Coming Home (35 page)

I snapped my head up again, and slammed my fist into the table, making the champagne glasses jump. ‘I don’t believe you! He would have told me!’

Mum looked at me with flinty eyes. ‘Would he really? Your father never wrote to you; never got in contact with you; never even told you you had a half-brother. Why do you think he suddenly would then? To talk about his health?’

‘But you would have told me!’

‘I wanted to, Evie. Believe me. But he wouldn’t let me. He didn’t want anyone to know.’

I stared at Mum as if I’d never seen her before. ‘But you should have told me anyway!’

‘It wasn’t fair to him, Evie. He was a dying man and he was adamant. Who was I to go against his wishes?’

‘And what about Zoe? Did he tell her?’ The thought that she’d known and hidden it from me made me nauseous. But Mum shook her head.

‘Why? I don’t get it. Why would he tell you and not her?’

Mum sighed and stared off into the middle distance, one hand on the table, the other circling the stem of her champagne glass. She smiled as she spoke. ‘He loved me, Evie. That’s the bit you keep forgetting. Your father may have thought he loved her, but I’m the one he stayed with. Can’t you see that? At the end of the day, he loved me more than he loved her. It’s obvious, isn’t it? She may have won the odd battle, but I won the war.’

I flinched as she said it. ‘And you should have told me! He was my dad! He’d have wanted me to know!’ My chin trembled and I bit my lip to stop myself from crying.

‘Evie.’ Mum reached for my hand, but I pulled it away. ‘He didn’t want sympathy. He didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for him—no one. Not his family, not his friends. He’d always said he wouldn’t want to suffer and, credit to him, Evie, because it’s not an easy decision to make but, yes, he decided he wanted to commit suicide rather than spend the last few months of his life in pain, and being a burden on me. It was a brave decision to make, Evie.’

‘No!’ I was shaking my head at her, beyond words. But even as I said it, I knew she was right. The clues were there: Dad had planned the whole thing. He’d even talked about Dignitas in public. Zoe’s words came back to me: ‘Maybe he had some sort of premonition beforehand,’ she’d said. Even she’d guessed something was up. I leapt up. ‘You
knew
Dad was going to commit suicide? And you didn’t tell me? How could you? How could you
let
him?’

‘I think I need more of this,’ Mum said, pouring herself another glass of champagne. She took a mouthful, glugged it down, dabbed her mouth with a paper napkin. ‘How could I have stopped him?’ she asked. ‘You know what he was like when his mind was made up about something. I tried to talk him out of it! But he was scared. He didn’t want to suffer. And he didn’t want us to watch him suffer.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I shouted. ‘I would have talked him out of it! I’d have come over, looked at treatments, argued until he backed down! We could have made him comfortable!’

‘I’m sorry,’ Mum was saying, wringing her hands now. ‘I’m sorry. He knew you would try to talk him out of it. That’s why he wouldn’t let me tell you.’

‘How did he do it? Obviously not at Dignitas.’

And then it hit me: Mum’s comment after Dad’s funeral when we’d talked about how Dad had died: ‘It’s for the best,’ she’d said. ‘He would have been a terrible patient.’ I thought with a shudder about what Uncle David had told me about how much she’d hated looking after Grandpa. I thought about Zoe saying that Dad was scared Mum would
harm him if she found out about their relationship; I thought about Zoe’s new pregnancy; about Mum’s cosy little relationship with Richard. I thought about the pink bedroom in the new-build house that Dad would have hated. And I remembered the champagne in her fridge the day I arrived from Dubai. A shiver ran through me.

‘You were in on it, weren’t you? Was it your idea?’

‘No!’ Mum got up and started pacing the kitchen, wringing her hands and looking at the floor. ‘It’s what he wanted, Evie. He was adamant that he didn’t want to suffer.’

‘Tell me what happened! Tell me now or I’m calling the police! I have to know!’ I jumped up and ran towards Mum, ready to shake the truth out of her. I backed her up against the wall, glad of the extra inches I had over her.

‘He suffocated!’ she said, shrinking away from me.

I backed off. ‘How? What did you do? Put a bag over his head?’

‘Oh! Evie!’ Mum looked horrified.

‘Then how was it?’ I screamed. ‘Tell me!’

‘He asked me to help him!’

‘Help him do what?’

‘Evie! Calm down! I’ll tell you. Sit back down.’ She shoved me back onto my chair.

‘It was all his idea,’ she said. ‘He did some research and came up with a plan. He chose the date. It was the same date his father had died.’

I banged the table with my fist. ‘He chose to die? And you helped him?’ I paused. ‘Does Richard know? Does he know what you did?’

Mum looked panicked. ‘No! No, he doesn’t! Please don’t tell him. He can’t know!’

‘He can’t know that he was an accessory when you helped your husband to die, you mean? It was Richard you called when you “found” him, wasn’t it?’

Mum was shaking her head now, her voice was barely audible. ‘You can’t tell him. Please don’t tell him.’

I ignored her plea. ‘Come on then. Tell me. I’m waiting. How did you do it?’

Mum sat back down and twiddled with her champagne glass as she stared at the table. Then she took a deep breath and started to talk.

‘Robert did a lot of research online. You have to understand, Evie, that this was his choice. I truly believe it was largely painless.’

‘Largely?’ I spat the word out.

My mother glowered at me. ‘Hear me out. What I’m saying is that he chose how he wanted to do it. He’d read on the net about something called a “suicide bag”. It’s a method that many people choose as a way to commit suicide, but he wasn’t sure he could do it alone, so he asked me to make sure it … it worked.’

My stomach convulsed. I clamped my hand over my mouth and shook my head as my mother spoke, as if the movement could erase the words I was hearing.

‘Basically, it’s a bag that’s filled with a gas. Helium, I think he got. You—’ Mum looked at me ‘—you fasten it over your head. You’re unconscious very quickly, and then … you know. It’s very hard for anyone to tell how you
died. As long as you don’t leave the evidence lying around. Robert wanted me to make sure the bag was properly on. “No half measures,” he said. He bought all the bits on the net. There are places that sell this stuff, no questions asked. I don’t know, really. I didn’t ask. He just showed me what he wanted me to do. We did a dummy run without the gas. And he wanted me to hide the stuff afterwards; take it to the tip. That’s all I had to do. He asked me to do it.’

Mum was staring at her champagne glass as she spoke. Her voice became quieter, then she gave herself a little shake, sat up straighter and continued.

‘We had a lovely evening,’ she said. ‘Robert wanted to listen to Vivaldi. We had gin and tonics with pretzels and those wasabi nuts he liked?’ I remembered the wasabi nuts. He’d always liked spicy things. ‘I did smoked salmon
volau-vents
with a dab of cream cheese and some caviar for starters, and we had a glass of champagne with those.’ The champagne Mum had offered me when I’d arrived.

‘He wanted roast lamb for dinner. So I did it with roast potatoes, gravy, mint peas and carrots, and we managed to get through two bottles of Chianti Classico from the
Sunday Times
Wine Club. It was a good one! I’d not tried it before. I’d only got one bottle out of the wine cupboard, but he said he wanted more—he was hardly going to have a hangover, was he? How could I stop him? Even people on Death Row get what they want for their last meal. I only had a glass or two as I wanted to stay sober.

‘I did a home-made baked Alaska for dessert. It was very fiddly. I offered to do apple pie, but he insisted.’ She
tutted. ‘Trying to make life difficult for me to the very end! I practised the day before, just to make sure.’ She sounded pleased with herself. ‘I had a coffee and Dad had a couple of glasses of that posh whisky—you know, that single malt he keeps for Christmas? Then he gave me a kiss and we went upstairs. He connected the helium to the bag and got into bed. He breathed out and put the bag over his head and I tightened it round his neck. His eyes were open.’ Mum stopped talking and traced her finger around her champagne glass. ‘Anyway, it worked quickly. He breathed deeply. It was only a few breaths before he was unconscious. I sat in the room till I was sure he was gone. Twelve minutes, it took. He didn’t struggle. I really doubt he felt a thing.’

The kitchen filled with noise. It was me screaming. ‘No! No! No! You can’t be telling me this! I can’t believe you would do that!’ I hurled my glass at the wall. It smashed with a satisfying explosion of sound. Champagne dripped down the tiles. I picked up Mum’s. Threw that, too. Then the bowl of cheese biscuits.

I got to the sink in time to vomit up the champagne, half-chewed bits of cheesy biscuit. I couldn’t get the image out of my head of Mum calmly saying goodnight to Dad as he went upstairs; of her slipping the bag over his head; of him looking at her as she fastened the elastic. What would he have been thinking as he watched her start to kill him? And how did she know he was dead? Did she keep checking his pulse? How long did she leave him before she called the ambulance? I remembered Mum calling me the next morning, faking her shock on the phone. I imagined her
acting flustered on the phone to Richard. She’d known all along. No wonder she’d been so organised when I arrived from Dubai. No wonder she’d been so calm. She’d been prepared. It was beyond grotesque.

Strings of spit hung from my mouth and I looked around for something to wipe it on. Mum handed me the kitchen roll—I didn’t want to talk to her, or to acknowledge her in any way. I grabbed the tissue, wiped my mouth, grabbed my handbag and ran for the front door. Mum followed me.

‘Go away! I can’t be near you right now! I can’t! No wonder you never wore the ring I bought you!’ I ripped my own ring off my finger and hurled it across the kitchen, where it ricocheted off a cabinet and spun under the cooker.

‘Darling! It’s what he wanted. Wait! He was worried you’d react like this. He wrote you a letter!’ She shoved an envelope into my hand as I tore through the front door.

I ran down the street, my feet slamming against the pavement, as if a monster was hard behind me. I didn’t look back; I ran in terror of the horrors I’d left behind. As I neared the end of the street, my lungs on fire, I saw the small path that led to the park and swerved down it. Hidden from view of the house, should my mother come after me, I doubled over against the wall and tried to catch my breath. My mouth still tasted of vomit; I could feel pieces stuck behind my gums and my throat burned with the acidity of the bile. I retched once more into the bushes and waited for my breathing to slow.

The playground was deserted and there was a bench near the swings. Straightening up, I walked slowly towards it, my breath still ragged. The trees, bare for winter, surrounded the playground like a garden of dismembered witches’ hands, the branches like fingers beckoning; reaching towards the primary colours of the children’s play equipment. I sat down and took out the envelope. It was sealed, my name in Dad’s writing on the front. Slipping my finger under the seal, I opened it and pulled out the letter. A single sheet, handwritten.

My darling Evie

If you’re reading this, your mother must have told you that I chose to take my own life. I didn’t want her to tell you but, if she has, she must have had her reasons. I was riddled with cancer, Evie, it was everywhere, and I didn’t want to wait for it to take me. You have your own life; I didn’t want you and your mother spending weeks or months glued to my hospital bed while I wasted away in a haze of drugs and pain. Your mum and I agreed years ago that we’d rather just go quickly and quietly when the day came and—well—the day came
.

When I found out the cancer was terminal, I had no option. I hope you can forgive me for not telling you. I knew you’d try to talk me out of it. I knew you’d want to research treatments that would just prolong the agony by a few months. I knew you’d argue and I didn’t want to be argued with and, ultimately, I didn’t want you to carry the guilt of allowing
me to do it. Evie, you’re a wonderful daughter. I’m so proud of you. I’m so proud of everything that you’ve done. I know I didn’t always show it, especially after Graham, but I loved you more than anything. Please go through the rest of your life knowing my love is always with you
.

Daddy

I looked up at the grey sky, at the silhouettes of the trees above me, and all the pain, the anguish, the frustration and the shock spilled out of me in a howl that had no language.

‘Luca! Luca! Open the door!’ I bashed his bell three times, then banged on the wood with my knuckles. ‘Please be home. Please, Luca! Open the door!’ I slumped against the door, my forehead resting on it, my knocks getting smaller as I sank to the floor.

Then, the sound of footsteps on the other side, the lock clicking; Luca’s socks in front of me.

‘Hi, I was just—Evie! What’s wrong? What’s happened?’ He pulled me to my feet, led me into his hallway and held me by the arms, looking into my face. ‘What happened? Evie, are you hurt?’

But there were no words. ‘Dad …’ I tried. ‘Mum … I …’ I collapsed against Luca’s chest, sobbing, while he stroked my hair.

Luca finally pulled away from me. He led me by the hand to his sofa and sat me down on it. He turned my face to his and traced his fingers over my cheeks. ‘You’re safe now. What can I get you? Some water?’ I nodded, and he brought a glass. I took a few sips.

He rubbed his hand up and down my back. ‘You’re shaking.’

I realised I was freezing, my body racked with shivers. ‘A bath,’ I whispered. ‘Can I have a bath?’

‘Of course. Wait here.’ Luca went off and I heard him moving about in the bathroom, the taps being turned on, water moving through the pipes. He came back and led me by the hand to the bathroom, where he helped me step out of my clothes and supported me as I climbed into the bath. His tub was big and I sank gratefully under the water, submerging my head completely. The nothingness of being underwater was soothing; right now, it was a world I preferred. I stayed under until my lungs felt they would burst. Then I took a breath and sunk back under. Is this what it felt like to suffocate? When I finally resurfaced, I saw Luca had put a cup of tea on the side of the bath.