The Good Part(62)

‘That was on the mantelpiece, I moved it.’

What can I say? What can I possibly say? I stare down at the photos in my lap, at my own face – tired, with sweaty, lank hair, but eyes full of such joy, holding that tiny baby in my arms. It feels like looking at a long-lost sister I never knew I had. My heart bleeds for her, for Sam too, but that is not me, that is not my child, not my sorrow.

Sam leans forward, an elbow on his knee, then covers his eyes with one hand. It’s as though he needs to get it out, but he can’t look at me.

‘Amy came along, we were both so grateful, but I think about Chloe all the time. It still feels like someone is missing. I’ll watch Felix riding his bike and think, Would Chloe be riding a bike by now? Or Amy will fuss about wearing green, because she hates green, and I’ll wonder what Chloe’s favourite colour might have been. I know you had the same kind of thoughts because we often talked about it.’ Sam takes a long breath, finally dropping his hand. ‘I don’t know how to feel about you not remembering her. It’s something we’ve always carried together.’ He presses his palms into his eye sockets. ‘These last few days, you’ve got this lightness back, a kind of child-like exuberance, as though nothing bad has ever happened to you. But I feel guilty for enjoying it, for wanting to keep this from you. On Saturday, it felt like we were thirty-one again, having a fun first date, all the heavy stuff, the day-to-day stuff, erased. But I don’t want to erase Chloe. I wouldn’t want her never to have existed.’ He pauses, reaching for my hand. ‘It changes you, something like that.’

He closes his eyes, leaning forward, his face now in his hands. The memory box slipping to the sofa beside me. I had a child who died, and I don’t remember her. A baby, who grew inside me, whom I birthed and named and held and loved, and it feels impossible not to remember, but there isn’t even a glimmer of recollection. Nothing. Even the name is alien to me. Instinctively, I put a hand to my stomach, feeling for some distant echo of a life lived there.

‘What’s wrong?’ A voice at the door, and we both look up to see Felix in his pyjamas standing in the doorway.

‘We were just thinking about Chloe, buddy.’

‘Oh,’ says Felix, and there’s so much in that ‘oh’. Felix lost a sister, lived through his parents’ grief. I might never come close to understanding what this family has been through.

‘It’s okay,’ says Sam, walking over to pull Felix into a hug, then kissing his forehead. ‘I’m happy and sad when I think about her. Are you okay?’

‘I had a bad dream,’ says Felix.

‘Come on, I’ll tuck you back in.’

Sam gives me a rueful smile as they head back upstairs. He knows he’s dropped something huge on me, that there is no answer, no quick fix. No wonder I feel nothing like his wife. The road she has travelled, I can’t even begin to imagine.

Opening the box again, I pick up the embroidered pillowcase and lift it to my nose, hoping for the scent to unlock an unconscious memory. Chloe. Chloe. There is nothing.



Sam goes to sleep in the spare room. It’s as though, now that he’s told me, he wants to give me space to digest this in private. Does he think I’m going to go back to bed for a week? I can’t admit to him that this doesn’t feel as sad as losing Zoya. I knew Zoya for half my life; Chloe, I remember nothing about. Though this helps explain Sam’s behaviour towards me, I don’t see how I can fix this. I cannot be the wife he misses. Clearly great sex and a few shared stories don’t come close to eleven years of lived history.

That night, I struggle to sleep, so I scroll through my phone, back through all the years I’ve missed, looking for evidence of this child’s existence. I find the same photos that were printed out in the memory box. There is just one video, taken in the hospital. Sam must have been filming. I’m holding a tiny bundle of sleeping baby in my arms while lying propped up in a hospital bed.

‘So, where’s my push present, Sammie?’ I ask in the video, grinning at the camera. Do I call him Sammie?

‘What’s a push present?’ asks Sam’s voice.

‘You’re supposed to buy your wife a present for pushing out a baby. You still owe me one for Felix.’

‘Isn’t your present the baby?’ Sam asks, his voice amused.

‘No, I will give you my approved list of websites,’ I say, grinning at the camera, then looking down at the baby in my arms. ‘Isn’t she perfect though?’

‘Just like her mother. Chloe Zoya Rutherford, welcome to the world,’ says Sam. Her middle name was Zoya. ‘How am I going to handle having a daughter, Luce? I’m going to be one of those horrible overprotective father types, aren’t I?’

‘Daddy won’t let you have a boyfriend until you’re twenty-one,’ I tell Chloe in a baby voice.

‘Twenty-five,’ says Sam.

That’s the end of the video, that’s all there is. The sum documentation of Chloe’s life and she was asleep the whole time. I watch it again, trying to catch a glimpse of her tiny face, but it is too fleeting.

Scrolling forward, I find other footage of my future self, noting the ways she is different from me – she has better posture, fiddles less with her hair, she looks more confident. I examine videos of Sam too, the way he looks at the camera when she is filming him. It is painful and beautiful to see – all the love in his eyes for this alternate version of me.