But Pip knew she couldn’t do that. The woman, Robbie’s mother, had taken the time to put her anger and pain into a letter and the least Pip could do was to read it, absorb it, take some of it on to her own shoulders. She braced herself for what was to come and read on.
I’ve thought about what happened and how Robbie died and how you came out of it without a scratch on you. And to start with I was so angry. I really hated you. It wasn’t fair that my beautiful boy had to die when you’d just walked away scot-free.
But then I thought that you didn’t walk away, did you? Not really.
My lovely Robbie – he’s gone forever. He’s not coming back. I’ll never see him play football for Arsenal （did you know he was a Gunners fan? He had his shirt on that day. He never took it off unless I made him）。 I’ll never see him get a job, get married, have kids of his own. And that hurts – God, that hurts so much. But he’s gone. He doesn’t know any of it.
But you. You have to live. His life was gone in a second but yours goes on and on. You have to think about what happened every day. I guess it’s always in your head, like it is in mine, and it never goes away no matter what.
The difference between you and me, though, is that Robbie was my boy. I’m going to grieve for him forever. But you. You shouldn’t have to spend the rest of your life suffering. That really isn’t fair.
Pip had been bracing herself for the impact of the mother’s words to hit her between her eyes and knock her sideways, but now she stopped in her tracks. What exactly was the letter trying to say? She went back and reread the last two sentences. This was no condemnation. The mother wasn’t damning her for all eternity, as Pip had assumed she would. Cautiously now, she let her eyes trace the rest of the letter.
My baby is dead and he’s never coming back. But your life shouldn’t be over too.
I know what happened was an accident. Robbie just ran out. He was always doing it. I told him over and over, but you know what boys are like. He thought he was invincible and that I was stupid, fussing all the time. When the police came to my door, I knew exactly what had happened. I’d almost been waiting for it.
So, I just want you to know that I don’t blame you. I did for a while. Even after the coroner said it was an accident and the police didn’t take any action, I still hated you. I had to. I was so angry with you, with the police, with Robbie, but mainly with myself for not keeping my baby safe.
But I’m not angry now. And I know none of this was your fault. Robbie just ran out. There was nothing you could do. In fact, it was a miracle more people weren’t hurt.
I don’t suppose it makes much difference to you – maybe you have forgotten all about us – but I wanted to tell you that. I don’t blame you. It wasn’t your fault.
Please don’t write back. I don’t want that. But I just had to do this for myself.
Yours sincerely,
Karen Smith
Pip looked up from the letter, stunned. She couldn’t register any emotions at all. It was as if someone had just wiped her mind clean, like a blackboard in a classroom. The words were clear enough; she understood their meaning, but she was numb. She could find no response to them.
The boy’s mother did not blame her. The mother of the child she killed could see that it had been an accident, a horrible, tragic accident. Pip knew she would blame herself for the rest of her life, but maybe her guilt would be easier to bear knowing that the one person who had the most reason to blame her did not.
Suddenly, Pip needed her own mother. The desire to be with her was so strong that she swept the letter up in one hand and ran from her room, shouting for her as if her life depended on it. Her mother appeared in the hallway at once, her eyes wide.
‘What is it, Pip?’ she asked, anxiety clipping her words short. ‘What’s happened?’
Pip hurtled down the stairs and threw herself into her so hard that her mother took a few steps backwards before she could regain her balance. She wrapped her arms tightly around Pip without asking any further questions and Pip began to sob hard into her shoulder. She could feel her mother’s hand stroking her hair in a gentle repetitive rhythm, like she had done when she was a little girl. There, there, Pip. There, there.
‘She says it wasn’t my fault,’ Pip blurted through her tears. ‘The accident wasn’t my fault.’
‘Well, of course it wasn’t,’ her mother replied softly. ‘You know that.’
‘But she said it,’ Pip sobbed.
‘Who said it, Pip? You’re not making much sense.’