Page 29 of The Perfect Son
Sunday, February 25
42 DAYS TO JAMIE’S BIRTHDAY
The phone in my hand is slick from the sweat coating my palms. I stare at the display, willing it to ring. It doesn’t.
Where are Shelley and Jamie?
What if they’ve had a car accident?
I don’t know what to do, Mark.
Stop, Tessie.
I can’t let anything happen to him.
My eyes flit between my phone and the window in the second living room, where the sky is turning all kinds of pink and orange. The room is only a little smaller than the main living room we use every day. Boxes and furniture are scattered across the floor. It’s cold in here and smells of your mum’s sickly perfume and the mold from the curtains I ripped down the day we moved in. But if I push myself against the wall in the far corner then I can look out of the window and see beyond the entrance to the driveway and half a mile down the empty lane.
Still no car.
I don’t even know what type of car I’m looking for. What kind of car does a woman like Shelley drive? Something flashier than my dilapidated Ford Focus, that’s for sure. Why didn’t I notice Shelley’s car?
I lean my forehead against the cold glass and feel it shift from my touch. Cool air blows against my face and I shiver, hugging my arms to my body. What is Shelley thinking? You can’t say you’ll be back at three and then not turn up, not answer your phone. She must know how worried I am. She knows Jamie is all I have left.
My heartbeat jitters at the noise of an engine.Please be Shelley, please be them.It isn’t. The car—a red Nissan Micra—drives straight by.
I check the time again. It’s past five now, Mark. Two hours late. That’s not a “we got held up in traffic” kind of late or a “we lost track of time” kind of late. Over two hours is a “something’s wrong” late. I can feel it.
I press redial on Shelley’s number. Twenty-two is displayed in parentheses on the screen. Twenty-two times I’ve tried to call her. Twenty-two times it’s gone straight to her voicemail.
What was I thinking? I let a woman I’ve only met twice in the space of a week take care of Jamie.
I know what I was thinking. I was thinking of Shelley’s voice when she bounced through the door yesterday.“I’m here as a friend, one I think you need right now.”I was thinking of how close I feel to her, this woman I barely know who sees my pain and isn’t scared of it. And however crazy it sounds, I trust her, Mark. At least, I thought I did.
Should I call the police, or the hospitals? Should I drive off looking for them? Except what if they come back while I’m out?
Stop, Tessie. It’s OK.
You don’t know that, Mark.
I force my mind back over the last twenty-four hours. Thememory is there, but it’s patchy, like a moth-eaten coat, frayed and almost unidentifiable as the piece of clothing it once was. I remember the three of us eating dinner. I remember offering to tidy the kitchen and listening to Jamie’s laughter carrying from the living room as he and Shelley played a game of FIFA on the PlayStation. I remember wishing it was me sitting beside Jamie, me making him happy.
I don’t remember going to bed or tucking Jamie in—another chewed-up hole of a memory—but I must’ve done, because then the next thing I remember is breakfast and finding Shelley still in the house.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I slept on the sofa. I didn’t want to leave you feeling so low,” she said, handing me a cup of tea and seeming more at home in my kitchen than I have ever been. “Why don’t you come swimming with me today? A bit of exercise might be just what you need.”
My gaze moved from Shelley’s face—bright and pretty even after a night sleeping on the sofa—to Jamie, his expression bursting with excitement, his hands clasped together and waving prayer-like at me.
“I... I can’t.” I sighed, hating myself. “I feel so weak.” The thought of a cold swimming pool and the physical effort needed to stop myself sinking to the bottom is too much.
Jamie’s smile dropped. His bottom lip stuck out. “Can I go with Shelley? Please, Mum, please?”
“Of course.” Shelley smiled at me. “How about I stop at the supermarket on the way back? I can get a few bits for the week. See you about three? Have you got a spare key? I can let myself in that way if you’re sleeping.”
“OK. Thank you. If you’re sure?” I said as Jamie raced upstairs to grab his trunks and goggles and I riffled in the drawer by the microwave and found the spare key to the side door.
“If you’re sure?”—that’s all I asked. Three words. I didn’t ask Shelley if she could handle a seven-year-old in the pool. I didn’t warn her how quickly Jamie tires in the water, or check that she knew to watch him constantly. I didn’t tell her not to let Jamie go into the men’s changing rooms because he’s too young to handle himself around strangers, and will probably drop his clothes in a puddle.
I didn’t even ask Shelley which swimming pool she was going to. And now they’re late and I’m all alone and worrying, always worrying. What if something has happened, Mark?
