The Playdate (37 page)

Demons, I think. Here for me. Surrounded by demons. For what I did.

“Why didn’t you report that fucking woman?” Tom says, looking at me with a desperate look on his face. “I told you there was something wrong with her.”

“Why didn’t you, Tom?” I murmur. “There are two of us.”

He rolls his eyes, and we lean against the wall together. Helpless.

*     *     *

“There’s a shadow around her heart,” the young A&E doctor says. “And we can hear a murmur.”

“That’s normal,” says Tom, trying to find hope. “Lots of kids have murmurs after the surgery.”

“I know,” says the doctor. “But in this situation, with the shadow, we want to transfer her to the . . .”

“Pediatric cardiology unit, we know,” I say.

He looks at us sympathetically. “Just to be sure.”

We both nod.

“We’ve rung upstairs and Mr. Piper is on standby.”

We both just shrug, defeated.

“Try not to worry,” he says, walking off.

And I stagger a little, and the tears start to tumble down my face, and I sway back and forth in this horrible corridor. And
it’s then, when I feel I can’t keep myself up any longer, when everything is about to give way, that I feel the roller-coaster harness of Tom’s arms come down around me.

*     *     *

I thought if I imagined the worst thing that could happen, every day, then it would never happen. I heard that once—that people who imagine the worst often survive because they are constantly prepared. They have their plan of escape from the plane ready in their minds. The fire escape route out of their hotel room committed to memory. The tree branch that they would hold on to if they fell in the roaring river picked out.

But it seems I am wrong.

“Not good news, I’m afraid. We think the shadow is blood leaking from the aorta. In which case, we’ll have to repair it again,” the surgeon says.

Numbly, we nod.

Here again.

Open heart surgery. This was supposed to never happen again.

With Tom’s arm round me, we walk back to Rae and take her hands tightly. She lies sedated, quiet.

My own heart aches like it is being stretched.

“Rae, you’re such a strong girl,” I whisper. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to realize that. But I promise you. This operation is going to go fine this time. And you’re going to get better. And when you get out, the first thing we’re going to do is plan your birthday party, OK? Hannah’s mummy just rang to say Hannah can’t wait to see you. So you’re my precious girl, and be strong.”

And I lean over to kiss her hair. It is damp and pushed back
from her face. The pink cheeks have gone. I hold Rae’s hands, pleading with her silently to stiffen her fingers and pull them defiantly away from me again. But they lie limp in mine.

Oh, my baby. Our little Rae of hope.

And then Tom is beside me, kissing her face, and the nurses try to wheel her away. But I can’t let go of her hands, and Tom and the nurses have to make me.

55
Callie

I don’t know how long I am waiting for Rae to come out of surgery. It could be ten minutes or ten hours. Time, I have learned, goes at a different pace in the hospital.

Tom and I sit side by side, gripping our seats, our arms touching. I rock gently against the warmth of him. I concentrate on the sound of my breath. Each one seems to last an eternity. Deep and slow, like wind across an empty field.

We have been here before.

I remember this now. This limbo. This flying through a storm. Trying to stay up in the turbulence and lightning. Gripping seats. Praying to land.

Just waiting and breathing and praying and waiting.

*     *     *

I don’t know what time Suzy appears, but it must be long after midnight. As she disturbs me from my trance, I notice suddenly that Tom is not there. I wonder if she waited for him to
go to the toilet or find a doctor to ask what is happening for the tenth time.

There is a plaster across her nose. The skin around her eyes is bruised, and her arm is in a sling. Seeing her makes me want to sink into her. To go back to the normal life of twenty-four hours ago, of home, of Churchill Road, of Rae wanting to go to a party.

“Oh, hon,” she murmurs, taking Tom’s seat gingerly. “I can’t believe this. I’m so sorry.”

“How is it?” I ask, pointing at her arm.

“Broken,” she says. “Hurts like hell. But they’ve given me something.”

I wrinkle up my mouth in sympathy.

“Oh, hon,” she repeats, resting her head on my shoulder. “What can I do? I just don’t understand why she didn’t have her seat belt on. I did it up at the ice rink.”

I shake my head and sniff. “It’s probably my fault. The one in the back of our car gets jammed against her chest—it’s so old. I let her take it off to unjam the strap.”

She nods, stroking my arm.

“Jez with the kids?” I ask.

“His parents just arrived to help out.” She rolls her eyes. “God help us. At least they’re off to South Africa on Monday.”

“Have you seen the police?” I ask.

“That guy, the young one, just got here. They’ve been questioning Crazy Lady. Cal, you need to give that guy a hard time. I mean, how many times did you try to speak to him about her this week?”

I look at her. “Three?”

“And what did he do?”

“He got me to Google her.”

Suzy’s mouth drops open.

“That was it? That was the extent of how seriously he took you?”

As I watch her annoyed expression, suddenly I remember. I jump up, and bring my hands to my face.

“Oh God, I haven’t told you.”

“What?”

“I did look her up. She’s been in court. Debs. She hit a child.”

“I knew it!” Suzy cries. “What did I tell you?”

“Oh God,” I murmur. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have let him fob me off like that. Especially when you told me what her husband said in the garden. Honestly, Suzy, I think you might be right. I think she might have hit Rae and that’s what made her fall into the road on Wednesday.”

Before I can stop myself, I groan out loud, and my hand flies up and I slap it hard on my forehead. The sting makes my head fly back. Before Suzy can stop me, I do it again and again.

“Hon?” she shouts, shocked. “No! Don’t do that.” She leans forward, wincing with the movement, and grabs my hand. “Sit down. Come on. You weren’t to know. You were all tied up with work shit. You just had too much going on. Look, we know now. The police can’t ignore this. You need to forget about it, and think about Rae right now. She’s going to be out of surgery any minute, and when she is, she’s going to need you to be strong.”

But a volt of panic has started running through me, making my limbs jerk like a puppet’s. I stand up again and pace the room.

“I should have seen it, Suze. I’m her mother.”

As I pace past the clock, I look up for the hundredth time and let out a long groan. “Jesus. Why’s it taking so long?”

Suzy sighs and pulls herself up to standing, nursing her broken arm. She stands in front of me to stop me moving, and with her good hand firmly pulls my face to look at her. “Listen, Cal, sweetheart. Look at me. I know this is a nightmare. But listen to me. Rae is going to be absolutely fine. She really is. And we will get this sorted out with Crazy Lady, and the police. But tonight, you’ve got to focus. I’m here for you. Just like you were for me when the twins were born. And, I promise you, this is all going to work out. This isn’t the right time to talk about it, but I’ve decided—from now on, I’m going to look after Rae after school. That way, you’ll know she’s safe. And if you need to go up to your dad’s or something at the weekend, she can stay with me then, too. It’ll give you a break and it’ll give me the chance to really spoil her. We’ll do it when Jez is at his parents’ with the boys. Then me and Rae will have a proper girls’ weekend.”

But her words don’t calm me. They just deepen the current of panic pulsing through me. A pounding starts in my ears.

I turn to see Tom in the doorway with two cups of coffee. He and Suzy survey each other silently.

“I need air,” I gasp, pushing past him out of the door.

*     *     *

For a moment I don’t know which direction I’m going in. I just stumble down a dark corridor lined with children’s murals that seems to go on for miles, like a tunnel under a mountain.

My lungs feel as if they are filled with something heavier than air.

Eventually I reach the end and turn into the new modern wing, with its tall glass atrium, and march along the white corridors, looking out of black windows. All the corridors on the floors above and below me are empty, too, clear of the people
who have the luxury of coming to the hospital during the day, and those who perhaps come a couple of times in a lifetime. It is just the people like me and Rae and Tom who are here in the dark hours, moving along these white corridors with black windows like pieces on a chessboard.

As I climb up a set of stairs, a large sob bursts from my throat. I hate this place. I hate being back here. I hate the fact that I know these corridors as well as the unmarked country roads back home. I hate the fact that I know everything. That I know it’s quicker to walk to the fifth-floor vending machine than take the lift, which becomes congested on the fourth floor with patients coming for blood tests. I know that the disabled toilet one flight up is always cleaner than the public toilets on our floor, and that no one minds if I use it in quiet hours. That I know the best seat to choose for Rae in the ECG waiting room, where she won’t get her legs banged by passersby using the corridor, but we can still see her number come up on the wall monitor without cricking our necks.

I hate the fact that I have brought Rae here again. That I did all those things to protect her, and then I made one bad choice. I went back to work and let that woman near her.

I march up to a metal waste bin sitting against a wall and bang my fists down on it. A metal clatter explodes into the nighttime silence.

“Rae . . .” I sob into its echo.

*     *     *

“Are you all right?” a man’s voice says.

As I come to, I realize I am standing on the tiles, polished and ready for tomorrow, beside the blackened windows of the closed flower shop full of empty vases, shaking.

I turn and see a tall man with dark hair in the shadow of the door of the canteen. For a second, I think it’s Jez. And for a second, I am relieved. Because if it is Jez, then I can pull him down one of these dark corridors to some dark room, and let him take the pain away for a while.

“Are you OK?” the young police officer repeats, walking toward me.

I stand, shaking. Of course. Of course, it’s not Jez. Because Jez is not here. Jez is at home with the boys.

“Come on. Let’s get you a seat and something to drink,” the police officer says.

I watch his face and I want to scream at him that this is his fault, too. That he should have warned me earlier about that woman. But right now there is no point.

It was my job to protect my daughter. And I didn’t.

So I let him gently guide me through the door into the empty cafeteria, where chairs are stacked neatly on tables and dim night-lights illuminate a few drink machines in the corner. A female officer is already seated at a table, on the phone. There is a folder on the table in front of her. She sees me and finishes the conversation, quickly closing the folder.

“Any news?” she says, standing up and pulling down a chair for me.

I shake my head numbly, and she gently takes my arm from her colleague and guides me down into the chair.

*     *     *

It is a few minutes before the police speak to me. I sit silently as they move around behind me, fetching me a can of lurid soda from the machine. The cold liquid feels like a razor blade on my dry throat. I become vaguely aware of a muttered conversation elsewhere.

Then they sit down opposite me, and smile again. The male officer starts to speak.

“Deborah Ribwell’s saying the same as last time. That it wasn’t her fault. She’s saying that Suzy Howard crashed the car on purpose to hurt your child, and that before they crashed, she made it clear to Mrs. Ribwell that this was her intention.”

I look up at him. “What are you talking about? That’s just ridiculous. You know Debs has already hurt a child. Why are you even listening to her?”

I roll my eyes and look out of the dark window. In the reflection, I see a look pass between them.

“Miss Roberts, do you have any reason to think that Deborah Ribwell’s allegations have any truth to them?”

“I can’t believe you’re even asking me this. Suzy wouldn’t hurt anyone, especially not Rae.”

He shrugs. “We’ll speak to Mrs. Howard in the morning. See if we can get to the bottom of this. But as far as you know, she has no reason to lie?”

“Of course not.”

The female officer surveys me closely. She takes her time, choosing the right words, I suspect. “Can I just ask how long you’ve known Mrs. Howard?” she says gently.

I shrug. “Two years? Two and a half? We’re neighbors.”

“And you know her well?”

“Yes.”

She says nothing. I notice she has her hand firmly on top of the folder in front of her.

“Well, as much as you can, I suppose. I mean, we look after each other’s kids.”

“And you trust her to do that?”

I look up at the young woman’s face. Probably years from having kids of her own.

“It’s London,” I say, trying to keep the testiness out of my voice. “You don’t have much choice, do you? With neighbors, other mothers? I mean, you can’t know everything about anybody you just meet in a city. But, yes, I trust her. She’s never given me any reason not to.”

“Has Mrs. Howard told you much about her background? From before she came to London,” the male officer says.

“What do you mean?” I snap.

“Can I ask what she’s told you?”

I can’t help it. I laugh. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Please. If you could try, it might help.”

I shrug. “OK, what do you want to know? She grew up with her mum in Denver. Her mother was a hairdresser, or a beautician or something. Uh, the two of them used to hike a lot in the mountains, they skied, that kind of thing. I don’t know. How can this possibly help? Suzy went to business college, I think—worked in an office. Met her husband, Jez, when he was over on business. Had three kids. That’s it. She likes swimming. Good at making biscuits. Does that help?”