The evening I picked Dad up from the police station, I was still riding that wave of power at having made a difference, and I called Mum. Calmly, I told her what had happened with Dad and the arrest. She started gabbling, but I spoke clearly and concisely and said I knew she and Dad weren’t in a good place, and if they didn’t want to stay together that was fine, but they had to at least try to communicate because throwing thirty-five years of marriage away without so much as a conversation wasn’t acceptable and running away wasn’t going to solve anything either. She didn’t contest my point, so I went on, impressing upon her that of course she was hurting, and I’d never know how much because, as she pointed out, I’m not a mother, but Dad was hurting too, and his pain was just as valid as hers.
Mum was so quiet, I thought maybe she’d hung up. Then she said, ‘I think your dad needs to join me in Kent. Trish and Colin have plenty of room here.’
By the time Dad came out of the shower, eyes so red I knew he’d been sobbing, I’d booked train tickets.
The next morning, I dropped him at the station, and we stood awkwardly on the platform. You and Mum are huggers. Dad and I are not. But he stood there with his suitcase, dressed in his jacket and a cap that belonged to Grandad, and I was struck again by the realisation that he was no longer that big, strong man who could set me atop his shoulders for apple picking in the summer. Sometimes, I still see our parents through a child’s eyes, as though they are faultless and all knowing, but if Dad were a stranger in the street, I’d consider him an older gentleman. And then, out of nowhere, I thought, when Mum and Dad die, with you gone too, I’ll be all alone. My breath caught in my throat. I wasn’t meant to be all alone. Impulsively, I hugged Dad. He made an oomph noise as I squeezed him tight. It wasn’t the kind of easy, natural hug you’d give. Dad patted me on the back.
‘Mum’s going to meet you at the other end,’ I told him because he’d lied about the fishing trip, and it was important to reiterate that we’d know if he got off at the next stop and didn’t make it to Kent.
I drove around for an hour, just thinking. I wasn’t looking forward to returning to an empty house, so I switched the radio on and turned left and turned right until I found myself outside yours again.
The first and last time I slept at your house was in the days after Noah died – until the morning I came downstairs, and Jack was standing in your kitchen with a cup of tea. Let himself in with a key you’d given him. I was surprised; I didn’t have a key to your place, our parents didn’t. He told me you’d rung him in the early hours, complaining my presence in your home was suffocating, that you wanted me to leave but didn’t want to hurt my feelings. I was so embarrassed, so stung, I didn’t even argue, just got my things and left while you were still sleeping. Later though, I wondered … I told Ethan I thought Jack had lied, but Ethan said if you didn’t want me to leave, you’d have called to find out why I left. And that was it. I never brought it up again, but it niggled. Still niggles. In the months that followed, things between us were frosty, so I thought maybe there was truth to Jack’s story, and then I was angry you involved him, humiliated me the way you did, and beneath it all was the pain that those days we spent together meant more to me than they did to you.
A flash of movement pulled me from my thoughts; on the wall outside was a cat. Tan, white and black with a coppery-coloured heart on its flank. Your little stray. I’d never had a pet of my own. I was too tidy, too clean, I couldn’t cope with the hair. But what would become of that cat without you? I decided I’d come back later with a cat carrier. Even if I didn’t take her in myself, I could drop her off at a rescue centre.
On the way home, I drove past Jack’s. His car wasn’t on the drive again. Since your disappearance, he’d been working away more often, taking projects further afield. Charlie said it was too hard for Jack to knock around Crosshaven without you. I wonder if our parents will feel the same if you never return? Will they move away? Will I be left only with Ethan?
At home, music played loudly; Ethan’s overnight bag sat at the bottom of the stairs. I was surprised he’d returned so soon after our fight. He was in the kitchen, grilling cheese toasties. For one of our very first dates, Ethan offered to cook. Only, he didn’t know how, and the restaurant takeaway he’d hoped to pass off as his own never arrived. So, he made the only thing he could: cheese toasties. Since then, whenever he’s forgotten an anniversary or cancelled plans for work, he apologises with his signature dish.