as if it was happening to someone else, but now my feelings are so intense it could be happening right now.
‘It’s so hard to talk about, to even think about,’ I say.
‘It must be. It must be hard knowing that something so awful was preventable.’ He stares at me, his eyes cold and unforgiving. ‘You need to get yourself under control,’ he says quietly, ‘or I dread to think what will happen next time.’
Nine
Beth
After Danielle leaves I feel uneasy, unable to keep my own memories at bay. I go round the house, checking all the doors and windows are locked. I’ve always felt safe here with Richard, but since he’s left I’ve become aware of my vulnerability, knowing that if there was any kind of intruder I would be the one who had to fight them off. Before Richard, when I lived in my flat, there’d been days when I was too scared to leave because I was convinced someone was watching me. I’d see a shadow pass the window and think it was them, waiting outside. It’s been years since I felt like that, but now the familiar fear is creeping back.
I go and check on Charlie, moving the duvet back gently to see the rise and fall of his chest. He shifts slightly under the covers and murmurs something in his sleep.
‘It’s OK,’ I whisper, stroking his hair.
He rolls away from me. ‘Daddy…’ he mumbles.
I feel tears prick my eyes. ‘He’s not here right now.’ I think about how Richard isn’t here to put him to bed at night or wake him up in the morning anymore. I wonder if he’ll have a room at Richard’s flat too, a whole life with his father I’ll know nothing about. My tears get heavier and I cover my mouth with my hand. I can’t bear for Charlie to suffer. He’s still my baby.
My eyes wander to the bedside table, trying to distract myself, to find something else to focus on. I remember reading Charlie his story before bed, his favourite one. I go to pick the book up from the bedside table. Its familiar words comfort me too, a lullaby when I’m feeling down. But it’s not there.
Instead there’s another book. An old Thomas the Tank Engine one. Richard used to read it to him when he was little, and I feel a surge of nostalgia and regret.
But why is the book here? I’m sure I didn’t put it there. Perhaps Charlie got up in the night, pulling it off his shelf to read. He wouldn’t be able to read the words, but he likes to look at the pictures. I imagine him here on his own looking at the book and I feel a shiver of guilt. I had the door open when I was speaking to Danielle, but I was still oblivious to what he was doing in here. Shouldn’t I have heard him get up?
Then a thought flits across my mind. Danielle. She’s been in Charlie’s room before, during the first session I had with her. Today she’d gone to the toilet just before she left, and I’d locked the therapy room and gone downstairs to start clearing away the toys. What if she’d seen Charlie had woken up and she’d passed him the book to comfort him?
I push the thoughts aside. Charlie must have got up in the night. I need to calm down, tidy up some more and then go to bed. There’s no way anyone’s been in my son’s room. It’s just my anxiety talking. I’ve become paranoid since Richard left. With only my own thoughts for company, my mind wanders to my worst fears. I need to get out more, meet new people. I lost so many of my friends when I was dismissed from my teaching role and I never really regained them. Richard and Charlie kept me busy. Now I’ll have to make an effort to connect with other people. It’s what I often suggest to my clients when they get lonely.
I think of Genevieve’s call earlier. We used to be close when we worked together. Perhaps I should phone her back, arrange a time to meet up. But surely we’d have to discuss the past? I can’t face that. Not now. I don’t want to even think about it.
I leave Charlie with a light kiss and hurry out of the room. I go downstairs to the kitchen and find my gratitude journal, reaching over to the cookery books that line