completely still. My ears prick. Eyes wide. The house sounds empty. It looks empty. It feels empty.
‘Abi?’ I call up the stairs. ‘Abi, love? Are you in the house? Where are you? Where are you, darling?’ I fight to keep the hysteria out of my voice but I, I can hear it.
I stride into the kitchen. The patio doors are closed. The air presses in.
‘Abi?’
Silence.
I run back into the hall, open the little door under the stairs to the downstairs loo. She isn’t there.
‘Abi?’
Silence.
Into the living room. The piano, the metronome. The sofas, the TV, the fireplace. The coffee table.
‘Abi? Are you in here?’ I sweep back the curtain. ‘Abi, love?’
The hard push of the window ledge against the palms of my hands. My own shuddering breath.
Silence.
I am outside again. Rain dots lead grey on the stone front path. Our house has a small patch of lawn, a rosemary hedge. There is nowhere she could hide there. She is not in front of the house. She is not on the pavement. She isn’t anywhere on our side of the road, as far as I can see. Across the street, the houses are closed, impassive. Next door, on both sides, shut up and still. There is no one, no one about. Not one person.
‘Abi? Abi? Aaabiii!’
I look left to the near end of the street, right to the far end. Which way? I have to go somewhere. I have to move. I jog halfway down towards the far end, towards the busier of the two larger connecting roads.
‘Abi? Abi?’
I’m running back, back towards our house, aware of seconds passing, accumulating, becoming minutes. Where would she go? How long was I upstairs? I only meant to grab the laundry and come down. Abi was quiet, she was quiet so I stripped the beds – thought I may as well while she was… when I left her, she was in her buggy talking to Mr Sloth, the plush Jellycat toy that Neil and Bella gave her when she was born. She was quiet so I emptied the washing basket. You do that, every parent does – you do stuff like that while you can when you have a little one. When they’re quiet. When they’re not asking you for attention or food or water or…
The street is a faceless row of white arrows, roofs pointing to the sky. My heart is a blockage in my throat. I run back towards the far end, ducking my head to see under side gates, craning my neck around hedges, looking back every few seconds, back towards the house. She is not there. But she might still be in the house, behind a curtain, giggling inside a wardrobe. She might come out at any moment. If she can’t hear me, she will panic. She will not know where I am.
Second by second, beat by beat… the quickening rhythm of rising panic. There’s no need to panic. She’ll be somewhere.
‘Abi? Abi, lovey? Abi, where are you?’
My mouth dries.
Gone half past eight. When did I go upstairs? When did she leave the house? Has she left the house?
She wasn’t making a fuss. She was contented. She was quiet. If she’d wanted me, she would have called out.
‘Mummy!’ she would have called. ‘Mummy! My waiting!’
But she didn’t. She was quiet. I was only on Facebook for a few minutes. I needed the loo, so I did a quick wee – you do, when your little one is quiet, everyone does. I sat on the loo and scrolled through Facebook, but not for long, not for that long. I only commented on a couple of threads. I only stripped the beds, emptied the washing basket. Every mum does a few quick jobs when their baby is settled and quiet, in front of the TV or in the playpen with a few toys or in the high chair with a rusk to suck on. Abi was in the hallway. She was clipped into her buggy. She had Mr Sloth to talk to. She’d had enough to eat. She was comfortable. She was fastened in. She did not know how to undo the clasp. Yesterday, she did not know.
Second by second. Beat by beat.
How unbearable it is to watch myself from today, caught in this quickening rhythm, to watch my growing despair, over and over, like an ink-black blossoming rose caught on a time-lapse film: replayed, replayed, replayed. Myself, that woman in chaos; myself, not thinking straight. But I do watch. I watch