wail goes up from the Moses basket and it sounds so comical that we all have to laugh, despite everything.

  Next day I’m power walking on the beach. The sun is sticking my shirt to my back and sweat beads my brow, but I keep going, even though I’m supposed to take it easy because of the C-section scar. It niggles a bit, but not enough to be a problem. Nothing seems a problem today. A light mood has settled over me and for the first time in weeks I’m thinking about the future. Demi really helped me to get my thoughts in order, though she didn’t actually do much – she was just Demi. She stayed over last night but went off to work this morning.

  As soon as I get back I’m packing Mum off home. Much as I love her, four days has been enough. Besides, I need to get used to coping with being a new mum without always having someone there to help. Simon took the first two and a half weeks off, and the only reason I’m allowed to be in Cornwall is because Mum agreed to stay with me.

  At the water’s edge I roll up my crop trousers and splash through the waves. I slow my power walk down a few gears though; otherwise I’ll soon be drenched. The chill of the ocean climbs up my calves and cools my heated skin. I turn in a circle, tip my face to the sky and spread my arms. It’s a Tuesday out of season, so there aren’t many people on the beach today to see me; but, to be honest, I couldn’t care less if they do. This place, the ocean, makes me feel so free, so peaceful and calm. A deep breath fills my lungs with fresh ozone and seaweed and I close my eyes and let a little bit more pain slip away on the tide.

  In my mind’s eye I place an image of a happy little boy playing on the dunes behind me with his sister. He’s wearing a white sunhat and dungarees, his sister dressed the same, apart from a yellow hat, and they are laughing and digging in the sand. Of course I realise this can never happen, but it helps a little to picture it. Ruan was a part of me, albeit for such a brief time, and he always will be.

  I look down and realise that the water is up to my knees and my trousers are soaked. Never mind, I don’t care; in fact I love it. It won’t be long before I’m back in London and far away from the ocean, the call of the gulls and the whispering sea breeze through my bedroom window. Simon’s coming in two days to pick me up and I wish I could look forward to seeing him. I can’t though, because he represents going back to the city. Of course he’s been wonderful throughout this whole thing, bringing me down here, being attentive – overly so at times – buying loads of new stuff we don’t need for Iona, the apartment, me. It’s as if he thinks having all these things, packing them into our lives, will fill in the gaping hole Ruan has left behind. I shouldn’t be too harsh on him though; it’s his way of coping, I suppose. He’s suffered just as much as I have.

  I think of the little silver urn in my suitcase. Simon and I said we’d sprinkle the ashes on the last day before we went back, but I want to do it alone… I think. Something tells me that Simon agreed to it just to placate me. I don’t think he sees the point. But then he wouldn’t feel the same about this place as I do, would he? He originally talked about planting a tree for Ruan in some London remembrance park, feeding the roots with his ashes… but… oh, I don’t know… it just didn’t feel right. My boy belongs here in Cornwall where I’m happiest. Then a little sliver of worry slips under my ribs. Perhaps I’m not looking forward to seeing Simon because I don’t feel we have that much in common – in fact we probably never did. But that needs to change. I must make it change.

  An idea that is becoming a regular visitor pops up again. What if I could persuade Simon to up sticks, move to Truro perhaps, open his own consultancy? Yes, there’d be fewer people here who could afford private care, but do we have to be so rich? He could even work for the NHS. I’d prefer it, I must say. I give a wry smile when I picture his reaction to all that. No, Simon likes the finest things in life and Cornwall, for him, is not one of them.

  Then I remind myself that I am supposed to be looking to the future and being more positive. We have a beautiful little girl that we love, the option of coming down to visit my beloved beach house whenever we like, and friends and family to support us. Well, mine do. Simon’s parents are always globetrotting and not particularly warm or approachable people. Nevertheless, when they heard about our loss, they sent a huge bouquet of flowers and a lovely card with a heartfelt message. I have a lot to be thankful for.

  I wiggle my toes in the wet sand and look along the dunes towards the beach house. The new future says that I have to point up the positive and play down the ne
gative. And when Simon comes, I must try my best to show him some affection too. I can’t continue to push him away. He is my husband and I have to make it work… for Iona, if nothing else. And I do love him really, don’t I? My feelings are all over the place at the moment. It’s to be expected.

  Having made a decision to order his favourite wine and make a lovely meal for when he arrives, I set off back along the beach, the wind at my back. Iona might be awake now and she’ll need her feed. Mum is all fingers and thumbs with the formula. I had planned to breastfeed, but after Ruan… I just didn’t have the heart. I should have been breastfeeding two babies, not one. It makes no sense really, the more I think about it, but it’s how I feel and that’s that.

  As I turn from the beach onto the unmade road I think I hear someone calling my name. I stop and listen, look round at the dunes… nope. Must have been the moan of the wind. I take a couple more steps and then stop. There it is again, closer now. So close that I recognise the voice and my heart starts thumping in my chest. Turning, I see a man with a mop of blond hair and a tanned face appear from behind the curve of the dunes and raise a hand. Mine copies his, though I haven’t asked it to, and the man powers up the beach towards me, his long legs making short work of the distance between us.

  ‘Holly, I thought it was you,’ Jowan says, pushing his windswept curls out of his eyes. Eyes that I once told him were as blue as summer skies. His tan deepens and he can’t hold my gaze. ‘I wasn’t sure whether to say anything to you. I saw you paddling earlier and chickened out… but in the end I couldn’t help myself. How are you, Trev?’

  Hearing his old name for me, based on my maiden name, Trevillick, puts me right back at the school gates where I’d wait every day for him to walk me home. That’s nearly ten years ago, but, my God, it feels like I’m standing there again right now. In my stomach there are the fluttering wings of a hundred butterflies as I anticipate seeing him walk across the playground. I know it won’t be long before I feel his arms around me. I can’t speak.