Fionnuala Kearney - The Day I Lost You - A heartfelt, emotion-packed, twist-filled read

I think, maybe, I’m losing my mind. Earlier today, I had another conversation with Anna while I was in the shower and she was sitting on the loo. She stayed a while and we talked about what we’d do to cover school holidays over Easter and the summer with Rose. There was no mention of a ski holiday with her work colleagues. In these pretend conversations with my daughter, the word ‘skiing’ is banned.

Now, I’m in the ‘perennial plant’ section at Hardacres, my local garden centre. My basket is laden with bulbs and seeds for the greenhouse and allotment at the back of my garden. Just beyond the anemone bulbs to my left, two women are talking about the article that appeared in this week’s local paper; the one that took three inches of column space to let everyone else know there is still no news. I am rooted to the earth just like the iris in the pot I have in my hand. Whoever these women are, they have no clue how cruel it is for me to stand here, to endure their words; they aren’t to know that my grip on reality is a little fragile today.

‘But there’s no body, that’s the horror.’ Woman number one.

‘That’s the worst, the very worst.’ Second voice.

Number one again. ‘Is there nothing new? Nothing at all? I mean, snow melts, doesn’t it?’

Snow melts, doesn’t it? A question I ask myself daily.

Number two. ‘You’d think they’d have found her by now.’

You’d think .

‘I read somewhere that there’s still two bodies missing.’

I will myself to move. There are still two people missing. Anna Powers and Lawrence Taylor, both twenty-five.

‘I don’t know how that poor mother is still standing.’

Me neither.

I place the iris pot back with the others, lay the basket to one side and walk through one of the many tills without as much as a nasturtium seed on my being.

Leah has decreed that I need a puppy. That’s what she does, my sister. She doesn’t ask – she just does. I can’t disguise the panic I feel when I see the tiny creature craning around my legs in her kitchen. Leah ignores my reticence.

‘You didn’t open the box yesterday, did you?’ she asks.

I shake my head, embarrassed that I actually forgot to open my sister’s gift. The pug has a pee at my ankle.

‘It had the papers in it. The papers for Pug here. She’s a thoroughbred.’

‘You mean she’s a pedigree.’

‘That. See, you’re a perfect dog owner already.’

I frown. ‘I don’t want a dog.’

‘Too late. You’re having her.’

‘Jesus, Leah …’ I slump into a nearby chair. It’s uncomfortable, all angular and pointy – like the kitchen, which is an hommage to black granite and stainless steel. Leah’s home is so contemporary, it’s almost futuristic – no hint of a tatty sofa here. We’re in a large open-plan space that spans the width of the back of her and Gus’s home. It’s zoned. Leah is a ‘zoner’. To my far left is the kitchen; in the middle is the huge refectory dining table and Leah and I are in the ‘chillax’ area. One day I’ll find a way to tell her that there is nothing either relaxing or chilling about these chairs.

‘I know you mean well,’ I say. ‘But the last thing I need in my life is something that pees and shits everywhere.’

‘You need something that needs you. She needs you.’

I’m aghast. Genuinely. I cannot believe that my only sister thinks that the hole I have in my life can be plugged by a pug. A dog for a daughter. I can’t even speak.

She hands me a glass of wine. ‘You need someone or something to give all that unconditional love you’re always harping on about, because you sure as hell don’t give any to me.’

‘I have it all reserved for Rose.’

Leah makes a face. ‘Save a little for Pug.’

‘I’m not taking the dog,’ I say as it lines itself up alongside my ankle again. I resist the urge to kick her gently with my foot.

Leah scoops down and picks Pug up in her hands, dumps her on my lap. A little bit of pee dribbles onto my light denim jeans. ‘Her papers are in your name. It’s done. Sue me.’

Two huge brown eyes look up at me from above a flat black nose. Her brow looks knitted with lines. I pick her up to throw her right back at Leah and Pug licks my hand.

‘She likes you.’ Leah sits opposite me, sips her own glass of wine. ‘She needs you.’

‘She needs someone that’ll clean up after her.’

‘She chose you. From some sort of spiritual doggie place, she came and found you.’

Despite myself, I smile, stroke the dog’s back. ‘She looks like she’s frowning, or she’s about to cry.’

‘She is, she’s perfect for you.’

I laugh. ‘You’ll have to take her whenever I’m away.’

‘You never go anywhere.’

‘That could change.’ In my pretend world, Anna, Rose and I are going to see some of the warmer, snow-free parts of the world together.

‘It could. Gus and I will have Pug when you go away if you take Pug home tonight.’

I have no room in my life, pretend or otherwise, for a dog. But I still find myself nodding, thinking Rose will love her. ‘Okay,’ I tell her, and Pug seals the deal with a small, runny shit on my lap.

Gus has prepared the most fabulous birthday meal twenty-four hours later than originally planned. I apologize for cancelling the night before as I sit down, wearing a pair of Leah’s clean jeans, to a sharing platter of melted cheese and artisan bread dipped in sweet balsamic to start. An ex-chef, Gus now runs a successful recruitment consultancy for the catering industry from an office upstairs.

‘So,’ Gus says. ‘We’re going up to Windermere to see your parents tomorrow. Why don’t you come?’

‘Can’t,’ I dip a piece of garlic bread in the cheesy remnants. ‘I have a dog to mind. She’s too young to drive to the Lake District. She gets car-sick.’

‘You’re coming.’ Leah’s eyebrows are arched and her head is shaking. ‘Mum is insisting. You’re ignoring her calls. Please come. Life won’t be worth living if I arrive without you.’

‘Can’t. The drive’s too much for Pug.’

‘I collected Pug from a breeder in Portsmouth for you. She was fine all the way back in the car. Perfectly happy.’

‘You did? Portsmouth? When?’

‘I took your birthday off. Fully intended taking you with me for the day but you fucked off and left me at the school gate. So, I drove there on my own.’

Shit. My face winces an apology. ‘How long are you staying up there for?’

‘Leave at seven thirty tomorrow morning, four hours twenty up, lunch and a quick walk, then same back. Gus is driving. Portsmouth and back was enough to knacker me. Pug will love it.’

I nod, know when I’m beaten, begin to steel myself immediately for my mother’s food and sympathy, for my father’s fragile stares.

‘You have to let them care, Jess.’ Leah reads my mind. ‘They’re grieving too,’ she adds.

Gus is searing the steaks on a hot plate. He turns them over, making zigzag patterns on the flesh. To his right, he stirs a pot of home-made mushroom sauce. Even the sizzle and scent of such lovely food don’t whet my appetite but I will, for his sake, force myself to eat. Pug is asleep at my feet.

‘How’s Theo doing?’ Leah is mashing potatoes with what looks like a half-pound of butter. Fine for her because she won’t eat them. Not so good for my already screaming arteries.

‘He’s okay, busy … Finn starts secondary school in September. Can you believe that?’

‘Yes, but how is he? Theo. How is he doing?’

I know a loaded question when I hear one and turn to look at my sister.

‘Why?’ I arch my eyebrows at her and at the plate of food that Gus has just presented me with. It has the most enormous doorstep of a steak and a mountain of creamy, oozing, buttery mash. There is a serving dish laden with carrots, squash and swede, a celebration of orange vegetables, in the centre of the table.