The Wreckage

29

Elizabeth has pillows propped behind her and bedclothes pulled across her lap. Despite the painkillers she feels as though someone has taken a baseball bat to her during the night. Everything below her waist hurts. Everything above the waist is numb. Claudia Rosaline North arrived just before midnight, weighing in at seven pounds with all the required fingers and toes: minus only a father.

There are two detectives waiting to see her. The older one looks like an undertaker. The younger one has blond, cropped hair and nice eyes, which he casts down deferentially, uncomfortable in her presence.

“We’ve got some bad news, Mrs. North,” says the older officer.

“Is there something wrong with Claudia?”

“Who’s Claudia?”

“My baby.”

“No, I mean, we’re not here about your baby.”

Elizabeth can hear herself changing the subject. Making conversation.

“I thought it was a bit odd, them sending detectives instead of a doctor. This must be about my husband.”

The younger officer takes a deep breath. He almost speaks but doesn’t. He leaves it to his more senior colleague.

“Your husband’s body was found last evening by police divers not far from where they recovered his car. This is now a murder investigation.”

Silence.

Maybe he says more. Maybe he says nothing. The words go missing. All Elizabeth can think about is the cruel nature of the timing, to have lost a husband and gained a daughter on the same night. The car. The river. The blood. Pausing for a moment, her head bowed, shoulders sagging, she braces herself for tears but they don’t come. Instead an oddly comforting thought occurs to her.

Yes, North had been unfaithful, but he hadn’t abandoned her. He was coming home. Maybe she would have listened to his excuses. Forgiven him. Taken him back.

How quickly her circumstances have changed. Ten days ago she had been a reasonably contented, stay-at-home mother with an enviable life. Not perfect-what marriage ever is? Now she can recognize the countless foretellings, the innumerable small breaks from normalcy, the telltale signs of disintegration and decay. North’s chin unshaved, his long hours at the office, the second bottle of wine opened on a weekday night… One evening she found him in tears, but he wouldn’t tell her why. “Just a sad day,” he told her. “I’m allowed to have sad days.”

Elizabeth’s phone keeps beeping. Text messages. People are starting to send congratulations. Soon they’ll be sending commiserations. There’s an interesting dilemma: What card do you send a new mother and a widow?

The detectives apologize again and say they’ll want to interview Elizabeth when she’s out of hospital. It is all so very polite and civilized. No hysterics. No recriminations. They leave her alone and she stares at the ceiling, feeling divorced from herself, watching the scene rather than playing her part. From along the corridor she hears the scuttle of little feet. Rowan hurls himself into her arms.

“I saw Claudia,” he announces excitedly. “She’s got a squished-up face.”

“All babies look a little squished.”

“When can I play with her?”

“She’s a bit small to play with, but she’ll grow up quickly.”

“Is mine Daddy here?” he asks.

“No.”

“Doesn’t he want to see Claudia?”

“I’m sure he does, but Daddy has gone away. He’s in Heaven.”

“Where’s Heaven?”

“It’s where people go when they die.”

“Is mine Daddy dead?”

“Yes.”

“Is he coming back soon?”

“No, sweetheart, people don’t come back from Heaven.”

“What about angels?”

Elizabeth doesn’t know how to answer that question. She can see the complete trust in her son’s eyes, wanting to learn and believe, every day a new adventure. At that moment something damaged inside her finally breaks.

Alistair Bach is standing in the doorway. Mitchell appears behind him, carrying flowers. Elizabeth speaks quietly and calmly.

“Get him out of here. I don’t want to see him. I never want to see him.”

Bach tries to intervene, but Elizabeth stops him. “Stay out of this, Daddy.”

“I’m just saying that, whatever you think has happened, you should remember that Mitchell is family.”

“Don’t try to guilt me,” she says sharply. “North is dead. I know he’s involved.”

Mitchell wants to defend himself but doesn’t know how to begin. The look of contempt on Elizabeth’s face is too much for him. He places the flowers on a chair and leaves without saying a word.