Sara Foster - Come Back to Me

Alex closed his eyes, trying to get a grip on himself. He opened them and took one last beseeching look at the door and windows. They all stared back, impassive, empty, then he thought he saw a shadow pass behind one at the front and his heart gave a painful throb.

She must have heard him, he thought. If she wanted to, she would come out. Ray must be telling the truth.

He was glad he had written the letter now, though he’d hoped it wouldn’t be needed. He reached into his pocket and passed it to Ray. ‘ Please ,’ he said, ‘give her this.’

Ray looked at it, then at Alex, and nodded.

When her father had gone out through the door, Amy had walked quietly into the front room and listened; although she could have stood in the back garden and still heard Alex’s pleading voice.

But her father was right. She couldn’t face him.

When she had been in hospital, she’d thought it might be different when she left. When they had come home, she thought she might feel comforted by her childhood surrounds. She was sure her mother and father had been hoping this too.

But every day was getting a little worse. Each time she went to sleep she hoped that during the night she would be able somehow to escape what had happened, and wake up feeling a little better – and every time she woke up, as she came to consciousness a black cloud floated quickly down to smother her, so she had to leap out of bed and away from it just to avoid screaming.

She didn’t want to see anyone. She didn’t want to go anywhere. She didn’t want to eat. She didn’t want to wake up in the mornings.

A counsellor had been around to the house twice since they had got home. Both times she had talked to Amy through her locked bedroom door.

Her Christmas presents were still unopened. She had told her mum she’d open them when she felt a bit better. She knew she wouldn’t be able to summon up the effort to look thankful at the moment, however lovely they were.

Every day she stood in the shower for what seemed like hours. Although her shoulder was still strapped up, most of her bruises had evolved from garish purple to pastel greens and yellows. She was amazed at her body’s capacity to heal despite the predations of her mind.

She looked at the letter on her bed, and even though each time she read it she felt more lost, she picked it up again.

Amy,

I’m so sorry. I wish so much that I had stayed with you in the hospital that day, and come home with you. I want to support you, and if that means giving you space then so be it. But be sure of this, Amy: you are the one for me, and I promise I will wait for you, however long it takes. And I also promise that I will support you in any and every way to help you through this; to help you be happy again.

There’s so much more to say, but I’ll wait till I can do that in person.

I love you.

Al

This time, reading Alex’s words gave her courage. For she had made a decision.

First, she needed to talk to her dad.

She picked her moment, when her mother had gone to bed.

‘Dad?’ she began.

He quickly put down his book. It had been rare for her to initiate conversation in the past few weeks, and each time she did people jumped to attention.

‘I need to go away,’ she told him.

‘Well, we can take a holiday…’ he began immediately, but she held her hand up.

‘Alone, Dad.’

Her dad opened his mouth straight away to protest, but was then lost for words, so Amy continued.

‘I just need to get away for a little while, on my own. I know you’re all trying to help, but it’s making it worse. I need to sort myself out with some space away from everyone, or I’m going to go mad.’

‘Amy, I know you might feel like that, but you can’t. You’re not thinking rationally at the moment, love. Just let us look after you.’

‘No, Dad,’ she cried, trying to keep her voice low enough that her mother wouldn’t hear. ‘You don’t get it. How can you? You’ve never been in this position, for god’s sake. You have no idea.’ And then she played her trump card. ‘If you don’t let me go, you might well come in one morning and find me hanging from the ceiling.’

‘Amy!’ Her father looked horrified at her words. ‘Don’t say that, love. Look, it’s early days, we’ll sort something out. Tomorrow we’ll get that lady round again, you need to talk to her…’

‘Dad, you’re not listening,’ she told him. ‘Unless you tie me up and lock me in, I’m going. This is what I have to do.’

‘No, Amy, you’re not,’ he said.

She stormed out, and headed up the stairs, and a few seconds later he was behind her. ‘Look, get a good night’s rest, and we’ll talk about this in the morning.’

‘Okay,’ she said, knowing all conversation was pointless.

She waited till four a.m. She figured that after what she had said her dad would be paranoid about her leaving, so he wouldn’t get to sleep for a while. She wasn’t wrong. Even though the house was quiet and dark, the keys to the front and back doors were all missing, even the ones she’d put in her bag in the hall.

She left two notes on the kitchen table. Then she climbed out of the kitchen window, her shoulder throbbing, pulling her small bag through with her. Just a few clothes, her passport and bank cards, Alex’s letter and Bug-Eye. She had no idea where she was going; but she knew she needed to go – her sanity depended on it.

As she moved through the back garden she hesitated, then diverted her course for a moment. Her eyes were adjusting to the dark, and the moon was three-quarters full, so she could recognise the outline of the little garden quite clearly. She could still remember the first time she had seen it, when she was six years old, on a night like this. Her dad had brought her here in her pyjamas, and as they had drawn close, she could see a few tiny lights near the ground. She had blinked sleepily, trying to make out where they were coming from, though the light only served to cast all about it in shadow. It was only when they’d been less than a metre away from treading upon those little beacons in the darkness that the wondrous moment of clarity had occurred. There, within an enormous willow-woven basket, was a tiny, exquisitely crafted garden, perfect in every detail, from its minute thicket of trees in one corner, to its flower-lined paths and a small wishing well in the very centre. On another grassy knoll was a tiny bird table and bird bath, each less than the size of a postage stamp. ‘So the fairies can come and visit,’ her father had told her.

As she thought back to the joy she had felt then, she wanted to sit down and weep, but instead she pulled the little wishing well out of the centre, and put it in her bag. A talisman to ensure that she was linked to home. To her parents. To her dad. She didn’t know why she felt as if she needed it. She didn’t imagine that she was going away for long, just for a short time while she got herself together.

Then she headed up the side path, taking care that the gate clicked softly, and soon she was walking along the road, away from home. She had made her escape.

The pub was dark, and full of nooks and crannies that made it hard to find people. Mark was hoping he’d done the right thing in coming. He was never all that enthusiastic about socialising with work colleagues, but Susan was nice enough, and her husband, Terry, was a banker who was often prepared to pass on invaluable advice on shares, and talked of little else, so Mark knew at least there would be someone to listen to. He felt he should make an effort to be sociable for such a significant New Year’s Eve.