The woman’s eyes ran over her, the bruise that’s flowering yellow and blue on her cheek, the arm cradled in its sling. Then back up to her face, now with a new look.
And Cecilia wanted to cry.
“The people…” Cecilia’s voice came out small and uneven.
“The ones on the plane?”
Suddenly the air was filled with the scream of engines and bitter cold wind. Cecilia blew out a breath, slow. “Are they…?”
The woman looked down at the paperwork in front of her. Then back up. “I’m sorry, my love, but they’re gone.”
A sickening feeling, the sense of falling. “Gone?”
“No, no. I don’t mean…they’ve been released. They’ve gone home. Most of them were minor injuries. I…” Looking back down. “Most of them.”
Cecilia stared at her, knew what it was that she was trying not to say. That the passengers either had minor injuries. Or they died. That there was no in-between.
“Here we go. There’s a lady still here. Mrs Collins.”
Mrs Collins. Maisie. Skin so cold it seemed to sear, drifts of snow that climb up her bare legs. “Where?” Cecilia’s hands were shaking, must be from the cold and she tucked them into her coat.
The woman was looking at her, like she wanted to cry or to hug her and Cecilia took a step back. Just in case. She was nearer the door now, close enough to feel the swish as it slid open, the cold blast of air. Could she smell burning?
“Maisie Collins. Ward…nine. If you go straight on past me, take a left and then up the stairs.”
She turned in the seat, gesturing along the corridor, then looked back at Cecilia, face locked into a sympathetic smile, and a look like she was expecting something further, confessions or tears or something. Cecilia tugged her coat tighter around her, began to walk. Didn’t look back.
Maisie was gazing out of the window. Small, frail, lost inside the oversized hospital gown. Her face was blackened, lips twitching as if saying a rosary.
Cecilia stood, at the entrance to the ward, feet sinking into deep, deep snow. Now there was definitely burning, the acrid smell scraping at her throat. She wanted to turn, but couldn’t do that either, couldn’t seem to do anything but stand there and stare at the tiny woman. And the tears that had begun to track down her cheeks. She looked grey. Like she was already dead.
Then Maisie gave a little sob, so quiet that you wouldn’t hear it, not unless you were listening for it.
“Maisie?”
The old woman’s head swivelled, unsteady, wobbling on a spring. There was a look there. Cecilia realised with horror that it was hope.
“Ernie?” A moment as Maisie focused. “Is it Ernie? Have they found him?”
“I…”
“I’m sorry, love. I’m sorry. I thought that you were here to say that you’d found my Ernie. You aren’t, are you? I’m sorry, pet. I’m awful worried about him, see. But then, I expect he’s gone to another hospital. You know, rather than this one. Can’t expect this one to take all the survivors in. NHS being what it is. That’s what’s happened I’m sure. Don’t you think?”
Cecilia couldn’t seem to think what to say. But she moved forward, unstuck finally.
“Do I know you, pet? You look awful familiar. You a nurse, are you? So many of you about I forgets who I’ve seen and who I haven’t.”
“It was the mountain.” Fire, ice, snow. “I was the flight attendant…”
Maisie squinted at her. “You held my hand. When it was snowing. You held my hand, didn’t you?”
Cecilia hesitated. Shattered cabin crackling with electrical wires hanging free, swinging. Barely able to breathe for the smell of jet fuel. The middle aged man who sat, stock still, eyes wide, fingers gripping onto armrests that were no longer there. Pulling him bodily to his feet, back bowing under the weight of him. Knowing that she was about to die. She nodded.
“I remember. I remember you.” Maisie nodded, certain suddenly, then glanced down and back up, less certain now. “My Ernie. You didn’t see him, did you?” She looked past Cecilia. “I can’t find him.”
“I’m sorry, Maisie.” Cecilia sank into the chair at Maisie’s bedside.
“Well, now, always has been a one for wandering off. Sixty years. Sixty years next year we’ve been married. I was seventeen. Cute as a button, mind. Skinny. Skinny, skinny, skinny. And there was Ernie. He’d just left work. An engineer, he was.”
Cecilia glanced down, twisting her wedding ring. Remembering. She had only been back in Wales for a couple of weeks. She hadn’t wanted to meet a man; had been the last thing she’d wanted in truth. Had run back across the Severn bridge because it was safer, skin still crawling with the thought of Eddie. She wasn’t sleeping. Couldn’t sleep because when she slept there were the dreams; fingers grasping at her, pulling, a sharp pain. Laura had invited her out, let’s go for a quiet drink. It’s time we caught up. Cecilia hadn’t wanted to go, couldn’t face the thought of the crowded bar, the bodies pressing in on her, the eyes that seem to undress her. But her mother had pushed. You’re turning into a hermit. Go. Staying in this house, day in, day out. People will be thinking you’ve had some kind of breakdown. So she had gone. Laura hadn’t said that she was bringing her husband; did they do everything together now? Was that how it worked? She hadn’t said that her husband was bringing a friend.
“Love at first sight. That’s what it was. Love at first sight. He was all dirty, all oil on his hands, under his nails. And, do you know? I thought he was the handsomest man I’d ever seen. Even with all the dirt.” Maisie laughed. “Can you imagine?”
Her eyes had skirted across him. His narrow build. She liked broad shoulders. Chestnut brown hair with a slight curl. She liked dark hair. She’d closed in on herself, boxed in like this. Had barely looked up from her drink.
“We were married six weeks later.” Maisie shook her head. “You married, love?”
“Yes.” Cecilia’s voice came out quiet. “Tom. He’s…he’s a policeman.”
It was about a month from that meeting to the next and she had been as little prepared for that one as she had been for the first. She had locked her keys in the car, buried them inside plastic bags full of Tesco shopping. Stupid. Was standing in the rain in the car-park, gentle drizzle gathering strength, a full on storm threatening on the horizon. She was just about to cry, when a quiet voice had said “are you okay?”
Was it that she needed rescuing? Was that why she had turned with a smile he hadn’t seen before, allowing him into her life, if not with open arms then at the least with a tacit acceptance.
“Good man?”
Cecilia looked down at her ring. “I guess. It…we have a little boy. We…it happened before. Before we married. I found out, that I was pregnant I mean. So, we just, we got married.”
Their fledgling relationship had made it to three months. Barely. Seemed like they had hardly scratched the surface of who the other was. Had gone to dinner and to the cinema and once to the theatre because it was something that Tom had thought that she would enjoy. A distraction, a rough approximation of a relationship, that lasted as long as it lasted and then simply stopped because Cecilia stopped answering her phone and Tom stopped leaving messages.
Then the sickness had begun. An uncomfortable rumbling at first. The feeling like she was walking through clouds. And that little blue line that spun her world.
“Ah.” Maisie watched her. Seemed like she was seeing right through her. “It’s tough then. Tougher when you don’t get the time to figure each other out first. Before the kids.”
“Yes. I…we, we’ve been trying.”
“Well, you do, love, don’t you? That’s what we all do. Try. There wouldn’t be a marriage around if it weren’t for people working hard at it. You can’t love them every minute of every day. It is work, a lot of the time.” She peered at Cecilia. “I’ve got a girl. My daughter, Caroline. She would be here. If she could. She’s busy, you see.
She’d be here otherwise. She said that on the phone. But with the kids, as well. Two little girls. Lovely little girls. Lovely.” Shook her head. “Keep you busy kids do.”
“Yes.”
“How old is your little one, pet?”
“Ben. He’s two.”
Cecilia hadn’t wanted the baby, couldn’t have the baby; she knew before she
knew
. How could she have it, when every time she looked at it she would see the other one? And even if she had wanted it, she didn’t deserve it. How could she, after what she had done? And kids pick up on that kind of thing, they knew when you had secrets, and they knew when you weren’t good enough.
“It’s…Sometimes it’s like I just don’t know how to do it. How to be a mother.” Cecilia could hear the words, said in her own voice, but they came from so far away. Surely wasn’t possible that it could be her. “I want to. Now, I mean. I didn’t, back when I first knew, but now I want to so much. But,” A sound escaped her, more like a sob than anything else. “I just don’t know how to do it.”
It had all gotten away from her. Once she had told Tom, after that it had happened so fast. And then she couldn’t get out of it, counting down the days on her calendar. Two weeks to make her mind up, one week, three days, then, suddenly it was over, and not making the decision had made the decision and she was going to be a mother. Then she was getting married and moving into a house and getting bigger and bigger, and all the time this feeling was building in her. Horror. Like she wants to jump out of her own skin. Leave her body to this thing that has taken over her life.
“Oh my,” said Maisie “it’s a tough job. And there are no guide books. And no one can ever prepare you for it.”
Cecilia had watched her son, had held him, had changed him and fed him. All the while with this feeling nestling in her stomach that he knew. His wide open eyes staring at her, seeing right through the shiny made-up veneer, through to the fractured soul of her. And she knew that he could see it, that she was damaged and broken and that she had already failed one child and so would inevitably fail him as well. So it got easier and easier to hand him to Tom, let his oh so capable father do all the things that she was so afraid of getting wrong.
“But the thing is, love, you’ve just got to muddle through. And I think some people are just naturally confident at motherhood, they just figure they’ll pick it up. Then there’s the rest of us, and for us it’s scary. But, I tell you, even the most confident ones, they’re just making it up. Same as we do. But for the kids, all that matters is the showing up. The being there, day after day. Even if you aren’t perfect. Kids don’t mind that. What matters to them is that you keep trying, just keep showing up.” Maisie shook her head, then looked past Cecilia towards the door. “I don’t know. It’s a pity. That my Caroline can’t come, I mean. But like I said, she’s busy and what with the girls and all…” Maisie twisted the bedsheets in her hands. “Anyway, I expect it won’t be much longer now.”
“What won’t?”
“Well, that they’ll come and tell me that they’ve found my Ernie. He’ll probably come himself. He’ll insist. Very protective, is my Ernie. No. It won’t be too much longer now.”
Cecilia sat for a moment. Then leaned forward and took Maisie’s hand in her good hand. A deep breath, and a glance up, a swift smile. “I’m sure you’re right, Maisie.” She lied. “I’m sure that he’ll be here any time now.”
Chapter 18
Freya – Saturday, 17th March – 9.33am
Freya pulled a loose fitting sweater over still damp hair. Citrus green. She tugged her hair up into a bun, twisting loosely, looping it with an elastic band. Stooping down, pulling brown leather boots from the bottom of the wardrobe, stuffing her feet in, holding onto the wardrobe door for balance.
What was going on with your father?
She could still feel the reporter’s breath on her neck, the soft fleshed man’s patent shoes clip clopping behind her. Her slippers sliding on slush. Pressing her fingers against bitter cold wood, warmth of the house hitting her in a wave. Pushing the door shut, cutting off the voices that still called her name.
What was going on with your father?
She’d slept fitfully. There had been dreams of crashing planes and snow on fire, that jolted her awake, that allowed her to drift back into soft sleep, then yanking her back again. Had he made a mistake, some kind of terrible error that had brought his plane tumbling into the mountains? Freya had lain, staring at the ceiling, wanting so badly to believe that it was the plane, that, in spite of all his faults, her father had fought hard, railed against some mechanical failure that had eventually proven too much for him. It would be the plane. He was a good pilot, in spite of what the dough-skinned reporter had said.
Freya had almost convinced herself, had almost allowed her eyes to settle closed. Then she had thought about the night before the flight, her father’s car and her mother’s little Fiesta missing from the drive when she had returned home, a little after eleven. Coming home to a house that felt wrong, cold and empty. Richard was staying at a friend’s, had told her that this morning. But still she had expected something, some form of life. She had slipped up the stairs, pushing open the door to her parents room, thinking that she would check on her mother, because Mum worries when Dad goes out, when he forgets to call. But finding only an empty bed, duvet still pulled taut across the mattress.
Freya had stood there for a moment, trying to remember. They must be out together. Her mother must have told her and she had forgotten, that was all. Still that strange feeling in her stomach, of the world being a little off its balance. She had gone to bed then. They were grown ups, would return when they were ready. But still had lain awake, waiting even though she hadn’t meant to.
Her mother had returned about an hour later. Had known it was her from the clip clop of her heels on the tiled kitchen floor. Freya had listened, waiting for the sounds of her father’s heavier step. Had heard nothing.
They hadn’t talked about it, when they woke up the next morning. She hadn’t asked her mother, because in truth that just wasn’t what they did. They didn’t poke, or pry, they let things be. Her father hadn’t come down for breakfast. Still hadn’t surfaced by the time she left for the University.