She shakes her head. “I don’t know anymore.”
The subject of Anna’s mother is always a sensitive one; I should have known better.
“I’m sorry that you think I interfered with your mum. You’re right, I should have told you that she was getting significantly worse. I did try, and I only wanted to help.”
“I know. It’s just that she never wanted to leave that house, and I feel like I’ve let her down—”
I take a step toward her.
“You haven’t let anyone down. I understand why you stayed away, and what being here does to you. Maybe you should go back to London?”
Her body language instantly translates into something completely different.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Jack?”
“What does that mean?”
“How old is Detective Patel? Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?”
I’ve never known Anna to be jealous before.
“She’s actually in her thirties”—I checked her HR record myself recently—“she’s good at her job, and she’s not my type.”
“What is your type now it’s no longer me?”
I don’t know whether to laugh or kiss her, and both options seem inappropriate.
“You’ll always be my type,” I say, and her face strains to hide a smile.
“I’ll try to remember that if you ever need a blood donor.”
I laugh. I think I’d forgotten my wife can be funny. Ex-wife. Mustn’t forget that.
A magpie swoops down onto the path behind us, and Anna can’t stop herself from saluting in its direction. Some superstitious nonsense her mother taught her.
“Come on, everything will be okay,” I say, holding out my hand.
I’m surprised when she takes it. I always loved the way her fingers seemed to fit right inside my own. I find myself pulling her closer without really meaning to, and she lets me. The hug feels rusty, the kind you have with someone who hasn’t had much practice. Anna starts to cry, and all at once, I am back in her mother’s house again that night two years ago. Holding my wife just after we discovered that our daughter was dead. I’m sure the memory comes back to haunt her too, because she pulls away.
I take a clean hanky from my pocket, and she uses it to wipe the tears and smudges of mascara beneath her eyes.
“People will wonder where we both are,” I say.
“Sorry, I just needed to be on my own for a moment.”
“I know. Me too. It’s okay.”
We start to walk back toward the parking lot, and my eyes are drawn to the magpie that landed on the forest floor just ahead of us a few moments ago. It doesn’t fly away, or even look remotely distracted from its task, and it’s only when we get closer that I can see what it is doing. The living magpie is pecking at the flesh of a dead one. Despite my line of work, the sight still turns my stomach a little. Anna sees it too and I can’t help wondering whether, given her superstitious beliefs, this sighting still counts as two for joy.
Her
Wednesday 09:00
I can’t get the image out of my mind. The sight of one magpie eating the other. I keep thinking about Jack saying that I resemble my mother, too. I can’t see it myself, but even if I do look like her, we are not the same. It might be true that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but sometimes the apple can roll down a hill, far, far away from where it landed.
* * *
Being in this corner of the woods always makes me think of Rachel.
I didn’t think anything could spoil the happy feeling inside my chest after she kissed me in the school restroom. She was the champagne of friends, and I was sure no other friendship would ever be as good. We were both smiling all day, until Mr. Richardson—our disgusting English teacher—asked to see both Rachel and me in his office. We were pulled out of gym class and made to go there wearing just our hockey gear.
I was called in first. I sat on the very edge of the chair opposite his desk, and when he told me that I’d been caught cheating, and that he was going to have to write to my mother about it, I started to cry. I fear my tears gave away my guilt, long before my words had a chance to defend me.
He said that Rachel and I had both handed in exactly the same essay. One of us had clearly copied the other, and unless he could determine who was in the wrong, he had no choice but to punish us both. His right hand was hidden below the desk, as though he were scratching something, and I could tell from the twisted smile on his face that he was enjoying watching me cry. I still couldn’t stop—the thought of my mother finding out what I had done was killing me.