He pauses. ‘But when I came back for the summer, and went looking for her diaries again, I eventually found the entry you’ve just read.’
I wait. Nothing seems real. Not this room, not the people in it, not the story he’s telling.
‘She admitted it all, when I confronted her. She was in floods. Told me how she’d lost baby after baby, how adoption was their only hope in the end, and how they finally found me . . . And then you changed your mind and decided to keep me. I think that broke her.’
The wind picks up outside.
‘So I get it. What an awful time she’d had, in the lead up to that day.’ He looks at me, and I see sadness in his young face. ‘But I still can’t accept what she did. Let alone work out how to forgive it.’
The world is beginning and ending. I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees.
Is this how it happened?
I was playing peekaboo with my baby?
When I look up again, Charlie’s watching me expectantly, as if waiting for an answer. Leo touches my shoulder.
‘Sorry? What?’
‘I said, have you always thought you tried to smother me?’ Charlie asks. ‘Have you never doubted it?’
I bring up my memories of that day. A torrent of fragments surface, all the usual noise and misery. I find the moment of the pillow, over Charlie’s face. I find the moment I was interviewed by the psychiatrist and the social worker and my nurse. I find the moment they asked if it had been my intention to suffocate my baby. And I find the moment where I looked into myself and said, yes, I think that’s exactly what I was trying to do.
Why did I say that?
Why did I say I think so, rather than something more assured, like, ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I was trying to do?’
I try out the idea of peekaboo. Of wanting to play, not harm.
It fits. Playing, not harming.
Heat rushes through me. Please, no. Please let me not have given up my child for this.
‘After I confronted Mum she begged me not to tell Dad – not until she’d figured it all out in her head. She said she was sorry, and that she would sort it out, sort herself out. She went off to rehearsals, then didn’t come home. We haven’t seen her since.’
After what feels like hours, I turn to Jeremy. ‘And you never knew?’ I ask. ‘She didn’t even hint at it?’
Charlie looks at the ragged form of his father. ‘Of course he didn’t know. Look at the state of him.’
There’s an unbearable silence. Everything is imploding. Every single thing I told myself, every moment of torturous self-loathing: a story.
‘I sort of thought after the letter she sent us that she’d be OK,’ Charlie says. ‘That she really did just need some time out. She texted Dad a few days ago and she didn’t sound too bad . . .’ His voice quakes. ‘But I’m scared, now.’
‘We came because I couldn’t allow you not to know about this for another second,’ Jeremy says. ‘And we’ll leave you in a moment, because, God knows, you’ll need time to let it all sink in. But we have one question we need to ask you first.’
Leo gestures for Jeremy to go ahead.
‘Janice mentioned a special place, in one of her diary entries a few months back. Her words were along the lines of “I’d escape to my breakdown bolthole if it didn’t make me think of Emma.” We wanted to ask if that meant anything to you?’
I try to unstick memories from the thick glue of shock. The places Janice took me for lunch in Edinburgh. The rock pools we explored on Alnmouth beach, the day I thought I was miscarrying. The train station later on, where I said goodbye to her. None of these feel like the sort of places she’d describe as special, less still would want to retreat to at her lowest ebb.