Chapter Forty
Forty
A small bunch of carnations has been placed on top of the blue chair right across the circle from me.
Wrapped in clear plastic, so I can only assume Fiona stopped at her local petrol station in a last-ditch attempt at compassion.
I suppose it’s the thought that counts, but if my entire life was reduced to a bunch of half-dead flowers that still had the price tag attached, I wouldn’t be best pleased.
“I know losing Matt might give rise to some complicated emotions in all of you,” Fiona is saying, and, while she is doing her best to sound sincere, there is a definite note of glee to her tone.
For a bereavement group leader, presumably a death among your attendees is like Christmas come early.
“He was a big part of this group, and I know that he appreciated the support you gave to him. Each and every one of you. Hopefully, he can find some peace now.”
A ridiculous statement. Matt went to the grave furious, and—if such a thing as the afterlife does exist—I have no doubt he is currently in the process of killing his brother all over again.
The rest of the group are still in silent shock. I don’t know why. It’s not like we didn’t expect it, and I liked Matt, but you’d think we’d be better equipped to deal with news like this.
I shift my weight and feel Freddie’s photo crinkle in my pocket.
I’d have liked to have spent longer choosing the perfect one—considered, in fine detail, how best to present him to the rest of the group—but Jack was hovering around, and the last time he caught me looking at photos of Freddie, retribution had been swift.
I had to pick one at random, slamming the laptop closed with my heart hammering when I heard Jack’s footsteps in the corridor.
The one I’ve chosen is fine but doesn’t show him at his very best. Gregarious, funny, charming. It’s a pretty bog-standard image of a middle-class white male drinking a pint, but I’m just pleased I was able to get one printed at all.
Jack seems to have sensed a shift in me since his mother came over, like the urge that is building in my chest—that drive to find out everything I can about him—is a living, pulsating thing in the room between us.
He’s clung ever closer as a result. I never mentioned that I suspect he took my key.
So far as he knows, I’m still confined to the house when he leaves each morning.
I slipped out yesterday to get this photo printed and drew the fresh air into my lungs with a renewed sense of vigor.
I’m getting closer to the truth, I can sense it.
When I do discover what he’s been hiding, Jack and I will finally have an open, honest relationship.
Essential for any healthy union, according to Google.
There are things I will never be able to tell him, of course.
Things about Freddie, Marcie. But if one half of us lays all their cards on the table, then perhaps it negates the need for the other to do the same.
He’ll be furious when he discovers me gone, and while I don’t like to make him angry, it seems he’s always hovering on the brink these days. Perhaps all those lies are catching up with him.
We spend some time reminiscing about Matt before it becomes painfully clear that we knew very little about his personal life.
That’s the problem with these things—we tend to define someone by their loss, and everything else falls to the wayside.
Once that’s gone, you realize you never really knew them at all.
After an awkward pause, Fiona clears her throat.
“Right. Shall we push on, then?”
There is a general murmur of assent, at the same time as the swinging door behind me bangs open.
It’s such an aggressive noise amid the solemn silence that I twist in my seat with a thrill of horror.
Because there is only one person who would be angry enough to open the door with such force. And there he is.
Jack strides right through the center of the circle, hands clenched into fists.
He moves Matt’s flowers with so little ceremony, I hear Fiona tut.
Then he sits heavily and stares at me with such intensity that I look at my feet.
I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to figure out where I might be disappearing to each Tuesday.
Probably should’ve seen this one coming.
But Jack is impossible to read, and I was sure he believed me last time I said I was just walking to clear my head.
Perhaps—the thought strikes me uneasily—I’m not as convincing as I believed. Maybe he’s suspected all along.
“Jack!” Fiona says. “We didn’t think you’d be joining us anymore.”
“I’m so sorry for my absence,” he says with such candor I almost believe him. “I’ve found recent weeks difficult, but I’m back now.”
“Well, we’re glad to see you.”
This is an understatement. Rita’s hand has flown to her hair.
She stopped with the excessive makeup after Jack’s absence continued, and now her face is filled with regret.
Even Hannah has sat up straighter in her seat.
Only Charlie hasn’t reacted. He’s still staring, unseeing, at the center of the circle.
“Right.” Fiona’s face is an unsightly pink color. “Well, Jack, I’m afraid the format is a little different this week. We’ve all brought photos of those we’ve lost. We’re going to share them with the rest of the group.”
Jack’s eyes flick to mine. Shit. He’s going to know that I didn’t delete all of Freddie’s photos.
“That’s fine,” he says, and he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.
For all my planning, for all my desperation to get into that chest, I realize now that he’s been keeping a digital record of Alice’s life that I could have accessed at any time.
Rookie mistake—I’ve been making a lot of those lately.
It’s easy to break into a phone, if only you know how.
I’ve been sharing a bed with this man who is passed out drunk most nights.
It would have been easy to swipe it from his bedside table.
He’s scrolling through it now, and despite my discomfort at his sudden appearance, I experience a swell of excitement, too. Finally, I am going to see the woman I have been basing myself on. I will see how she compares to me, what I could do differently with my hair and my posture.
I pull Freddie from my own pocket. If I’d known that Jack was going to be here, I would’ve found time to pick the very best picture I could. Because Freddie is a reflection of me, even in death.
“Could everyone pass their photographs to the left, please?” Fiona jigs her leg with nervous excitement.
Jack hands his phone over to Hannah, and I swallow. I would like to go and snatch it from her hands, but I must practice patience, keep my face neutral. It would be unseemly to be too keen. Morbid, even.
Rita hands me her photograph and I give a cursory glance toward her father.
He looks much as you’d expect from a man who celebrated his retirement with a private cruise around the Caribbean.
Bullish in stature, with the pinched, wily features of a rodent.
He stares defiantly at the camera, wine-stained teeth bared in a smile.
I can barely compute that this is the man deserving of those long, tedious Facebook posts.
What is it about fathers being so unbelievably disappointing?
Freddie’s not getting the reaction I hoped for.
I wanted glances in my direction—faces filled with sympathy as they took in this man who was taken from me too soon.
But—after superficial glances—he is passed unceremoniously to the left again.
I knew I should have taken longer over my selection.
It’s Jack’s fault he’s not getting the attention he deserves.
If only I’d been allowed to ponder my choice, pick one that truly reflected Freddie and everything he stood for…
It doesn’t help that Alice, by comparison, seems to draw sharp intakes of breath from whomever she is passed to. Even Fiona—hardened harridan that she is—puts a hand to her mouth. When she looks up, I’m sure I see tears in her eyes.
It’s not fair on Freddie. It’s not fair on any of the other people who are being handed round the circle, and I can’t fathom what is drawing such sadness from all of them.
I’m so distracted by the progress of Alice round the circle, I can barely bring myself to look at Hannah’s mother: a kind-, if fragile-looking woman. I wonder what picture I’d use of Mum. What people would assume about her.
And then, finally, it’s time. Rita hands me Jack’s phone, and the moment I catch sight of the image there, I very nearly drop it.
I don’t want to look, but at the same time I can’t look away.
That direct gaze, leveled at the camera, so different from how I initially imagined her.
This is not the meek woman I’d pictured.
This is someone very different altogether.
Staggeringly beautiful, an ethereal, unpinpointable essence that rocks me to my very core.
And even when I close my eyes, I can still see her, like an echo that will not stop reverberating.
She stares right into the lens, right into me, and there is something accusatory about her gaze.
Like she knows exactly who I am. Exactly what I have done.
The nausea comes on quickly. I’m suddenly clammy with it, the phone slippery in my hand.
I know I need to keep it together, but she is lodged firmly in my head now, and I can’t focus.
All I can see is her. I don’t even care that Jack is still staring at me, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
I need to get out. I need the fresh air.
I’m brought back to myself by a buzzing in my pocket, and I pull out my phone like it is a beacon in the darkness.
Another unknown number, but at this point I don’t care.
It gives me the excuse I need to exit this hot, airless room, where it feels like I can’t breathe.
So I can no longer see those haunting blue eyes.
I push Jack’s phone into Charlie’s hand and stumble to my feet, glancing across the circle at Jack.
Freddie has reached him now. He is looking down at the photograph with pure, unadulterated hatred stamped across his features, but I can’t worry about that now.
I stagger to the door and wrench it open, aware that I have drawn every eye in the room, and, for the first time, I wish they wouldn’t look at me.
In the corridor, I lift the phone to my ear, still shaking.
“H-hello?”
“Is that Iris Jones?” A man’s voice. I don’t recognize it.
“Yes.”
“Hello. My name is Brian. I’m calling from the coroner’s office. Is there somewhere quiet you can talk?”
“Yes. I can speak now.”
“Are you by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Is there someone you can ask to be with you?”
Not Jack. Not after I caught that expression on his face. “No.”
“OK.” An uncomfortable pause. “Well, I’m calling about your mother, Sarah Jones?”
My heartbeat suddenly feels very faint. “I’m sorry to have to give you this news over the phone. Your mother was found dead earlier this afternoon. We’re yet to do a postmortem, but it looks as though she’s been dead for quite some time.”
Dimly, I’m aware that I have slumped against the wall, gasping for oxygen that doesn’t seem to be there.
“How?” I whisper.
“I can’t say with any certainty, but it looks as though she might have fallen down the stairs.”
I try to focus on his voice, but I zone in and out and the questions pound every inch of me.
When? How long after I left? Was she alone?
Did she think of me at all? Was she there when I rang the bell the other day?
I disliked her, hated her, even, by the end, but I didn’t want this.
Brian’s voice seems like it’s coming from a long way away.
He is saying something else about the timing of the postmortem and asking if I would like to come and see the body, and, vaguely, I hear myself saying no.
I can’t think of anything worse than seeing the body of the woman who never loved me like she loved her other daughter. I’ve outlived both of them now.
“Who found her?” I whisper.
“It was a…” The sound of rustling paper. “Richard Jones. Her ex-husband, I believe.” After all this time, he went to see her.
“Well, if there’s nothing else you need to ask…” Brian trails off. When I don’t speak, he mumbles a sorry and says goodbye, and the line goes dead.
And all I can think is that Mum went to her grave and she never knew the truth. She never found out what happened to Marcie. I wonder if I should have told her.