‘Until tonight I thought I tried to suffocate my baby,’ she says. ‘I didn’t trust myself to look after him, so I gave him away. Can you imagine giving Ruby away, when she was eight weeks old? Can you imagine the pain?’
‘No.’
And I can’t. I can’t even come close.
She takes a long breath. ‘Leo, you turned my life around. I don’t know if you’ll ever be able to understand why I kept it to myself, let alone forgive me, but – listen to me.’
She gets off the sofa and kneels down in front of me. ‘It’s real, Leo. Every single bit of you and me has been real.’
I look at her for a long time.
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ She touches my cheek. ‘Nobody can pretend to love. Not for long.’
For a moment I allow myself to turn my face into her hand. Memories slide in and out. The day we both had food poisoning; the first time we met John Keats. Falling asleep on the Northern Line, arguments in taxis; burning endless dinners, kissing on the sofa, the ‘hiking holiday’ we spent in a pub.
These have been good years.
Slowly, I remove her hand from my cheek. I am confused, I’m exhausted.
‘Your dad,’ I say, eventually. ‘Why did you need to lie about him?’
Tears fill Emma’s eyes. Emily’s.
‘Oh, Leo,’ she whispers. She presses a sleeve into her face. ‘I just had to . . . I had to leave his death in my old life. I know that’s impossible for you to understand, but I just couldn’t bring myself to tell you Dad died of something I could have stopped. I’d already caused my mother’s death, I just . . . couldn’t go there.’
A tear slips down her cheek. John rearranges himself, grumbling again, opening up a space for Emma to sit on the sofa.
‘But, Emma,’ I say. ‘Emma. Jeremy told me your dad died of alcoholism. How could you have stopped that?’
She just shakes her head. Another tear slides slowly down.
‘I told you he died in Kinshasa, but he never made it. They sent another padre in his place – he’d been off work for months by then. He had a heart attack in the front room and died in the ambulance. His system was full of alcohol. I doubt he had any idea it was even happening.’
My heart is breaking.
‘Emma . . .’ I take her hand, because how could I not? ‘Alcoholics die because nobody can stop them. It’s the same with women and childbirth. Neither of those things are your fault. You couldn’t have prevented them, no matter what you did.’
Tears seep from her eyes, until the first bird of the day starts singing outside.
‘I know you’ll need time to take this in,’ she says, when she’s regained composure. ‘To figure out what you want.’
I nod, but the truth is that I have no idea what I need.
‘I can sleep in the shed while you’re doing that. It’s me who’s done this to us; you shouldn’t have to sleep out here.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, quickly. It’s easier to play make-believe in a shed.
‘Sure?’
I’m sure.
‘Then take as much time as you need,’ she says. ‘But know that I love you. I always have.’
It feels like hours pass before she speaks again. Possibly, we both even drift off; the three of us on the sofa, as if nothing has happened. When I hear her voice it seems to come from far away.
‘There’s something else I need to tell you,’ she’s saying. ‘Not about me,’ she adds. ‘It’s about Janice. I think I’ve worked out where she is.’