CHAPTER 25
Ella
It’s cruel to blame your friend’s boyfriend; unnecessary, some would say.
But I would argue that those people don’t know Benji, not the way I do.
I’ve seen the way he treats Immi, the look in his eyes when he drinks too much at a party.
And, on that one occasion, I’ve felt the sting of his anger when it was directed at me.
But the feeling after Immi walks out drags me down. It has to be Benji.
Or Colin.
Or someone who knew Henry.
My head aches. Jude is insistent we go out, get some fresh air, but I can’t face much of anything so we find ourselves at her house, the conservatory doors pulled open so the cold air chills us as we tuck in on her sofa.
Jude doesn’t press me further about Henry or Benji.
She knows what happened with Benji years ago.
Instead, she opens a bottle of wine, pouring a hefty glass.
For a brief moment, we aren’t two people hunting down a stalker.
We’re Jude and Ella again, as it has always been.
We sit, the sky turning from soft amber to pink, to a dark, alluring blue.
The stars are out, and from where we sit, wrapped in a thick fur blanket, we can watch the clear sky.
“Do you really think it’s Benji?” Jude says after some time.
I work my fingers into the blanket. “No. Perhaps.”
Jude knocks her shoulder against mine. “We need evidence.”
And she’s right. But it feels akin to chasing an ever-moving goal. Nothing is clear in this game. If this were a podcast, the next and final clue would be around the corner, but we have nothing but pointing fingers at innocent people.
Somewhat innocent.
“I’m just tired of running around in circles of my own life.” My voice is needy. “I should go home.”
My head is fuzzy from the wine and the lack of food, and every time I lick my lips I can taste it.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Jude tilts her head back on the sofa, her braids flowing over her shoulders.
When I was younger, I wished for a sister so much that I wrote my mum a letter to convince her.
I asked that she be older than me but not older than Nate.
I wanted her to be smart and funny and to know how to French braid my curls.
“I can’t. Rufus will worry.” I close my eyes, but I can feel her watching. Rufus’s worry is what others would call anger. Jude has noticed that about him, too. What have I done to find myself surrounded by these people? My fingers tug at the blanket. Not everyone, though.
“Are you OK? We’ve not… I miss you.” And I mean it. Jude may be all I’ve got left.
“I am just worried about you,” Jude says.
“No.” I turn to her. “No more me. How are you? I miss you.”
Jude smiles at me. “I miss you too.”
There’s something in her eyes, a sadness that I noticed on the way down to Dorset. I can sense what it means but it’s never my role to assume.
“You can talk, if you want,” I say.
“We’ve stopped trying.”
“Oh–” But my response is cut short. Jude speaks again, louder, as though she needs to get the words out.
“For a baby. Marcus and I have stopped,” Jude says, and then the world falls silent. I don’t know what to say so I leave space for her as the aching grows in my chest.
“It’s all too hard to keep going, over and over again. It’s all I can see,” she continues finally, turning to look out at the sky with the same expression that I kept catching before.
“Oh Jude.” I reach for her hand. “Are you… are you sure?” They aren’t the right words, I know that. But I can’t find the ones I need.
“I can’t do it anymore. Marcus wants IVF. But I’m exhausted. I don’t know if I can handle it.” Her voice thins. A tear falls down her cheek.
“I’m so sorry.” I squeeze her hand. I had noticed some small changes, but stopping is a big step.
We sit in silence for a moment, and when I’ve finished searching through all the words that don’t sound right, I pull her in to me.
She sobs in my arms, quiet and steady while I stroke her head, wishing I could give her back the strength she once gave me.
When we met, there was such energy to Jude.
It was infectious. Dad had shipped me off with a sum of money and a promise to make something of myself.
University had drained me, and all I wanted was to fall into the comfortable routine of drinking and partying again.
But I promised Dad that I wouldn’t. When we met at that bar, Jude and I, I knew it was kismet.
She and Marcus let me stay, helped me find a flat and slowly built a community around me.
The two of them, despite not being much older than me, were always the solid amongst my messy.
They had wanted to start a family from the moment I met them but it never seemed to happen.
Jude shared snippets of what was going on, but that was the only space in her life where I wasn’t fully allowed.
It was too personal, perhaps, or it wasn’t as easy to communicate as everything else.
“I love you,” I whisper into the quiet. And then I tell her it all.
About how I see her, how she saved me, that she is my family and what she means to us all.
About the bravery she wears as though it’s nothing, about how I have no doubt that she can do it, no matter how hard it will be.
And if she does, she won’t do it alone. But if she can’t, that’s OK too.
We hold hands, and I speak about every possible part of her that makes her perfect, until her breath falls into a steady rhythm.
When the candles have burnt low and she’s fallen into a heavy sleep, I pull my arm away, sliding my body so that her head falls into the sofa. I tuck her in, closing the patio doors and extinguishing the candles.
“She’s fallen asleep,” I say to Marcus when I find him in the kitchen, an apron tied around his waist and a tea towel slung over his shoulder.
“God, is she that drunk?” There’s a laughter in his voice that I hate to put out.
“She told me about what happened. With trying to conceive.” It’s not my story to tell, or my place to put pity onto it, but I have to say it anyway. “I’m sorry.”
Marcus’s light falls away, only for a moment.
“Oh,” he says.
Then after a moment he continues, his light back: “Thank you. Are you sure I can’t tempt you to stay?” He nods at the food.
“I should head home, but thank you.” I pull him into a hug, his woody aftershave filling my lungs. “If you or Jude need anything, then let me know. Give her a kiss from me,” I say, and leave without much fanfare.
Perhaps this fight isn’t worth it. If they knew the truth, maybe Jude and Marcus would stay in my life.
The walk home is silent. The wind thrashes amongst the trees, so they curve and bend unnaturally. Under each streetlight, I find myself glancing over my shoulder, my heart jumping with the idea that Henry will be there. He never is.
When my house comes into view, I pull out my phone, the foreign ringer sounding off kilter in my ear. I lean against the lamppost, letting the cobwebs tangle into my hair, and wait. Something about tonight tugs at me. And I’m desperate to hear my dad’s voice.
“Millow View House Residential Hospital, Olivier speaking. How may we help?” Answered in less than three rings, his voice is efficient and warm, thick with a Swedish accent. The fact that he answered in English shocks me.
“Hello, yes. Could I be connected with Ray Olumende?” My voice catches.
“Ah, Ms Olumende? How are you? It has certainly been a while.” Olivier speaks with that jarring tone of someone who knows you when they don’t. “He’s just finished dinner, let me ping him to you.”
“Is he… has he been OK?” I catch him before he goes. The question is probably one that the staff at Millow View Residential Hospital have heard a million times before.
“He has his better days, of course. Today is a good one, he’ll be glad to hear from you,” Olivier replies, and then the telltale click leaves the line dead.
The street hums with that overwhelming, comfortable silence of nighttime, until Dad’s voice fills my ear.
“Hello?”
“Hey Dad, it’s me. Elsie.”
They say that reminding a dementia sufferer of who you are helps. But over time, it only acts as an indicator of how little memory they have left. I hold my lips together, hoping he’ll remember me, bracing myself for if he doesn’t.
“Sweetheart, how good of you to call. We’ve just had dinner.” His voice is bright but thin.
“What did you have?” I say, my fingers working at the edge of my coat.
“Something tasty.” He pauses for a moment, and I catch the confusion ebbing over his words. “You know what the food is like here, your mum never seasons enough.”
Something catches in my chest. I can never be sure where in our history Dad is.
“I know,” I breathe into the phone.
“How are things? What are you and Nate doing these days?”
Air sucks in through my lips, so fast and sharp that it punches the back of my throat. Days like these happen often, I’ve read. The dementia propels him through time, landing him in a mix of places that never existed. I wonder if he knows who I really am. Either way, I play along.
“We’re fine. Everything is fine. You know Nate,” I say, a tear rolling down my cheek.
Dad chuckles, flimsy and thick with phlegm.
“How’s the weather–” My words are light, conversational to match Dad’s tone, but his change.
“Why are you bringing up Nate?” he snaps, his volume rising as he speaks.
“Sorry Dad–”
“Where is he, El? Where has Nate gone?” The anger melts away to a desperation I have seen in him thousands of times before.
“I–I don’t know. Hey, Dad, it’s OK.” I straighten myself up, taking a step forward with nowhere to go.
“You mentioned his name. Have you found him? Why would you do that?” Dad’s voice hitches at the end, his emotion thick.
“No, Dad, hey. It’s me, we were just talking about the weather over with you in Sweden. Have you seen snow yet?” I try to ground him in something real but I can feel him moving away from me.
Dad says nothing so I tumble on, the words falling over each other to drag him back.
“Remember. I visited once and there was snow, when I got the new job. It was so lovely. Have you had any more of it? If you look out of the window, you can tell me.” My words are thick with tears. This was a mistake. All of this was a mistake.
“Are you happy, Elsie?” Dad’s voice catches me off guard. It’s sharp and lucid in a way I haven’t heard in a long time.
“Dad.” My words come out as a sigh.
“He’s gone, Elsie. Your mum might not realise that, but I do. Nate has gone, and you can either spend the rest of your life dragging what happened behind you, or you can live your life.”
I nod. The words are unable to come forward. I can’t tell where in time Dad is, but it’s everything I needed to hear.
He continues: “You’re a bright, young woman. You deserve everything. To get married, to have children, to travel the world with your kids and watch their little eyes devour all the joys they see.”
“I know,” I breathe, wiping the tears with the back of my free hand. “I’m getting married.” The words are out before I have a chance to correct myself, but the pride swells when I hear him gasp.
“Elsie! Petal! That’s amazing. Who is the lucky man? You’re young, I won’t deny that, but my God that’s exciting.” He’s shouting now, his volume bouncing erratically.
A sob swells, desperate to have Dad back with me. There’s suddenly a muffled voice from the end of the phone. A nurse, I assume.
“His name is Rufus,” I say, because I need Dad to know that I am happy.
“What’s that, Elsiebelle? I can’t hear you. Not now, Rita, I am busy with my daughter,” Dad says, and there’s a dangerous sharpness to his words.
“Dad, I’ll let you go. I have to head anyway and it’s getting late.”
The tears bite at the edge of my words. There’s a muffled conversation that I only catch the edges of before Dad returns.
“Petal, I have to go. I think something is wrong with Mum. Rita is here, you remember Rita from next door?” I agree, despite Rita never living in the same country as me.
“Of course.”
“But remember what I said.” Dad’s voice is gentle now, taking me back so that I see him perched at the end of my bed, talking to me as sunset fell across the room. “Don’t overthink it. If you’re happy, that’s all that matters. And send me that wedding invitation soon.”
He clicks off too fast, his words almost cut off near the end.
“I will,” I say to the air. I promised never to tell him I was getting married, not until I could get over to see him.
A difficult task when I don’t have a passport, let alone a matching name.
That’s why I need to marry Rufus. If I’m married, then I am safe.
It gives Dad something real to hold onto.
Something other than the past.