Without a word, Dad got up from the sofa and left the room. Tea undrunk. Mum didn’t even flinch as he closed the door behind him with a bit more force than was needed.
I think he’ll leave her if she doesn’t snap out of it.
I stared at our mother and, for the first time in my adult life, felt like a scared little girl, wondering who to call when your parents have mentally checked out.
‘Mum,’ I said gently. ‘You know Elodie isn’t on a trip.’
Her chin jutted out in the way it always does when she feels attacked, just like that Christmas she had her friend knit us those itchy, puke-green jumpers and we refused to put them on.
‘The way we found her bedroom … the glass, the blood,’ I said. Mum closed her eyes and I think if she could’ve, she’d have stoppered her ears too. ‘If she’d gone away on holiday, today of all days, she’d have called us,’ I ventured. ‘It’s her birthday.’
Her eyes snapped open. ‘I know it’s her birthday. It was me in the hospital. It was me in labour for eleven hours. I know it’s her bloody birthday. Don’t you think I know?’
I stiffened. Forget eggshells, El, I was walking through a minefield and if I wasn’t very careful, I was going to get blown apart. ‘The investigators want to find her, but they need your help. Yours and Dad’s. If you agree to do the appeal with the media, and we get Elodie’s story out there, we have a better chance of bringing her home.’
‘Her story,’ repeated Mum angrily. ‘And what is her story? Does anyone know?’
I sighed. I couldn’t help it. She’s so … exasperating.
She slammed her cup down onto the coffee table, tea sloshing over the rim and splashing onto your cards. Ones you’ll never read if you’re dead. ‘Don’t you sigh at me, Adaline,’ she seethed. ‘This isn’t some fucking event for you to organise.’ I couldn’t believe she swore. Mum never swears. I was so shocked by her language, I barely noticed her getting up. ‘You don’t understand what it’s like. How can you? You don’t have children. You’re not a mother.’
Not a mother.
How could she?
Not a mother. Not important. Not worthy. That’s what she meant. And she knows. She knows what I went through with the false pregnancy. She knows how long Ethan and I had been trying to conceive and failed every month. I could not believe she’d just said what she had just said.
I stood up. ‘I’ve got to go.’
Mum didn’t stop me. I got out of there as fast as I could.
To distract myself from my hurt and seething anger, I cleaned my house while I blared Britney Spears’ first album Baby One More Time because no one can feel down listening to bubble-gum pop.
Ethan was working late again – he arrived home just before 9 p.m. It’s amazing really, his ability to take off his jacket and his shoes without once looking up from his phone. Amazing also how he can be forever attached to his phone without answering a single one of my messages.
‘Dinner’s cold so I put it in the oven for you. Again.’
He didn’t notice my tone. ‘Thanks, darling.’
I sat with him while he ate the long-past-its-best meal. We didn’t talk. Ethan just scrolled and scrolled through his phone while I sat and waited for him to look up from the glow of his screen. Years ago, in the beginning, we’d go to a bar or restaurant and our phones were these forgotten devices that lay in the bottom of a bag or tucked away in a coat pocket. We’d talk until closing time when they’d finally kick us out. Off our heads on serotonin, we’d mock all those married couples who sat in silence, having run out of things to say to one another years before, promising we’d never become them. So, is this karma or inevitability?
Finally, his head popped up from his screen. ‘Are you ovulating?’
I was so lost in thoughts of years ago, it took me a moment to process his question. ‘I don’t know.’
‘My calendar says you might be ovulating. Have you checked?’
‘No,’ I answered, stupefied.
He was cross and sulky. ‘Why not? You have to be on top of this, Ada. The doctor said.’
‘I know what she said, but I’ve had much bigger things to worry about than cervical mucus,’ I snapped. ‘It slipped my mind.’
Ethan was so supportive right after you disappeared, cancelling meetings, taking time off work. I’m not unreasonable, I know his job is important, I know it’s what keeps a beautiful, solar-panelled roof above our heads, and I knew he’d go back into the office eventually. I just thought he’d have more time off. During the tense conversation we had after he missed the lantern release, he told me, ‘Life goes on, Ada. Elodie won’t come back just because we’ve stopped living our lives and released a few tossing lanterns into the sky.’