I went straight to our bedroom when we got home, even let Bob stretch out on the end of the bed. I tried crying myself to sleep, but it didn’t work, nothing does. I might talk to the GP about getting some sleeping pills. I noticed that my watch had stopped at three minutes past eight, and I wondered if that was the exact time our baby died. I took the watch off my wrist and I don’t want to see it, or wear it, ever again. I’ll always remember what you said when you came upstairs and held me:
‘I love you. Always have, always will.’
‘Not almost always?’ I asked, trying to make you smile, even though I was broken. But you didn’t. Smile. Instead, you looked more serious than I have ever seen you.
‘Always always. I’m so sorry that we can’t seem to have children, because I know how much it means to you, and what a wonderful mother you would be. But it doesn’t change a thing for me. I’m with you for life, no matter what, because this is our family: you, me, and Bob. We don’t need anyone or anything else. Nothing will ever change that.’
But words can’t fix everything, no matter how fond you are of them.
Hours later, when you were sleeping but I still couldn’t, I thought I may as well get up and come downstairs. Bob followed me, as if he knew something was very wrong. I put the cold, uneaten pizza – which was still where we had left it when I started to bleed – in the bin, along with the linen cushion you had given me. The words stitched on it are too painful to ever read again. You believed that I could, then briefly I did. Now I’m not sure of anything. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be if I can’t be the me I dreamed I would be. And I don’t know what that means for us.
I have grown fond of writing letters I will never let you read. I find it cathartic. They make me feel better, even though I know it would destroy you if you found them. That’s why I hide them away. I’ll keep the scan from the hospital with this one. A reminder of what we almost had. I’ve already tucked it inside the envelope the clinic gave me with my name on:
Mrs. A. Wright.
I’m holding it now. Can’t quite let go. The receptionist used swirly handwriting on my initial, as though it were something pretty. I remember when we got married, and I first took your surname, I practised signing my new signature for weeks with swirly letters of my own. I was so happy to be your wife, but none of the wishes I’ve made since have come true. I think that might be my fault, not yours. I hope that if you ever find out the truth, you’ll be able to forgive me and love me no matter what. Always always. Like you promised.
Your wife
xx
Amelia
I hear another noise downstairs in the chapel and I know I’m not imagining it.
I reach blindly for the light switch by the bed, but it doesn’t work. Either there has been another power cut – which seems odd if there is a generator – or someone has cut the power. I try not to allow my overactive imagination to make this experience even scarier than it is. I tell myself that there must be a rational explanation. But then I hear the unmistakable sound of a footstep at the bottom of the creaking stairs.
I hold my breath, determined to hear nothing but silence.
But there is another groan from elderly floorboards, followed by another creak, and the sound of someone climbing the staircase is getting louder. And closer. I have to cover my mouth with my hand to stop myself from screaming when the footsteps stop right outside the bedroom door.
I want to reach for Adam but I am frozen with fear.
When I hear the sound of the door handle start to turn, I practically fall out of the bed in my hurry to get away from whoever is out there, and wish that I was wearing more than just a flimsy nightdress. I grip the unfamiliar furniture, feeling my way in the shadows, walking as quickly and quietly as I can towards the bathroom. I’m fairly sure its door had a lock. As soon as I find what I’m looking for, I close the door behind me and barricade myself inside. The light switch doesn’t work in here either, but maybe that’s a good thing.
I hear the bedroom door slowly open and more creeping footsteps. I blink into the darkness, willing my eyes to adjust to the low light, then hold my breath and step back as far as I can while the sound of creaking floorboards gets closer. I realise I’ve been twisting my engagement ring around my finger – something I only do when I’m most anxious. The ring – which once belonged to Adam’s mother – doesn’t come off anymore, and has started to feel too tight. My chest feels the same way, and my heart is thumping so loudly, I’m scared that whoever is out there can hear it when they stop right outside the bathroom door.