No Kiss Goodbye (19 page)

I shake my head.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Laura,’ Ava shouts.

‘I’m not stupid,’ I retaliate angrily.

‘No one is suggesting you’re stupid, Laura,’ Nigel whispers.

‘Not stupid, my arse. Only stupid people steal children,’ Ava adds.

Nigel ignores Ava. Maybe he thinks she’s being rude, too.

‘I didn’t steal him,’ I explain dryly. ‘I saved him. His mother is a drunk.’

‘Okay, okay,’ Nigel says calmly. The crackle of his voice dilutes his fake composure. ‘Maybe you did save him, but we have to take him to the police now.’

‘No way,’ Ava screeches. ‘We can’t get the cops involved. You know that.’

‘The cops don’t care about him as I do,’ I say, sitting on the arm of the sofa and stroking his matted hair with my fingertips.

‘We have to take him back down to the train station,’ Ava says coldly.

‘Christ, he’s a little boy not a stray puppy. We can’t abandon him,’ I scold.

‘We don’t have many options here,’ Nigel interrupts. ‘His welfare has to come before all other crap, Laura. We have to take him to the police. They can trace his mother or put him into care if necessary.’

‘No cops,’ Ava bellows.

I shake my head repeatedly at every word that passes Nigel’s lips.

‘There is no other way,’ Nigel bellows, finally showing signs of temper.

Lorcan begins to cry, and I pull his head onto my knee and stroke his cheek to comfort him.

‘He stays with me,’ I say. I mean it. I have no intention to leave him. Ever.

Nigel throws his arms in the air and lets them flop lifelessly by his side, pulling his tall frame down with them until he’s hunched like an old man. ‘I don’t know what to do anymore, Laura. I just don’t know.’

There’s a scratch in his voice, and I suspect he is referring to more than just the boy.

‘I’m his mother; I know what is best for him,’ I snarl.

Nigel’s finished arguing. He looks at me with pain in his eyes.
I prefer his arguing
. His stare hurts my soul. It’s an expression I know because I’ve seen him wear it before. A burning headache ignites in my skull. More memories race around my mind like pages of a scrapbook flicking open. I rock my head roughly from side to side, hoping to shake them away. I don’t have time for this crap now. I have a child to care for.

Nigel says just one word. ‘Mother?’

My heart stings, and my head feels too hot. ‘I mean, I
am
a mother. I know what’s best.’

‘He can stay for the afternoon. We can get him washed up and get something for the poor little lad to eat. But after that, Laura, we have to take him to the police, okay?’

I know Nigel is no longer making a suggestion. He’s decided on a plan and his tone makes it clear he’ll tolerate no further discussion. I agree to his kind offer even though I do not intend to stick to it.

I take Lorcan to the bathroom to get cleaned up, but I don’t miss Nigel grabbing his phone as soon as he thinks my back is turned. I need to move quickly.

Lorcan loves the silky bubbles of the bath. He splashes and laughs, and on a couple of occasions, he worryingly dives head first into the water. The bath water turns a murky greyish blue. I can hear Nigel pacing outside the bathroom door on his phone. I’m enjoying Lorcan’s excitement, but I hurry to get him out. I reach for a large towel and cradle his painfully thin body in the soft cotton. He smells as good as fresh cut grass in springtime, and I find myself kissing his little head with affection. He beams from ear to ear and a twinkle of innocence sparkles in his big, blue eyes. I feel his dependence; his need to be cared for. He needs me, but I need him more. I ache to fill the void in my heart. A happy little smile from a content child is the perfect fit.

His own clothes are too soiled to even attempt to wash so I bin them. Thankfully, jeans, jumpers, and even a pair of air-cushioned trainers litter the couch where Nigel has laid them out. I didn’t ask him to pick up clothes for Lorcan, but I appreciate his help. I’ve no idea how he managed to do it so quickly. I didn’t even notice that he left the penthouse.

I enjoy rummaging through the bright colours to find an outfit that would highlight Lorcan’s soft curls and long legs.

Lorcan helps examine the clothes for a short while, but his attention is easily drawn back to a plate of biscuits and loud cartoons. He’s content. I guess it’s possible that for the first time in his short life, he’s not hungry. My heart aches as I stare at him. He’s a rather attractive child. With his big eyes and a chiselled chin, he could easily have passed for my own son. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I could well believe he was mine.

I sit for a long time on the couch with him – one eye on Nigel and one eye on the television. I laugh along at the silly antics of the fictional characters of the colourful cartoons and eat so many chocolate chip goodies that I think my stomach will explode. I hadn’t smiled so genuinely in a long time. As darkness fell, Lorcan laid his head on my lap, and within minutes, he was sound asleep. I changed the channel on the television and prepared to relax for the rest of the evening.

I ignore the noise coming from the kitchen. I suspect Ava and Nigel are arguing about what to do with Lorcan. I don’t care what either of them suggests because it’s irrelevant. By tomorrow morning, the problem will no longer be of their concern. I map out my escape plan in my head and smile happily as I kiss Lorcan’s sleepy forehead. We will leave before dawn. I know that Lorcan and I will be safe together; everything else I can worry about later.

It’s been a long time since Mark and I shared the same bed, but the loneliness of waking up in our bed without him stings even more than usual. I toss and turn in the solitude. Every fibre of the mattress irritates my exhausted body. I know it’s early. It’s still dark outside, and the street is absent of any activity. I hope I’ll drift back to sleep, but my mind turns to thoughts of Mark sleeping in the spare room. I forcefully pin myself to the bed. I’m afraid that if I move, I’ll lose the battle I have with my heart that begs to be beside him. I imagine lying with his arms around me. I ache so much to feel him. Missing him is becoming a physical pain and it is overwhelming sometimes. I torture myself with the same futile thoughts as yesterday morning and the morning before.
Why has everything gone so wrong? How have I let so much slip away from me? How could I repair the damage I know I’m causing?
I’m alone. I’m so horribly by myself, and I hate it.

I scrunch my eyes tight and run my hand back and forth over my aching head. I try hard to concentrate on happy memories. I want to go to my feel-good place that Doctor Hammond and I spoke about, but my brain is refusing to cooperate. Images of a little, white box with shiny, blue handles begging to be opened parades across my mind. I want so desperately to open the box, but I can’t raise my arms to lift the lid. I realise I see this poignant, little box more and more often. Maybe it’s time I told Ava about the strange box? Maybe she would understand what it means.

I look at my watch. It’s eight thirty. I shoot from the bed and jump onto the floor. We’re late – as usual. I face the unflattering prospect of dropping Lorcan to school with my pyjamas still bulging out from under the grubby tracksuit I pull on over. I wander around the room in circles a few times looking for my slippers. When I’ve spun around so many times I feel dizzy, I decide to give up and sit on the bed. I allow myself to relax for a moment and savour the silence. Once I wake the kids, the house will buzz with noise and a headache will be an instant certainty. This is my favourite part of the day. It’s the only five minutes of the twenty-four hours in a day when I can hear myself think. I crave a little more me time.

I wander into the hall and begin to walk with my eyes still half closed towards the kids’ room. I swerve automatically to avoid the mule post of the stairs that I’ve banged my hip on way too often. Unfortunately, my manoeuvring is a little overenthusiastic, and I began to trip. I reach out to grab the post, hoping to break my fall, but I feel the hard smack of the floor when it meets my jaw. I shake off the pain and look around. There was no post to grab, there were no stairs to navigate, there’s nothing familiar. I’m not at home in the comfort of my own house preparing for my daily routine. I’m standing in striped pyjamas in the centre of Nigel’s posh bloody apartment with my children stolen from me on the other side of the ocean. A giant, golf ball-size lump forms in my throat and tears blur my vision.

I race back to my room and shut the door behind me. A horrible darkness creeps over my eyes, and I know I am going to pass out. I’m beyond tired now, so I embrace the feeling. I lie down on the soft cream carpet and close my eyes. Maybe I’ve been wrong to fight it all this time. Maybe I’m fighting the truth. Perhaps if I face the darkness, some light will follow. Maybe I’m thinking bullshit now, but I just don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. Everyone around me scares me.
Hell, I even scare myself.

Ironically, this time I remain awake and I continue to think of a happy morning at home with the kids. A light knock sounds on my bedroom door and a small hand struggles to twist open the handle. Lorcan pops his little face around the opening door and his bright smile makes my heart jump happily.

‘Breakfast is ready,’ he says cheerfully.

‘Okay,’ I say, returning his smile. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

‘Okay.’

I can hear his little legs barely graze the tiles as he happily skips away. I glance at my watch again. Eight forty-five. I can’t tell if it’s Irish or New York time. I realise with stinging eyes that no amount of rubbing them will clarify the time for me. A few stubborn rays of light break through the heavy fabric of the curtains. It’s morning. My plan of escape has failed to materialise. I will have to reformulate.

I can smell freshly baked bread as I enter the hall, making my mouth water. Nigel is standing in the kitchen proudly sporting an oversized
Everybody loves the chef
apron. I can’t help but giggle. At first, I worry that I’ll offend him, but I relax when I hear him snort, revealing a muffled laugh.

‘Fancy a scone?’ he asks.

I nod eagerly.

Lorcan sits contently on a tall stool at the end of the countertop. He’s dressed smartly and his hair has been brushed. He has one of the cushions off the couch under his bum to give him some extra height. The side of the cushion is covered in sticky blackcurrant jam in the distinctive pattern of little fingerprints, but Nigel doesn’t seem to mind. I’d been quick to judge Nigel when we first met. I assumed he was a sumptuous bachelor and ladies’ man. He may have been all those things, but he was so much more, too. He is kind and thoughtful and wonderfully at ease with Lorcan. An ease rarely found outside the bond of father and son. Nigel really seems to be enjoying the challenge of caring for a five-year-old.

‘You’ll make a great dad someday,’ I say as I sit on the stool next to Lorcan and begin to dust away the scattered crumbs from around Lorcan’s plate.

‘Thanks,’ Nigel mumbles, reluctant to accept the compliment. ‘Butter or jam?’

‘Sorry?’ I say distractedly. I’m almost unable to pull my stare away from Lorcan’s beautiful eyes to look at Nigel.

‘For your scone. Would you like butter or jam? I have strawberry, blackcurrant, raspberry…’ Nigel trails off noticing I’m not listening. ‘Laura?’

‘Sorry.’ I apologise again. ‘Strawberry would be lovely, thanks.’

Nigel places a hexagon-shaped plate in front of me. The warm scone sits beautifully presented in the middle with a few fresh strawberries resting on the side.

Lorcan announces quite loudly and with a mouth full of half-chewed pastry that he’s full. He hops down from his chair and trots away to watch more cartoons. He has become a master of the remote control and can find all the kid’s entertainment channels with the flick of a button. I feel myself grow increasingly uncomfortable with his absence. My legs tremble as I force them to remain still instead of racing after him. My head tells me to mind my manners and politely eat breakfast. My heart tells me to grab hold of Lorcan and never let him out of my sight. I settle on a compromise. Forgetting to excuse myself from the table, I pick up the fancy, china plate and carry it towards the sitting room.

‘Where you off to?’ Nigel asks.

I point towards Lorcan.

‘Don’t tell me you’re a massive
Tom and Jerry
fan, too?’ Nigel asked excitedly. ‘I’ve loved them since I was a kid.’

I pause for a moment. An overexcited love for an old television show is far more admirable than a possessive obsession with a little boy. 

‘Yep, you’ve found my darkest secret. I’m a huge
Tom and Jerry
fan,’ I lie.

‘Really?’ Nigel continues, more than a little unconvinced.

‘Yes, really,’ I snap.
What the hell does a stupid cartoon matter? Why does he care so much
?

‘Who’s your favourite then, Tom or Jerry?’ he quizzes.

‘Tom.’

‘Oh, me too. I love that mouse.’

‘Yeah, he’s a great mouse?’

‘Wrong,’ Nigel moans. It was a new, almost aggressive Nigel. A Nigel I didn’t know existed.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Tom is the cat. Jerry is the mouse,’ he says sternly.

‘Okay, thanks for the education.’ I frown, not following where his strange questions were leading.

‘You’re a huge
Tom and Jerry
buff, yeah? So much so that you can’t sit at the table and enjoy a meal with me because you might miss an episode. It’s just funny that you don’t know which character is which, that’s all.’

I’ve no idea what I’ve done to irritate Nigel so much. Perhaps he’s a stickler for breakfast etiquette. He’s certainly not as transparent as I first thought. I think I like this three-dimensional Nigel more.

‘Sorry.’ I apologise, embarrassed. ‘Let’s eat?’

I place my plate back on the table and sit down. I hope my edginess isn’t painfully obvious. My fingers tremble as I spread the jam over the crisp, white scone. I hate raisins, but I try to ignore their shrivelled brown heads peeping at me from the corner of the otherwise delicious treat. I bite deep, filling my mouth completely. My stomach heaves as I try desperately to force the lump down my throat. I’m going to be sick. I can’t contain it any longer.

I cover my mouth with my hand and force my chair back quickly. As I turn my back on him, Nigel catches the plate containing my nibbled scone and flings it to the floor. The shrill smash startles me. I forgot the woes of my temperamental tummy and turn to face the mess.

‘What the hell?’ I shout, more angry than shocked. He’s broken the plate solely to get my attention. It’s irritatingly dramatic. Nigel isn’t a threating person, but fear begins to boil inside me nonetheless.

‘What the hell is right,’ Nigel bellows, his face puce with temper. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

I scan the room for any hint that the commotion may have woken Ava. I wait and wait but everything is eerily still. Nigel catches my pathetic glances. His eyes soften. He picks up the stool he’s also knocked to the ground and offers me the seat. I reluctantly sit down.

‘She’s not here,’ Nigel says very matter-of-factly.

I look at him almost cross-eyed. ‘Who?’

‘Ava! That is who you’re looking for, right?’

I nod.

‘She’s not here.’

I shake my head. I don’t know why.

‘Jesus Christ, Laura, she’s not fucking here. You can’t use her to save you. Save your goddamn self for once.’

I don’t understand what Nigel means, but the cruel resentment in his voice brings me close to tears.

‘Enough,’ he snaps. ‘I’ve seen enough tears to last me a lifetime.’

His anger just makes me cry more.

‘Why are you doing this?’ he asks.

‘Doing what?’ I don’t understand.

‘Torturing everyone. I know it’s hard. Of all people, I know. But damn it, it hurts for everyone. You’re not the only one in pain and you’re making it worse for us all.’

Nigel hits a nerve. For a second, a flash of guilt radiates brightly in my mind, but it dims quickly. I have nothing to feel guilty for; I’m the victim. My life is destroyed. I’m entitled to sulk if I want to.

‘Where is Ava?’ I stammer.

‘I told you already. She’s not here.’ Nigel slams his hand so hard on the counter all the cutlery shakes. He’s making it very clear that he doesn’t appreciate my asking.

I try not to let his fury intimidate me, and I continue to quiz him about Ava’s location.

‘You know exactly where she is, Laura,’ Nigel insists.

What?
Ava didn’t tell me she was going out. I don’t bother to contradict him. This is yet another side to him. And this side isn’t nice like the others. If I ask any more questions, then it might make him even angrier.

I take a scone from the basket on the counter and stuff it roughly into my mouth.

‘There,’ I stutter through the dry crumbs. ‘I ate breakfast with you.’

Nigel rolls his eyes. ‘Drama queen.’

The insult is strangely familiar, as is choosing to ignore it. I hate him at that moment.
Who is he to judge me?

I exhale a couple of times, each large breath calming my frayed nerves. I’m finished with this pointless argument. Nigel’s opinion is uninvited and doesn’t even make any bloody sense. I know he is judging me. He probably started the minute I stepped into his place. But I don’t care. I don’t need him. After today, I won’t need anyone… just Lorcan.

I hop down from the stool and away from Nigel like a sulking child. Thankfully, Lorcan hasn’t heard Nigel’s outburst. Or, if he had, it didn’t bother him. He’s happy to remain curled up on the couch watching television.

‘You can’t keep him,’ Nigel says, following me.

Oh, fuck off.

I shrug my shoulders dismissively and continue walking.

‘You can’t replace one child with another,’ he adds.

I spin around. Ferocious temper seeps from my every open pore. ‘You bastard. How dare you?’ I scream. ‘I love my kids. I would never replace them. NEVER.’

Nigel falls silent and hangs his head.

‘I’m leaving. Now,’ I say, my heart working like a jackhammer against my ribs.

‘Honey, time to go?’ I call, catching Lorcan’s attention.

A small, sad frown curves his cherry lips. He’s clearly unimpressed that I’m interrupting his viewing, but he gets up and begins to walk towards me. I grab his petite hand in mine, my knuckles whitening from the tightness of my grip. Lorcan yelps softly and pulls his hand away. I hurt him. It was an accident, but that’s a useless excuse, especially to a crying little boy.