Elisabeth Carpenter - 99 Red Balloons

I looked her up on the internet. That’s how I found out about the smaller details of my life. My life before Catherine and Michael. I read that I was loved, but my parents had been fuck-ups. My mother was an alcoholic and she left my father because he lost his job – or it might have been the other way round: that my mother was an alcoholic and my dad left her, then lost his job. It’s hard to tell from newspapers in the eighties – there were lots of half-truths and guesswork. It was red-tops or posh-tops – the latter seldom reported my absence. There were a few journalists who kept the story going, on the big anniversaries of my abduction. The saddest headline of them all was of Sarah’s death. Tragic Mum’s Suicide . I wish I hadn’t read the comments section of that newspaper. Half of them felt sorry for her, but said, It’s probably for the best that she died, at least she’s not suffering not knowing where her daughter is . And some were trolls who hated her: She must have had something to with her daughter’s disappearance – maybe she sold her, she was jobless and they lived in a rented house . So easy for them to judge behind the anonymity of a computer screen. There was only one way I could learn the truth.

‘Are you going to write to them?’ says Emma.

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?’

‘Because Maggie is that man’s mother?’

I nod.

‘I thought I might, but I don’t. From what I’ve read in the news, they had no contact since he was arrested for beating up his father. That poor, poor woman. What a life.’ She dabs the tears that have collected at the corners of her eyes. ‘So you’ll write?’

I run my fingers over the writing.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think I will.’

Another one came through the post yesterday: a letter from Scott, asking me to visit him in prison on remand. Why would he think I’d want to see him after everything he’s done? Not after what he did to that poor child.

I pull my covers over me. It’s after nine, but I still don’t want to get out of bed. This house doesn’t feel like my home any more – it’s tainted by everything. I miss Jim, and his constant chatter; he was always so cheerful.

But Zoe’s still alive. I still have to repeat it to myself to keep it real.

It’s been nearly a month and still she won’t see me. I feel like my heart can’t break any more. I should just go to sleep and never wake up, but then I’ve felt that for years, why should today feel any different?

There’s a knock on my door.

‘Maggie, can I come in?’

David backs into my bedroom, and turns round holding my tray: boiled egg, a round of toast and a pot of tea.

‘It’s a letter,’ he says.

But I don’t get my hopes up.

‘It’s from Zo— Stephanie. She’s put her name on the back of the envelope. It’s addressed to both of us.’

I sit up properly. My heart beats faster; my hands start to shake.

‘I should get dressed before we read it. This is a special occasion.’

David places the tray on the end of the bed. The china cup rattles on the saucer, he’s shaking that much.

‘Go on then.’

‘Really?’ I whip away the bed cover.

‘I’ll go downstairs and give you five minutes. Be quick, Maggie.’

I open my wardrobe and my favourite dress is there. I hope it doesn’t smell of mothballs, I’ve been waiting for a special occasion like this to wear it. I grab the skirt and sniff it. It’s a little musty, but nothing a quick spray of cologne won’t fix.

It still fits. In fact, it’s a little baggy. I grab my powder from the dressing table and give my face a quick press, a little dab of lipstick. I run the comb through my hair and I’m done.

‘I’ll come downstairs, David,’ I shout.

I leave the bedroom and the breakfast on its tray.

‘I’ve put the kettle on again.’ He’s sitting at the table – holding the letter in both hands.

I sit next to him. ‘Oh.’ I put my hand on his. ‘You don’t think it’ll be bad news, do you?’

‘It would’ve been on the news if Grace hadn’t made it.’

‘No… I mean bad news in that she never wants to hear from us or see us.’

‘But we haven’t contacted her, have we? She must have got this address from the bed and breakfast. It’s not like we’ve been plaguing her with letters and phone calls. You said she had to make up her own mind, didn’t you?’

I nod. ‘Go on then, open it.’

David’s hands shake a little as he gently prises the envelope apart.

‘Do you want me to read it out, or do you want to read it yourself?’

‘I’ll read it myself. You read it first.’

I say that, but I really want to grab it out of his hands just to feel the same paper she’s written on. I watch his face as he reads. He rests his hand under his chin, his eyes fill with tears.

He folds the note and hands it to me.

‘It’s only short, but… I’ll let you read for yourself.’

I keep looking at him as I take the letter, not wanting to spoil it by peeking. I hold it in both hands and open it quickly.

Dear David and Margaret,

I’m sorry to be using your first names, but I’m sure you will understand. To say that the events of the past few weeks have been a shock is a bit of an understatement.

I have been thinking of you both constantly, as I have Sarah, my mother. It is so desperately sad that she passed away, and I am trying to come to terms with that, and other things around the circumstances that led to our separation.

I would very much like to meet you. Would this be all right? Please can you confirm this would be okay? I’ve put my email address at the top of this letter.

‘Oh, my darling girl. She writes so well, doesn’t she?’ I dab my eyes with the back of my hand. ‘She’s coming, David. She’s actually coming home.’ I move the letter away from me in case I ruin it with tears.

David gets up from his chair and puts his arms around me, and we cry together. For the first time in so many years, they are tears of pure joy.

‘Right,’ I say, wiping my face again. ‘There is so much to do. I have to get this place looking the best it’s looked for years. I might even bake a cake.’

I stand up and get my notepad from the kitchen drawer.

‘Don’t tire yourself, Maggie. We could always buy one.’

I turn and see a cheeky grin on his face. I grab the tea towel from the surface; I throw it and it lands on his head.

‘That told me,’ he says, his voice muffled by the cotton.

I bend over and laugh, until my tummy hurts.

I’d truly forgotten what it was like to experience happiness. Now, I feel like a different person. I’ve barely slept a wink. I doubt David has either as I heard him boil the kettle at least three times in the night. You couldn’t tell from looking at him now, though. He’s put on a suit and his eyes are sparkling. He’s been dressed since five o’clock this morning and they’re not due until midday.

It’s half past eleven now and he hasn’t moved from the window. I wondered whether to put out all the photographs of Sarah, but it might be too overwhelming for her. Instead, I’ve laid a tablecloth and put out a nice selection of sandwiches and cakes that I got from the village. Since I got her letter I’ve not stopped smiling. I even popped in to see Mrs Sharples yesterday morning.

‘Morning, Maggie,’ she’d said, barely looking up from the magazine behind the counter.

‘Morning, Rose,’ I said.

Her head shot up at that. I thought it might. It’s too long to keep a grudge, especially when she didn’t know I held one against her. After all, it’s not her fault that this was the shop Zoe was going to when she went missing. It doesn’t even look the same as it did then.