If You Only Knew Page 13

  How could my younger self have made such a stupid mistake? Even back then, when I stood next to Ellen at the hospital, I knew that I was risking getting caught. But I needed to take one last look at the baby. A crazy, deep down part of me wanted to say goodbye.

  Shaking my head, I try to rid myself of these thoughts as I throw the debris in the bin, I straighten my suit, then pick up my bag and briefcase and follow Miles outside.

  “I’m so late,” he says.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” he shouts, banging his fist on the top of his car.

  “What happened?”

  “A fuckin’ flat tyre,” he groans.

  “Get in, I’ll drive you to the hospital.” A glance at the dashboard clock confirms that we’re running late. Despite my hatred of speeding, I press my foot down. As I’m about to switch lanes, I hear a horn blast in my ear and another car whizzes past. Gasping loudly, I quickly turn the steering wheel in the other direction, veering dangerously into the other lane.

  “Liz, what the hell?” Miles shouts.

  “It’s ok,” I respond in the most soothing voice I can muster.

  “What’s happening to you? You’re really jumpy this morning.”

  “Nothing,” I lie. “Just worried about Leah.”

  “You’ve been like this all weekend.” I can feel Miles’ eyes on me but I don’t turn to look at him. Instead I concentrate on breathing, allowing the air to fill my lungs and calm me down.

  “No I haven’t.” But I know it’s true. Despite my fears, my mind is running wild with imagining a future where Maya is so much more than my neighbour’s child.

  *

  “How did the doctor’s appointment go?” I ask Chloe as we ride in the lift. I found her standing in the lobby of my office building looking lost and slightly shifty, her hands twisting in that same baggy grey knit.

  “That’s what I came to speak to you about.”

  The lift seems to take forever to get to our floor, making several stops to let people in or out. Finally, Chloe is seated opposite my desk. She doesn’t look well, and I recognise the pallor in her face. “Are you nauseous again?”

  She nods, then reaches into her bag and takes out an almost empty packet of crackers and starts nibbling on one. Pouring her a glass of water, I wait for the colour to return to her face.

  “I went to the doctor yesterday,” she finally says. Nodding, I cock my head to one side, willing her to continue. “Well, I’m pregnant.”

  “Did the doctor say how far along?”

  “Three months. The doctor gave me this.” She hands me an envelope.

  It’s exactly what I was hoping to hear, the length of the pregnancy fitting with the rape timeline. Chewing on my lower lip, I force myself not to say anything that shows I’m pleased at the development. She is still sitting motionless, looking right at me, and I feel the weight of her expectation. “Ok, that wasn’t a complete surprise,” I finally say.

  “Yes, I was certain.” Then, her tone changes, becoming sharper. “Perhaps people will believe me now.”

  Pulling a chair close to her, I sit down and squeeze her arm. Right now she needs the parent figure she’s never had. “I know this pregnancy has come as a shock to you,” I tell her as gently as I can. “However, this will hopefully back up the rape allegations.”

  “What do you mean ‘hopefully’?” Her voice rises with every syllable.

  Taking a deep breath, I look for the best way to word my reply. “We need to do a paternity test to confirm that Ben is the baby’s father,” I explain.

  “So, you still don’t believe me!”

  “Chloe,” I start gently. “It doesn’t matter whether I believe you or not. What’s important is that the jury believes you. We cannot go to court and say that you’re pregnant with Ben’s baby without having unequivocal proof of this.”

  “Whatever.” She purses her lips and turns her head to stare out of the window.

  Returning to my desk, I open the envelope, finding a detailed report about Chloe’s examination. I’m still reading through it when she says, in a small voice: “I’m scared.”

  The confession takes me by surprise. She always seems so invincible, as if nothing gets to her, and her outside self is a stranger to what’s really going on. But as I know from my own experience, self-control is deceptive.

  “What are you scared of?” I ask as kindly as I can, remembering that she is barely more than a child.

  “Having a baby, looking after him by myself. Am I even able to do that? What if I’m a horrible mother? It’s not like I’ve had any role models.” The fiery sparkle that’s always in her eyes seems spent.

  “Why would you think that?”

  Standing up, I again walk towards her, leaning against the desk next to where she’s sitting. “It’s normal to be scared. Every woman worries about being a good mother. But you’ll do great.” I move closer to her, put my hand on her arm. “Did the doctor explain your options?”

  “Yes, he talked about termination for ages,” she answers.

  “And what do you think?” I’m transported back to the time when I was the one faced with a similar decision. Only, unlike Chloe, I had pushed the problem out of my mind until it was too late to act on it.

  She doesn’t respond and I realise I’m holding my breath for her answer. “I don’t know,” she finally says. “It just doesn’t seem right to me. And anyway, wouldn’t that be getting rid of the proof we need?”

  Our eyes meet and I feel a kinship with her. She is being pragmatic, seeing the full picture, refusing to allow emotions to cloud her judgement. Not many people I know are able to separate their feelings and look at how they can work a problem to their advantage. It fills me with hope that we can win this case.

  “Take some time to think about it.” I take a pause, trying to find the best way to verbalise what I need to say next. “But please talk to me before you take action so we can do whatever tests are necessary to establish Ben is the father. And keep this to yourself for now until we’ve agreed on the plan.”

  *

  Any compassion I felt for Chloe flew out of the window two days later.

  “It was only a photo. Why are you being so mean?” Her accusatory words shock me. I thought we were on track now, I thought we were finally working together, but she has gone way off course.

  Clenching my fists, I squeeze them in my lap. The heat rises to my face. “Mean? You don’t know what mean is. If you don’t listen to me and end up behind bars, you’ll soon experience what mean is.”

  “See,” she answers, her tone calm, seemingly unbothered by the prospect of ending up in prison. “That’s mean.”

  It takes me a few moments to regain my composure. “I specifically told you not to have any contact with Ben, to tell me if he tried to as much as look in your direction. I could not have been more clear.”

  “It was no big deal, just a photo.” Closing my eyes, I bite my lip, stopping myself from snapping at her.

  The day had started on a bad note. Jennifer called me this morning as I was heading into work. “George Winters wants to see you in his office urgently.” As I headed to his office I prayed he was finally persuaded to drop the charges.

  “Sit down,” George said as I was ushered into his cluttered office.

  “How are you, George?” I asked, taking a seat across from him.

  “Pissed off.”

  I said nothing while waiting for him to elaborate.

  George sized me up as though I’d truly disappointed him. “Why didn’t you tell me Chloe Wilson is pregnant?”

  A lump formed in my throat when I realised that my plan to keep Chloe’s pregnancy quiet for the time being was ruined. “I only just found out about it myself.”

  “When exactly did you find out?”

  “She had the pregnancy confirmed by a doctor two days ago and told me yesterday.”

  George didn’t respond but continued to look at me through narrowed eyes, as if he was trying to decide whethe
r to believe me or not.

  “May I ask how you found out?”

  Grunting, he opened one of the files in front of him, closed it again and handed it to me. “That’s a copy of the text message she sent Ben yesterday.”

  Reaching over, I took the file. Inside was a sole sheet of paper with what looked like a screen shot from a mobile phone. An ultrasound photo of what I could only assume was Chloe’s baby was plain to see under the words “Meet your child”.

  Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply, counting backwards from ten. I didn’t want George to sense my anger at Chloe’s irresponsible move. “I was planning to officially inform you of this.” The lie didn’t bother me as much as how Chloe’s revelation would impact my strategy. “Now that you know, what’s the next step?”

  “I need proof of this pregnancy,” he responded gruffly.

  “Fuck!” I exclaimed under my breath as soon as I walked out of the prosecutor’s office. But once behind my desk I forced myself to focus on the rest of my caseload, looking for a distraction from the morning’s frustrating turn of events.

  “Why did you send that photo to Ben?” I asked Chloe as soon as she walked into my office.

  She stared at me for a few moments before shrugging. “Oh. I wanted him to know what he did,” she finally said.

  “Why would you do that? I told you not to say anything. Can’t you listen to me for once? I’m only trying to help you here.”

  Her forehead knotted into a frown and I readied myself for her to strike back. Instead, she’d simply asked: “Why is it so wrong to tell him?”

  Burying my face in both hands, I shook my head in exasperation. “I was working on a plan to use this to our advantage.” I gesticulated towards her stomach. “I can’t believe you texted him. You’ve ruined my strategy.”

  “Why all the secrecy? The prosecution is going to find out eventually. Why is it such a big deal for them to know?”

  My nostrils flared as I glared at her through narrowed eyes. Despite my anger, I felt this overpowering instinct to protect her. I needed to be there for her. She couldn’t see the consequences like I could. She couldn’t be left all alone, like I was fifteen years ago.

  *

  The letterbox is full. A couple of thick magazines take up most of the space. A bunch of marketing materials. Coupons for the new pizza place. An advert for a new childcare centre. An estate agent offering his services in case we decide to sell the house.

  And among all the junk, a plain white envelope with my name and address written on it in black ink. I don’t need to open it to know what it is, who it is from. My hands trembling, I slip it into my bag, pushing it towards the bottom, underneath everything else.

  It is hours later, once the children are asleep and Miles is sprawled on the sofa reading, that I dare take it out of its hiding place. Holding the bag tightly against my side, I rush upstairs and go straight into the walk-in closet. Sitting down on the stool we use to put our shoes on, I rummage in my bag and fish it out. The envelope is crumpled from my hasty attempts at concealment. But still, there is no doubt what it is.

  Fiddling with the corners of the envelope, I consider not opening it. Throwing it in the bin. Tossing it out of my life. It will be like all the others.

  The first letter had arrived five years after John Larkin’s death. Miles and I had just moved to a new flat. We were so busy that we rarely bothered to check the letterbox. It was a new beginning and I was walking on air, like I hadn’t for years. Until one day the building superintendent stopped me while I was walking up the three flights of stairs and handed me an enormous pile of mail. “The postman said there’s no more space,” he said.

  Miles wasn’t home yet. Inside our tiny living room, I sat down and started sorting through the post. A couple of cards wishing us well. An invitation for a university get together. A discount voucher for my favourite clothing store. Then there was the crisp white envelope with my name written in a handwriting I didn’t recognise and no sender’s address.

  Tearing open the envelope, I’d taken out the plain sheet of paper.

  I FINALLY FOUND YOU,

  was written in block capitals.

  I KNOW WHAT YOU DID AND YOU’RE GOING TO PAY.

  Immediately I knew what this was about. It had to be him. Or her. Terry. He, or she, knew what I had done. And they had found me. I wasn’t safe. Neither was Miles. What else did they know about me? They must have been following me if they knew where I lived. I had not even changed my driving licence yet.

  The fear was so intense that for a moment I considered confiding in Miles. Finally telling him everything. Perhaps I should go to the police, report the threat. Tell them about that night and the phone call to someone called Terry.

  But instead I put the letter back in the envelope and folded it into square after smaller square. Standing on shaking legs, I had gone into the bedroom and dug in the back of the wardrobe for a hiding place. I found my wedding shoes box. Taking them out, I stared down at the newspaper clippings that I had saved and Ellen’s driving licence.

  Now closing my eyes tightly, I take a deep breath. Before I can change my mind, I tear the envelope open and take out the plain white sheet.

  YOUR TIME IS RUNNING OUT.

  Tears sting my eyes as the fear that someone, somewhere, knows my secret overwhelms me once again. But there is nothing I can do. I put it in the box with the others and push it out of sight.

  *

  The redness is blinding. It’s everywhere. I look around and everything is red. I strain my eyes to take a closer look. The red is not uniform. In some places it’s dark, more like crimson, in others it’s very light, pink. It looks like paint has been smeared everywhere. In thick brush strokes, each movement leaving its marks. I try to focus on different parts to get a better idea of what I’m looking at. But I can’t concentrate. It seems like everything is spinning. I’m falling into a sea of red. The liquid is warm, and bubbles around me. I reach out, my arms flailing around, trying to grab at something that will stop me from falling. The liquid is so thick it feels like it’s enveloping me, sucking me in. I hear a laugh. I look towards where the sound came from, but now it’s coming from the other side. I turn my neck. I want to scream but no sound comes out. I hear the laugh again. And again. And again. It’s surrounding me.

  And then I see a pair of green eyes looking at me. Filled with sneering and hate. I can feel them drilling right into my soul, letting me know that I will never be free from the torment that I’m experiencing right now. That anywhere I go he will find me. And he will make me pay. He laughs again and I scream.

  “Lizzy,” I hear the voice in the distance. Hands on my shoulders. I scream again, louder, in desperation, wanting to shake them off, not wanting him to touch me. But I can’t move, can’t run out of his reach and I’m starting to panic. “Lizzy, wake up!”

  Miles is hovering above me when I jolt awake. In the dim light coming from the open window I can see the look of concern on my husband’s face. He is staring at me, stroking my face. “You’re ok,” he says gently, taking me into his arms and hugging me tightly. “You just had a bad dream.”

  Craving safety, I surrender to his embrace. But I’m still rattled. Beads of sweat cling to my chest and I’m trembling in fear, the stress of the previous day reaching a crescendo with the dream, leaving me exhausted from the paralysing fear I feel.

  “Mummy?” Snapping out of my thoughts, I turn around and look at the small form in the doorway. It’s Julian. He must have heard my screams. Waves of guilt wash over me for having scared my son.

  “Come here, baby.” I reach out for him. He clambers into the bed next to me, looking at me with inquiring eyes. “Mummy had a bad dream. But I’m ok now that you’re here.” Hugging him closely, I savour his warm body against mine.

  Miles returns with a glass of water. I hadn’t even seen him leave the room. “She’s asleep,” he answers my unsaid question. Taking the tumbler from his hands, I mouth my gratitude and take
a gulp of water. I realise I’m parched and drain the glass.

  Julian has fallen asleep next to me. He’s snuggled close to my body and I don’t have the heart to wake him up and take him back to his room. Looking at Miles, I attempt a shrug. He smiles, and gets into bed, on the other side of Julian. “Are you ok?” he whispers.

  I nod. But I’m not. I’m rattled. The dream always terrifies me, reminds me of my weakness, of all I’ve concealed and how the longer I bury it the darker the hole I’ve dug for myself gets. I know I won’t be able to go back to sleep, but don’t want to get up in case I disturb Julian.

  “You’re safe, I’ll make sure of that.” Miles clasps my hand across Julian’s chest.

  “I know,” I respond softly. “I just hate the darkness.”

  For hours I lie in bed, rubbing the scar on my hand, staring up at the ceiling, wishing the time to pass. For the sun to rise and for the darkness to be replaced by light. More than sixteen years have passed, and there’s not one day that goes by when I don’t remember that night. It’s etched in my memory like carvings on prehistoric walls that have endured centuries. And I know that it doesn’t matter how much time goes by, how many changes I make to my life, I will never forget that horrible night.

  Neither do I want to. Every decision I’ve taken in the past decade and a half has been carefully weighed to ensure that what happened back then can remain my secret. It is, I know, the only way I can continue living the life I have built for myself, continue being seen as a loving mother, daughter and wife, and as a professional in the law.

  The moment the darkness outside starts to dissolve, I get out of bed, careful not to disturb Miles and Julian, knowing that the odd weekend off is the only time my husband can sleep in. Wrapping a robe around me, I glance at the two of them, marvelling at the way they sleep in the exact same pose, their right arm curved above their heads, their legs spread wide. I tiptoe downstairs. I fire up the coffee machine and make myself a large cup of coffee.