I expect that’s what made me think about my daughter. The truth is, I think about her all the time. If I don’t talk about Charlotte it’s only because I feel like I can’t. It was my idea—to take Anna out for a birthday meal, just the two of us—so maybe that’s why I still think what happened was my fault.
Anna had barely left the house at all for months. She’d been on strict bed rest before the birth, and then afterward when we brought Charlotte home, she turned into someone I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t right, and neither was she. Her whole life was suddenly only about our daughter, and nobody could make her see that it was all too much, that she needed to take a step back. If I mentioned getting help, it only made things worse.
I’d arranged for her mother to babysit for one night, just one night for god’s sake; it was meant to be a kind thing to do. For both of them. But when we went to collect Charlotte the following morning, I knew that something was wrong as soon as Anna’s mother opened the door. She had promised not to drink while looking after the baby, but we could both smell the alcohol on her breath. She didn’t say a word, but looked as though she had been crying. Anna pushed her mother aside, and ran into the house. I was only a few steps behind. The travel crib was exactly where we had left it, Charlotte was still inside, and I remember the relief I felt when I saw her. It was only when Anna lifted her up that I could tell our little girl was dead.
There is no such thing as unconditional love. I didn’t really blame Anna’s mother. She’d only started drinking after discovering Charlotte had stopped breathing in the middle of the night. She’d panicked. For some reason she didn’t call an ambulance, I think perhaps because she already knew the child was dead. The coroner confirmed it was a cot death, and could have happened anytime, anyplace. But I blamed myself. So did Anna. Over and over again, screaming the silent words at me through her never-ending tears.
I loved our little girl just as much as she did, but it felt like Anna was the only one allowed to grieve. Now, two years later, I seem to be teetering on the edge at all times, a domino on the verge of falling over and taking those closest down with me. For a long while after what happened nothing about my life felt real or had any meaning. It’s the reason I left London and came back here. To make some sort of family with what I had left: a sister and a niece. And to give Anna the space she said she needed.
We buried Charlotte in Blackdown—Anna was in no fit state to make a decision at the time, so I made it—and I think it’s something else she still hates me for.
It’s a half-hour walk, along pitch-black footpaths and deserted country lanes, from Priya’s end of town to mine, but walking is the only option. There are no cabs in the countryside. No signs of life at all in Blackdown at this time of night. A black cat runs in front of me, crossing my path and contradicting my last thought. It’s the sort of thing that would have worried my ex-wife, but I don’t buy into all that superstitious nonsense. Besides, I’ve already had more than my fair share of bad luck.
It’s bitterly cold, the variety that bites if you dare to stand still in it for too long. So I shove my hands a little deeper, down inside my pockets, and keep them there rather than smoke. Strangely, I don’t even feel the need for a cigarette now, after spending an evening talking to another human being instead of staring at a screen.
Rachel and I didn’t really talk, we just shared polite conversation accompanied by impolite sex. It never felt like we had much to say to each other, at least not things that either of us would have wanted to hear. I keep thinking about the words that were painted on her fingernails: TWO FACED. Anna and I used to talk before Charlotte came along, but it was as though we forgot how. Tonight, with Priya, I felt like a real person again.
I decide to send her a text, and reach inside my pocket for my phone.
I find Rachel’s phone instead, and there is an unread message:
You should have gone straight home tonight, Jack.
I stop walking and stare at the words for a few seconds. Then turn a full three-sixty, peering into the darkness, trying to see whether someone is following me now. Someone clearly has been. I wasn’t imagining it. But who? And why? I shove the phone back into my pocket and walk a little faster.
I can see that my house is in complete darkness when I turn onto the street. Nothing unusual about that; it’s late, and I don’t expect my little sister to wait for me to come home. We’ve never been the kind of siblings to check up on each other. I presume Zoe has had a couple of glasses of cheap wine and gone to bed, just like she does most nights.