One time after Daddy lost his temper, Jake found a note on his bed. There was what he had to admit was a very good picture of the two of them smiling, and underneath that Daddy had written: I’m sorry. I want you to remember that even when we argue we still love each other very much. XXX. Jake had put the note into his Packet of Special Things, along with all the other important things he needed to keep. He checked now. The Packet was on the table in front of him, right beside the drawing.
“You’re going to be moving to the new house soon,” the little girl said.
“Am I?”
“Your daddy went to the bank today.”
“I know. But he says he’s not sure it’s going to happen. They might not give him the thing he needs.”
“The mortgage,” the little girl said patiently. “But they will.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s a famous writer, isn’t he? He’s good at making things up.” She looked at the picture he was drawing and smiled to herself. “Just like you.”
Jake wondered about the smile. It was a strange one, as though she were happy but also sad about something. Come to think of it, that was how he felt about moving. He didn’t like it in the house anymore, and he knew it was making Daddy miserable too, but moving still felt like something they maybe shouldn’t do, even though he was the one who’d spotted the new house on Daddy’s iPad when they were looking together.
“I’ll see you after I move, won’t I?” he said.
“Of course you will. You know that you will.” But then the little girl leaned forward, speaking more urgently. “Whatever happens, though, remember what I told you. It’s important. You have to promise me, Jake.”
“I promise. What does it mean, though?”
For a moment he thought she might be going to try to explain it more, but then the buzzer went on at the far side of the room.
“Too late,” she whispered. “Your daddy’s here.”
Four
Most of the children seemed to be playing outside the 567 Club when I arrived. I could hear the mingled laughter as I parked. They all looked so happy—so normal—and for a moment my gaze moved between them, searching for Jake, hoping to see him among them.
But, of course, my son wasn’t there.
I found him inside instead, sitting with his back to me, hunched over a drawing. My heart broke a little at the sight of him. Jake was small for his age, and his posture right then made him seem tinier and more vulnerable than ever. As though he were trying to disappear into the picture in front of him.
Who could blame him? He hated it here, I knew, even if he never objected to coming or complained about it afterward. But it felt like I had no choice. There had been so many unbearable occasions since Rebecca’s death: the first haircut I had to take him to; ordering his school clothes; fumbling the wrapping of his Christmas presents because I couldn’t see properly through the tears. An endless list. But for some reason, holidays had been the hardest. As much as I loved Jake, I found it impossible to spend all day, every day with him. It didn’t feel like there was enough left of me to fill all those hours, and while I despised myself for failing to be the father he needed, the truth was that sometimes I needed time to myself. To forget about the gulf between us. To ignore my growing inability to cope. To be able to collapse and cry for a while, knowing he wouldn’t walk in and find me.
“Hey, mate.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. He didn’t look up.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“What have you been up to?”
“Nothing much.” There was an almost imperceptible shrug under my hand. His body seemed barely there, somehow even lighter and softer than the fabric of the T-shirt he was wearing. “Playing with someone a bit.”
“Someone?” I said.
“A girl.”
“That’s nice.” I leaned over and looked at the sheet of paper. “And drawing too, I see.”
“Do you like it?”
“Of course. I love it.”
I actually had no idea what it was meant to be—a battle of some kind, although it was impossible to work out which side was which, or what was going on. Jake very rarely drew anything static. His pictures came to life, an animation unfolding on the page, so that the end result was