Coming Home (37 page)

So we talked, my questions starting slowly but building to a torrent. Zoe portrayed Dad as deeply conflicted; torn between two women he wanted to protect in different ways; torn between his two children.

‘I think having Tom made him realise how far he’d distanced himself from you after the accident. And it became even more important to him to hold on to you,’ she said. ‘If it hadn’t been for you, I suspect he would have left Carole eventually. But he said she was—how to
say it—”unstable”?’ Zoe said this carefully, checking my reaction as she said it. I averted my eyes—an admission, maybe—and she continued. ‘He was petrified she’d stop him from seeing you, and he didn’t want to drag it through the courts, not after what you’d all been through with your brother’s accident.’

I didn’t say anything.

‘It may have been an unconventional set-up,’ she said, ‘but your father tried to do what he thought was best for everyone. He was a good man, caught in an impossible situation.’

‘How?’ I asked. ‘How did it come about in the first place?’

‘Please don’t think I planned this. I never meant to get involved with him,’ she said. ‘It takes two, Evie. It wasn’t just me. Your father was lonely. He felt very guilty about the accident. Carole was—’ she searched for a word ‘—”unable” to support him. He needed someone and I was there. For a while it stayed platonic, we’d talk for hours after classes, but we were drawn to each other on every level. I know it was wrong, but I don’t regret it. And I don’t regret having Tom. I would never have wished you harm—I would never have let Rob take you from your mother—but what I wish is that Rob had handled it better; had found a way to put an end to the lies. We both hated living with the lies. But, as I said, he didn’t want to lose you. You were his top priority.’ She paused. ‘There were times when I hated him for that, too.’

‘So why did you put up with it? Why were you happy to
play second fiddle? You could have ended it; found someone else.’

‘Ohh,’ Zoe sighed. ‘I tried. Trust me, I tried. Rob never stopped me from seeing other men—in fact, he encouraged me to. I dated other guys, but I guess I was never emotionally available to them. Rob was the only one who did it for me. My heart was tied up with the father of my son. Is that so terrible?’

As she talked, I began to see that she wasn’t the bad guy. That if I held the past against her, I was only going to harm my growing relationship with Tom. I had to let it go. My gut instinct when I’d first met Zoe outside the church had been right: she really did seem to be a nice person. And why wouldn’t she be? She was, after all, the woman my father had loved.

Thank you,’ I said at the door. ‘Really, thank you.’

‘Thank you for giving me the chance,’ she said, giving me a little hug. ‘Take care, Evie.’ Then, ‘Hang on!’ She dashed up the stairs once more and came back down with Dad’s photo album. She held it out to me. ‘Would you like to keep it?’

‘Would you mind?’

‘Of course not. It should be yours. It’s how your father remembered you.’

‘Thank you.’

As the door closed behind me, I realised I’d found out what I wanted to know. I’d found out what it was that Dad
had seen in Zoe: this was not some steamy, passionate affair, at least not these days. Zoe was not an overtly sexual being. The attraction possibly wasn’t even intellectual. What Dad had seen in Zoe was far more ethereal. Dad had loved Zoe because she was everything that Mum was not: she was stable.

I
walked slowly towards Mum’s new house, my feet dragging as I reached the driveway. I’d arranged for Luca to pick me up in a bit; my packed suitcase was already in his car. He’d offered to come with me, but this was something I wanted to do alone. My feet crunched over the gravel; I stepped onto the front step, took a deep breath and touched the bell, listening to the sound reverberate inside the house. I heard Mum scuffling about behind the door, then it opened and I looked up at her.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Evie.’ She held her arms out and I stepped forward. She held me tight, but from my side it was perfunctory. My body was stiff, my arm bent up behind her like a boomerang; my cheek turned away. She released me and I stepped into the house.

‘Thank you for coming back,’ she said. ‘I thought you might leave without saying goodbye.’

‘I just need to pick up some things.’

‘It was what he wanted, Evie. I did what he wanted.’ She followed me back into the house; called down the passage
after me. ‘One day you’ll understand. It wasn’t my decision to make.’

I turned in the doorway of my room, my voice exasperated. ‘Look. I see why you did what you did. OK? But that’s as much as you’ll get from me. Don’t push it. It doesn’t mean I condone it. It doesn’t mean I forgive you. You’re lucky I’m not telling the police. Please let’s never mention it again.’

‘OK, Evie. OK. Thank you.’

I took what I needed from my room without emotion. I’d spent only a couple of nights here and the room didn’t feel like mine. I looked around at the bland décor, the unfamiliar curtains and carpet. Nothing to miss. I closed the door behind me. There was no connection. For me, this house would always be tainted with the news Mum had delivered in the kitchen. I didn’t know if I would ever come back.

‘Do you still have the key to the old house?’ I asked Mum.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I’d like to have a last look.’

‘Sure,’ she said. She rummaged in the dresser and pulled out the old, familiar set of keys. ‘Here you go. Can you just check everything’s off as well? The lights and stuff? And make sure there’s nothing left behind?’

The air was cold and crisp. I walked down the street breathing it deeply into my lungs, knowing it would be a long time until I breathed such fresh, cool air again. I was looking forward to going back to Dubai, to getting away from Woodside. Mum’s confession had changed everything. The magazine was going from strength to strength; we were looking at launching franchises across Asia and I was set
to be doing a lot of travelling for work in the months and years to come—all further East, away from England, away from the mess of my family.

Where that left Luca and me, I had no idea, but I hoped that time away would lessen the hurt I’d felt about my parents’ multiple deceits. I was already some way to forgiving Dad. I bet he struggled every day to live with the decision he’d made about Zoe at what was, I suppose, a time of heightened emotion: Tom was born the same month that Mum tried to commit suicide; he must have been conceived three months after Graham’s death. I think Dad genuinely believed he was trying to do the right thing for all of us. Under the impression—as we both were—that Mum was vulnerable, he’d tried to protect her, with more long-lasting consequences than he could have foreseen. I was glad, when I thought about it, when I reached through my own ego and hurt, that Dad had been happy with Zoe.

I hoped I’d be able to find a way to forgive him for not letting me say goodbye.

At the old house, I stood in Graham’s room and looked around, trying to imprint every last detail on my mind. This was where I’d always come to connect with Graham, to talk to him, and my chest tightened to think this would be the last time. I lay down on the floor, on the carpet where Graham’s bed had been, and looked up at the ceiling he would have seen when he’d lain in that same position. I closed my eyes and, for a second, I heard a whisper of the
noise and laughter that had filled our childhood; saw myself bounding into his room, stocking in hand, on Christmas mornings, yelling ‘Wake up! Wake up! What did you get?’ I pictured his sleepy face changing from confusion to joy as he realised Christmas morning had finally arrived, and I smiled.

‘Bye, big brother,’ I whispered.

The only furniture now left in Graham’s room was the fitted wardrobe. Standing up again, I opened the doors and half expected Graham’s tennis racket, shoes, clothes and boxes of Action Men to spring out as they always used to. But, aside from the rack of floor-length dresses Mum had kept in there for special occasions, the wardrobe had been empty for years. I stretched up to sweep my hand along the dusty top shelf and my fingertips touched on something hard. I grappled to get it, but succeeded only in pushing it even further towards the back of the cupboard.

I couldn’t leave without seeing what it was. Maybe it was something of Graham’s—an old letter to Santa or the tooth fairy, a piece of artwork, notes on a game we were playing, a letter he’d left, like our time capsule, for future occupiers. But there was nothing left in the house for me to stand on, nothing for me to use to grasp it so I went downstairs, hunting for something to use. The house was bare but I found a small stick under the hedge outside—it would have to do. Standing inside the bottom of the wardrobe to gain a couple of extra inches, I stretched my arm awkwardly around the top shelf and shoved the stick as deeply into the shelf as I could, sweeping it around until I felt the object
hit the back wall. Pushing the stick down on it to get some purchase on whatever it was, I dragged it towards the edge of the shelf, where I grabbed it and slipped back onto the floor, breathing heavily with the effort. I’d overextended my shoulder and it hurt.

My reward was a brown paper bag, the sort shops used to give you before plastic became so common. The top was folded over twice. I opened it and pulled out a pink, girls’ diary with a shiny silver lock on it, two tiny keys dangling. Also inside the bag was a birthday card, the envelope unsealed. My name on the front. ‘Happy birthday, Sister,’ said the printed greeting. Inside, Graham’s best ten-year-old joined-up writing: ‘Dear Evie, Sometimes you’re a pain but I’m glad you’re my sister. I’ve made a copy of the key, ha ha. Gray’.

I swallowed, tears misting my eyes. Nineteen years ago, Graham had sworn he was saving his pocket money to buy me a lockable diary. I hadn’t believed him. I stared at it, stroked its cover. I imagined him choosing it in the corner shop, picking it up and paying for it; carrying it home for me; hiding it here. I sank to the floor, hugging my pink, lockable diary to my chest.

Downstairs, the letterbox banged in a sound that was as familiar to me as my own voice. Post fell onto the mat. Closing Graham’s door behind me, I checked the other rooms, closed all the doors and went down the stairs. I stopped in each room, trying to remember scenes from
our family life, but I struggled. Without the prompts of the furniture and our possessions, it was just another house. I checked the heating and hot water were off, half closed the street-side curtains, picked the letter off the mat, shoved it in my bag and left, locking the front door behind me.

I walked slowly back to Mum’s. Luca’s car was parked outside; he was leaning against it, busy with his phone.

‘I’ll just give Mum back the keys then I’m ready,’ I said.

Mum must have been watching for me. She opened the door and stepped out onto the gravel. I handed her the keys.

‘It’s all fine.’

We hugged stiffly.

‘When will you be back?’

I shrugged. ‘Not before the summer. I’m going to be busy at work … travelling …’

‘Well. Safe journey,’ she said. ‘Look after yourself, darling.’

‘Bye.’ I turned and walked to Luca’s car.

‘T
his is it.’ I turned to Luca at the security door in the airport departure hall. ‘You can’t come any further.’

‘Yep.’ He pulled me to him and hugged me tight. I clung to him, breathing in his familiar smell and then I stepped back.

‘Will you come back?’ Luca asked.

I took his hands and looked into his eyes. If I’d learned one thing in the past six weeks, it was the importance of being honest with those you love.

‘I was planning to come back,’ I said. ‘I was planning to wind things up in Dubai and move back. I wanted to see if … you know … you and me …?’ Luca was staring at me, his eyes devouring my face. ‘But I just can’t be near Mum right now. You understand that, don’t you? For the first time in twenty years, she doesn’t need me. And I don’t want to be near her. I need to stay away for a bit.’

Luca was shaking his head. ‘You’d been thinking of coming back? For me?’

‘Yes.’

He grabbed me. ‘Oh, Evie! I didn’t even dare to hope. We’ll make it work! I promise! We’ll make it work long-distance if we have to. And when you’re ready to come home, we’ll
get a place together, or maybe we’ll move somewhere else. Away from Woodside. Whatever it takes!’

I laughed, tears spilling down my face.

‘Hey, don’t cry,’ Luca said. ‘It’s good news!’ He brushed my cheek with his fingers, kissed my eyes. ‘I’ll come and visit. I’ll take some pictures of those skyscrapers of yours. See what all the fuss is about.’

‘We’ve got flamingos.’ I tried to smile. ‘We don’t have swans, but we have pink flamingos.’

‘Even better. I’ll come and photograph your pink flamingos. I’ll look at flights as soon as I get home. I promise.’ There was a pause; we stared at one another as if we’d never seen each other before. ‘I love you, Evie Stevie,’ he said.

I stood on tiptoes and kissed him softly. ‘I love you too, Luca Rossi.’

On the plane, in darkness somewhere over the east of Europe, I remembered the letter. Much of the cabin was sleeping, but I was restless, my knitting needles flashing in the pool of the reading light. Stabbing the needles through the wool, I rummaged in my handbag and pulled out the envelope. The letter was addressed to Dad, on hospital stationery. I slit it open with my finger.