Tom and I have talked too, at last. A proper, honest conversation about our relationship, speaking our own truths. He’s told me how worried he’s been, how desperate he was when he went upstairs to my workroom in the attic one day a few weeks ago and saw all the things I’d been buying. The new toys and books on the bedroom shelves, the bottles of baby shampoo and lotion in the bathroom next door – everything arranged carefully in the rooms under the eaves that had become my retreat. And the sight of the baby sling hanging on the back of the chair shocked him most of all, as he realised I’d been wearing it, concealed beneath my shawl, when I went out on my solitary walks to the park and the library and the Habous. It horrified him, realising just how lost I was as I’d retreated further and further into my imaginary world.
He’s been seeing a counsellor on his own, since I refused to go with him – Kate gave him the name of one when she met up with him in the park, someone whose details she’d obtained via one of her students at the language school. Tom didn’t know what to do and he had no one he felt he could turn to either. So he contacted Kate to ask for help, knowing she was the closest thing I had to a friend in Casablanca, needing to find out whether I’d confided in her at all and whether she had any idea of my true state of mind.
He says the counsellor has helped him, and he’s been able to admit his drinking has become a problem. He hasn’t touched a drop in the past few weeks. I’ve agreed to accompany him now for some joint sessions. Though I doubt anyone, no matter how professional they may be, could help me as much as the dreamseller has done.
Tom’s managed to tell me how lonely it’s been for him too, how his own feelings of guilt and grief and anger stopped him in his tracks emotionally. He’d been immersing himself in his work, arriving early and working late, because the office was the one place where he’d been able to feel in control, then numbing himself with drink when the work stopped. Being unable to reach me, living like strangers under the same roof, only contributed to his sense of failure and hopelessness.
He still goes running in the mornings. But these days he sends me his photos of the sunrise, sharing his hope with me. And I treasure each one, knowing that I’m still a part of his day and that he wants to try to make this work as much as I do. We still have a long way to go. But at least we are walking that path side by side again, helping one another along, sharing the sunrises.
I’ve been able to admit the truth to myself fully, at last. With Josie’s help – and knowing that she was the one person who might be able to understand, after reading her journal – I’ve been able to find that strength.
Losing Grace was the worst blow imaginable. We are not built to outlive our children. But in order to unstick myself from the past, in order not to allow the trauma to dictate the rest of my life, I have to let her go now.
Josie and I have even been able to laugh about our shared resemblance to the First Mrs Rochester and have agreed it’s time the latest mad woman in the attic of the house in the Boulevard des Oiseaux moved on – although Nina tutted disapprovingly and said we shouldn’t be using that disrespectful term to describe people’s struggles with mental illness.
‘We can when they’re our own,’ retorted Josie. ‘We’ve earned the right!’
I’ve packed up the toys and books, the baby equipment and the moon-and-stars mobile, and asked Kate to help me take them to the refugee centre. I’m glad they’ll be put to good use. When she came to collect them, she didn’t ask any questions about why I had all these things and why I was giving them away. She already knew. So she just gave me a big hug and then loaded them into the boot of her car. She’s asked me if, as well as my volunteering at the centre, I might be prepared to help out sometimes at a mother-and-baby group for women who are struggling with postnatal depression. She’s been helping May McConnaghy and her committee raise funds for them too. I’m still thinking about it. But I know I’ll probably say yes.
I’ve kept the musical box. And the quilt, of course. As a finishing touch, I embroidered Grace’s name along the top border in silver thread, along with a crescent moon and a single star. Tom’s making a frame for it so that I can hang it on the wall. I think I’ll put it in our bedroom so that Grace will always be there, wherever our dreams take us, watching over us as we once watched over her.
In time, once the wounds we’ve inflicted on ourselves and our marriage have had a chance to heal, perhaps we’ll have another baby. I’d like to be able to tell him or her about the sister who was lost far too soon. I think that would be another good way of keeping Grace with us.