The Accident. C.L. Taylor
under the shoe rack. If I can’t see it then maybe I won’t think about it. Maybe I’ll be able to ignore the fact that, twenty years after I left him, James has finally tracked me down.
I try as best I can to forget about the postcard but it’s like trying to forget how to breathe. Whenever my mind pauses, whenever it’s free of thoughts about Charlotte, Brian and what to cook for dinner, it returns to the porch, peers under the shoe rack and pulls out the postcard. No matter where I am in the house it haunts me from its dark, dusty corner. I want to visit Charlotte but I’m too scared to leave the house. What if James is waiting for me? If he’s been watching the house he’ll know I’m home alone but all the doors and windows are locked – I’ve checked three times – and there’s no way for him to get in. I’ve got my mobile phone in my hands, primed and ready to key in 999 if I hear the slightest noise.
There won’t be time to call for help if I leave the house and James attacks me. If he’s hiding in the bushes opposite the front door he could get me as I get into the car or, if he’s in a car down the lane, he could follow me to the hospital and attack Charlotte. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I last saw her and I’m already consumed by fear and guilt because I haven’t seen her today. What if, deep in her subconscious, she knows I haven’t been to visit, and it makes her retreat deeper into her coma? What if she wakes up and I’m not there? What if she dies?
For the next couple of hours I don’t know what to do with myself. I jump when the phone rings and start when the wind rattles the letter box. When there’s a knock on the front door I run up to Brian’s study and peer down from behind the curtain, only to discover the electricity man pushing a card through our letter box. What am I doing? I’m allowing the memory of James to terrify me, to stop me from visiting my own daughter. I am not ‘Suzy-Sue’ – I haven’t been her for a very long time.
I return downstairs and fish the postcard out from its dusty hiding place with the fire tongs and burn it in the fireplace in the living room. I sit on the sofa, watching as the flames lick at the corners, dance across James Stewart’s lolloping smile and then envelop him. When he and his strange rabbit sidekick have turned to dust I sweep them up.
As I pour the ashes of the postcard into the kitchen bin a new thought occurs to me. What if the postcard was meant for Oli from one of his uni friends? What if they were too stoned to notice they hadn’t put his name or a message on it and I just burnt it! What if he asks where it is? How do I explain what I just did without sounding certifiable? My hands shake as I reach for my car keys and I steady myself on the kitchen table. I drop my head to my chest and inhale slowly – one, two, three – then out again. I do it again – one, two, three – then out again. I need to be calm. I need to think clearly, otherwise I’ll have another episode. This is how they start, this is how I go from normal, sane, rational Sue to neurotic, paranoid ‘I’d better lock Charlotte in her room for the weekend because Brian is away at a party conference and BBC news has reported a child abduction in the next town’ Sue. One, two, three. One, two, three. Slowly my breathing returns to normal.
I feel calmer and happy when I return from the hospital. The knots in my shoulders disappeared the second I stepped into Charlotte’s room and saw that she was still safe, warm and being cared for. There was no change in her condition and the nurses reassured me that she hadn’t had any visitors since Brian and I were with her yesterday. There is no reason to think James has found me. The blank postcard is just that. An innocuous blank postcard, sent to us in error or mistakenly delivered by the postman. I’ve barely slept since Charlotte’s accident. I can’t sleep at night for trying to work out why she did what she did. It’s no wonder my mind goes into overdrive sometimes.
For the second time today I attach a lead to Milly’s collar and lead her out of the house. She smiles up at me, delighted to be out in the fresh air again. We only tend to walk her early in the morning and late at night so an afternoon sojourn in the spring sunshine is an unexpected treat.
Judy, Ella’s mum, opens the door with a scowl.
‘Sue?’
I force a smile. ‘Hello Judy. How are you?’
‘Fine.’
I wait for her to ask what I want. Instead I am subjected to a long slow eye sweep that starts at the top of my head with my grey roots, pauses at the wrinkles and dark circles that line my unmade-up eyes, flits over my best M&S coat and settles, unimpressed, on my comfy brown Clarks slip-ons. Judy and I were good friends until we fell out when she took both girls to get their ears pierced for Ella’s thirteenth birthday without checking with me first. In retrospect I may have overreacted but we both said some pretty ugly things and the time for mending fences is long past.
‘Great,’ I say as brightly as I can manage when really I want to bop her on her sneering Chanel-smeared nose. ‘I don’t suppose Ella’s in, is she?’
‘Ella?’ She looks surprised.
‘Yes. I’d like to talk to her about Charlotte. If that’s okay with you.’
Judy’s eyes narrow and then, just for a split second, a look akin to compassion crosses her face. I imagine she’s heard about the accident.
‘Okay,’ she says after a pause. ‘But keep it brief because she’s supposed to be studying for her GCSEs.’
When I nod my assent she turns back towards the hallway, pulling the front door towards her so it’s only open a couple of inches and then shouts for her daughter. There’s a muffled cry in reply and then the door slams shut in my face. A minute or so later it opens again. Ella peers out at me.
‘Hi.’ She looks at me suspiciously, just like her mother did.
‘Hi Ella.’ My face is aching from smiling so widely. ‘I was wondering if we could have a chat. About Charlotte.’
Her expression changes lightning fast – from suspicion to anger – and she crosses one skinny-jeaned leg over the other. ‘Why would I want to do that?’
First Liam, now Ella. I only have to mention my daughter’s name for a black cloud to descend. It doesn’t make sense. When her class made their yearbook at the start of their GCSE year and predicted where everyone would be in five years’ time Charlotte was voted ‘girl everyone would stay in touch with’ and ‘girl most likely to be successful’.
‘Because you’re friends,’ I say. ‘Unless …’ I study her face, ‘… unless you’re not friends anymore.’
Ella raises a thin, penciled eyebrow. ‘Correct.’
‘I see.’ I pause, trying to decide how best to continue. From the set of her jaw I can tell Ella’s as keen on communicating with me as Liam was and yet …
‘Charlotte’s still in a coma,’ I say.
‘I know.’ She raises the eyebrow again but the flash of light in her eyes betrays her. She’s interested. She wants to know more about her ex-best friend.
‘Her lungs are getting stronger which is a very good sign.’
Ella says nothing.
‘We’ve tried everything to try and help her wake up,’ I continue. ‘I’ve talked to her about the family and what we’re all doing. Brian reads her articles from the newspaper—’
‘Grim. She’d hate that.’
‘I agree,’ I suppress a smile at the look of disgust on her face. ‘I suggested he read out Heat magazine instead but he wasn’t keen. I don’t think he’s as big a fan of celebrity gossip as Charlotte is.’
Ella pulls a face – like the mental image of my husband reading Heat magazine repulses her.
‘So anyway,’ I soldier on. ‘Oli came up with the idea that we should play Charlotte her favourite song. He said he’d seen people do that in films and that it helps wake someone from a coma.’
Ella’s face lights up at the mention of my stepson’s name. Until recently