Before You Go Page 26

  I nod. ‘I know you’re worried I’ll blame you, or feel resentment every time I see someone with a child, and maybe I will to some extent. I’ll always wish I had a child. But if we keep trying and failing I’ll always wish I’d stopped and hadn’t lost you. I . . .’ I stop to wipe the tears from my cheeks. ‘I can’t lose you again, Ed.’

  He doesn’t realize the significance of this but it hardly matters.

  Ed shakes his head and looks at me in wonder. ‘Zoe, I’m so relieved.’

  ‘Me too.’

  He reaches out a hand and wipes my face. I realize my dress is soaked with tears, making it stick to my thighs.

  ‘Come on, sweetheart, don’t cry. This is a good decision.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, sniffing. ‘I know it’s good. I just . . .’ I stop, leaving it for him to fill in the blanks. But the tears are as much about saving Ed as about losing the baby I never had. And they’re tears of relief at suddenly being released from the horror that baby-making has become.

  I feel, for the first time in years, free.

  I have no idea how much time passes but finally the tears subside and Ed and I are left here, side by side on the sofa. He grabs my hand and lifts my chin so we’re facing each other.

  ‘This might not be the right time but I don’t care. Shall we go to bed?’

  We haven’t slept together for months and desire makes my body tremble. I realize I’m gripping his hand as if for dear life.

  ‘Yes please,’ I whisper.

  Silently, Ed stands and I follow, and he leads me by the hand to the bedroom. The bed stands, like a symbol of our mended relationship, waiting for us. Gently, Ed peels my dress from my body, leaving me in just my pants and bra. He lifts his T-shirt over his head, pushes his shorts to the floor then holds his arms out for me to walk into. I almost fall into his embrace and his hands gently stroke my back, my shoulders, my neck and my face. It’s passionate but so, so gentle. I tighten my grip on him and lift my head to kiss him.

  As we sink onto the bed, a tangle of hot, sweaty limbs, I lose myself totally in the moment. Ed’s on top of me, kissing me, then he’s inside me, and everything is right with the world.

  Later, as we lie on the bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, I can’t help thinking about how much things have changed. Last time I lived this day it was the worst day of my life and I ended up at Ed’s bedside, and he was dead. This time I’m here with his arms around me, and I feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

  Next to me, Ed sits up and props himself on his elbow and looks back down at me.

  ‘I reckon this calls for a celebration,’ he says. His eyes twinkle.

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘We should celebrate, tonight.’

  I roll my eyes and smile. ‘Any excuse for a drink.’

  ‘Yep.’ He hauls himself into a sitting position.

  ‘Well, if you’re so desperate, why don’t we go to that cute wine bar in Muswell Hill?’

  ‘Wine bar? Wine won’t cut it, Zo. We need champagne!’

  ‘Do we, now? Well, if you insist . . .’

  ‘I do insist.’

  ‘OK. But just a few more minutes here. Please?’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  He grins and lies back down beside me. I watch a shaft of light move slowly across the ceiling as the late afternoon sun burns through the window, still as fierce as it was earlier. Minutes tick by, the day moves on.

  ‘I need a shower.’

  Ed sniffs. ‘Yep, I’d say you do.’

  I slap his arm. ‘Rude.’

  He grins. ‘Maybe. But you do honk.’

  Laughing, I throw my legs over the side of the bed. I’m starting to feel giddy with the excitement of having saved him, mixed with a knot of tension that’s slowly diminishing as it gets later and later in the day. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’

  ‘I won’t.’ He throws his arms behind his head and closes his eyes. I turn and head towards the shower. As I stand under the cool water I feel the stress of the day seeping away, down the drain along with the dirty water.

  I jump out and dry off, wrap myself in a towel and walk through to the bedroom. When I get to the door I stop. Ed’s not there. I peer into the lounge. He’s not in there either. I frown. He’s probably just making a cuppa.

  I throw a clean dress on then walk through to the kitchen to find Ed. He’s not there either. Despite myself, I start to feel the knot of tension returning in my belly. Where the hell has he gone?

  I grab a Diet Coke from the fridge and head to the back door. The heat hits me in the face as I step outside and I squint against the light. As my eyes adjust I look around the garden. It’s only small and I can see instantly Ed’s not there.

  My heart starts to pound a little harder as I turn and go back into the kitchen. And then I see it. A piece of paper on the table, Ed’s writing scrawled across it.

  Bugger it. I want champagne now. Have popped to the shop, back in 10. Love you. E x

  As I read the words I almost drop my drink, and my hands are shaking so much I have to put it down on the table. He went out!

  I have no idea how long he’s been gone, so there’s no point going after him. I sit down, try to think it through rationally. The shop’s only a few minutes away. He’ll be back soon, and then everything will be fine.

  It will be fine. It has to be.

  I take a swig of my Coke, listening for Ed’s key in the front door, trying to stay calm. Breathe in, out, in, out.

  Ten minutes later there’s still no sign of him.

  Trying not to panic, I walk to the front window and peer through it. The sun blazes through the glass, making beads of sweat appear on my face and chest again, but still there’s no Ed.

  I head back into the kitchen and sit down at the table, my breath coming quickly now, my pulse quickening and reaching to the ends of my fingers, into my toes, until my whole body thumps in rhythm. Condensation has gathered on my Coke can and is dripping onto the table. I pick the can up and hold it to my forehead. It feels good on my overheated skin. I hold my head in my hands and stare down at the wooden tabletop, following the lines in the wood with my eyes. The silence in the flat fills my ears and I’m aware I’m holding my breath, listening for the door to open. I sit like that for a while before glancing up at the clock. 5.05. Ed’s been gone for fifty minutes now. The blood rushes to my head with a roar, making me dizzy. Why did he have to go? What was he thinking?

  I stand on wobbly legs and walk into the living room; I flip the TV on, blindly watching the pictures flicker past. But it’s not taking my mind off Ed not being here. Nothing will.

  I grab my phone from the table. There are no messages so I press the green button and call the last person I spoke to. Ed. My heart thumps wildly as I listen to the ringing tone and I feel sure that if Ed answers now he’ll be able to hear it.

  But he doesn’t answer.

  A wave of nausea washes over me as the voicemail service clicks in and I hear Ed’s voice saying, Sorry I can’t take your call at the moment, please leave a message after the beep.

  I click the phone off. I take a deep breath, trying to fill my lungs with air, but I feel faint. I sit on the sofa and tap out a text.

  Where are you?

  I press Send and then all I can do is wait and hope that it’s him that sees it . . .

  I lie back on the sofa and try not to let my mind wander to what might or might not have happened to Ed. I reassure myself: it’s only an hour, he’s on his way home. Any minute now he’ll walk through the door and you’ll laugh about this and wonder what on earth you were worried about.

  But the nagging voice I’m trying to subdue is getting louder and I can’t ignore it any more.

  Did you really think you could change history? it’s saying. Did you really think you could stop Ed dying? Silly girl.

  Tears are running down my cheeks and dripping onto the cushion under my head, and I can’t do anything to stop them. I stare at the ceiling, at the patte
rns the light’s forming on it, and the lampshade swims before my eyes. I pull my knees up and twist onto my side so I’m facing the front door. Just in case he comes. Then I’ll see him there.

  I don’t know how long I sit like that, but I watch the sunlight move slowly across the floor and onto the wall so I know some time is passing. And still the flat is filled with silence, so much silence I can hardly bear it, until it presses down on me and I can hardly breathe. I pick my phone up but there’s no message, no returned call. I place it gently back on the table again with a shaking hand.

  I should ring someone: Jane, Mum, Becky, anyone. But what could they say? They wouldn’t understand my terror. They couldn’t. Because they don’t know what I know. They don’t know what happened last time.

  So I sit alone, and wait.

  The heat of the sun is fading slightly when the ringing of the phone shatters the silence. My heart almost stops and I stand up and snatch the phone from the table, almost dropping it. It’s Ed’s number.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, out of breath even though I haven’t moved for hours.

  There’s a beat of silence, and in that moment I know. I know.

  ‘Hello, is this Zoe Williams?’ says a deep, unfamiliar voice.

  I want to scream; I want to throw the phone across the room and refuse to hear a word this man has to say. But instead I say, ‘Yes.’ My voice breaks and I cough to clear my throat which feels dry and sore.

  ‘I’m so sorry but there’s been an accident. It’s your husband, Edward . . .’

  He keeps talking but I don’t hear any more. My knees give way beneath me and I perch on the edge of the sofa, tensely. Then I realize there’s silence at the other end of the phone.

  ‘Mrs Williams, are you there?’ says the voice again.

  I know I have to speak, to let them know I can hear them, but somehow the words just won’t form in my throat and make their way through my dry, arid mouth. Instead I let out a strangled gargle and the phone drops to the floor, clattering on the wooden floorboards. Seconds pass, minutes, hours, weeks, and I sit there, still as stone. My heart is stone, my body is stone, my mind is stone. Yet I can hear a banging, gentle at first, and then louder, more insistent, like a drummer reaching a crescendo. I move my head slightly towards the front door and I can see two figures silhouetted behind the stained-glass panel, outlined faintly against the dying light. I know I have to open the door and let them in but I can’t do it. I can’t. It will only be bad news.

  But they’re not going away, and so I stand and move, zombie-like, towards the front door. The door swings open and two people are standing on my doorstep; sombre faces, dark uniforms. They step into my house and I let them, moving aside numbly as they enter, and leading them into the living room. We sit, the three of us, and I wait for them to speak, not wanting to hear their words but knowing I have to.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Williams,’ the female police officer says. ‘But your husband was hit by a car while he was crossing the road. The car – was travelling too fast and I’m – I’m afraid he didn’t make it . . .’

  I find myself staring at the shiny floorboards, not knowing what to say or how to react. I stare at the police officer’s shoes. They’re polished to such a shine that the fading sunlight outside is reflected back from their toes. Instead of thinking about Ed dying all over again, I think about this woman getting ready for work this morning, standing in her kitchen, buffing her shoes to a shine, thinking about the day ahead. Had she imagined she’d have to tell someone their husband had died? Had she imagined what that would be like?

  I continue to say nothing. My eyes move across the carpet, taking in the scratches on the wooden floor where we’d moved the sofa a few weeks before. I try and work out how I feel, what I want to do, but I don’t know, even this time around, what’s expected of me. So I just sit there, looking at the floor.

  ‘Mrs Williams?’ a voice says.

  I look up. Two faces are watching me, waiting for me to say something.

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ The words won’t come out. ‘Where is he?’ I finally croak.

  Relieved finally to have something to say, the male police officer clears his throat. ‘He was taken to the Royal Free,’ he says. ‘We can take you there if you like?’

  I nod and stand up, pick my phone off the floor and follow them as they lead me out of the flat and to the waiting police car. The street is oddly quiet, and it feels fitting somehow. In the back of my mind I know I have to ring Mum, Jane, Ed’s mum, so as the car rumbles quietly towards the hospital I call the familiar numbers.

  I ring Jane first. She’s closest and I need someone here with me, right now.

  ‘Hey,’ she says, her voice light and bright, and it sounds so incongruous I gasp. ‘Zo, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Ed . . .’ My voice cracks and I struggle to get the words out. ‘It’s Ed. He’s . . . there’s been an accident and . . .’ I can’t finish. I can’t say the word.

  ‘Fuck, Zo, where are you?’

  ‘Royal Free.’ My voice is barely more than a whisper.

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  As I end the call we’re pulling up outside the hospital. There’s no time to ring anyone else. The sun is low behind the brown brick building, giving it a strangely Gothic feel silhouetted against the bright sky. I climb out of the car. My legs are shaking and I stumble and the female police officer – I wish I could remember her name – takes my elbow to steady me. We walk together towards the doors and as I walk through them I feel as though I’m being swallowed into hell.

  They lead me to a bank of chairs in a small room tucked away in the depths of the hospital. As I wait I stare blindly at the posters on the wall opposite me for bereavement counselling and depression. I read the words but I don’t take them in. And then I hear a familiar voice and I look up and there’s Jane. She runs towards me across the tiny room and then her arms are wrapped tightly round me and I’m sobbing: huge, jerking, body-wracking sobs that make me feel as though I’m going to break in two.

  ‘He – he’s dead,’ I gulp through thick, snotty tears.

  ‘Oh Zoe, Zoe, Zoe.’ Jane holds me and rubs my back until my sobs subside and then we sit, holding hands.

  ‘Things have been so bad – between me and Ed – but – but today was different. Today he didn’t hate me . . .’

  ‘Zoe, Ed would never hate you. He’s always adored you, and he knew you loved him. Please, please don’t think like that, my darling friend.’

  ‘But we’ve been so angry with each other and – he only went to get champagne and – I told him not to go but he went anyway and now it’s all too late and I didn’t even get to say goodbye. What the hell am I going to do?’

  Before Jane can answer, the doctor is there and we’re being led to where Ed is, to identify his body. The doctor explains that he was hit by a car as he was crossing the road, that he stood no chance, that he was dead on arrival at hospital. The words ‘massive brain trauma’ drift in and out of my head but I can’t think about Ed in pain, hurting. All I can think is why. Why did I let him leave the house? He’d got home safely, we were on the home run, we’d almost got through the day with him alive, and had possibly even changed things forever. And then I’d let him leave.

  A part of me knows that maybe this was always going to happen anyway, that maybe there was no way I was ever going to be allowed to change the course of history. But I can’t stop thinking about the moment I left him, lying in bed. About how alive he looked, how happy and content.

  I’m led to Ed’s bedside. And despite the injuries – they’ve cleaned him up as best they can but there are still traces of blood on his face and down his chest – I can see my Ed lying there, and the urge to reach out and touch him, hold him and tell him everything’s going to be OK, is overwhelming. But I can’t do it.

  Instead I nod. ‘Yes, that’s him.’ Then I turn and walk away numbly, Jane holding me up by the shoulders.

  The next few hours are a blur. People bri
ng tea, give me hugs; there’s the whoosh of trolleys passing by the relatives’ room. Then Susan arrives and we hold each other, united in a grief that threatens to overwhelm us both.

  And through it all, I feel angry too. Angry that I’ve been made, for whatever reason, to live through losing the love of my life all over again. Once was hard enough; once was almost enough to break me. But twice – twice was just cruel when, in the end, nothing changed. In the end, Ed still died.

  How can I live the rest of my life knowing that I let him down?

  20

  10 September 2013

  My eyes are still closed but I can already tell that today is different. It could be something about the light, about the brightness of it seeping through my eyelids; or it could be the noises filtering into my consciousness. Instead of the gentle sounds of everyday life – kettles boiling, socked feet padding softly on carpet, radios playing gently in the background – everything here is louder and more abrasive. Heels clack on hard tiles, voices shout loudly, bangs and beeps and scrapes and bumps pound into my head, like a woodpecker trying to bore a hole in wood. The sounds of a hospital.

  And with a crashing certainty I know where I am. I’m back in the present – whenever the present actually is. What I don’t know is how I’m going to be and who’s going to be here when I open my eyes.

  I listen more carefully, trying to tune my ears to any softer, more subtle sounds. Can I hear someone breathing? I’m not sure. Wait, what was that? A rustle and a soft pat. A page turning? Someone reading next to my bedside? Or is it just someone looking at my notes, checking up on me?

  I inhale deeply, readying myself to open my eyes. One, two, three . . . open.

  But they won’t move. They feel as though they’ve been closed forever. I long to lift my hands and rub them, as though just waking from a good night’s sleep, but my limbs don’t seem to want to work either so I try my eyes again. Slowly I feel my left lid moving and a tiny slit opens, letting sunlight pour in, filling my head with white. I snap it shut again and wait for the light to stop dancing in the dark of my mind.