Stolen Child (14 page)

You have no concept of time. ‘Next month,’ you shout when David goes away again. ‘When is next month? Is it now? I want Daddy now!’

You sit defiantly on his office steps, knowing the office is empty but your face is mutinous when I try and persuade you to come back inside. Such tantrums, screaming and flailing, leaving me with no option but to carry you to your bedroom and leave you there until you quieten down. Then you cuddle against me and ask why Daddy keeps going away. I explain that he needs to find oil so that Mitch Moran, the man in the garage, who always gives you a lollipop, will have petrol to put in our car, and all the other cars in Maoltrán. For a while, at least, you seem to understand. You help me bake an apple tart and cut gingermen shapes from the leftover dough. I read stories to you at night and we laugh at
The Cat in the Hat
and
The Gruffalo.
We feed the swans and ducks on the river and build sandcastles on the beach. The days are long and calm. We are happy.

David brings noise into the house, the whiff of oil and
rock and hard earth. How loud his footsteps, how soft his laughter when he holds you. I ask him to put you down, afraid you will fall when he throws you in the air. You are not used to such boisterous behaviour but he catches you securely in his tawny arms and you shriek
Again, Daddy…again.
He marvels at how big you’ve grown in his absence and you dance together around the kitchen, your small feet planted securely upon his mountain boots. He carries you on his broad shoulders through the Burren, takes you to the ocean, and you return with bunches of wilting wildflowers tied to the handlebars. You look apologetic when you offer them to me, as if you are making amends for preferring his company to mine.

‘She needs company,’ he said tonight. ‘A sister or a brother. Whatever was wrong has righted itself. Why don’t we make an appointment and talk to Professor Langley?’

I’d demanded to know why you were not enough for us. How could he be so selfish and demanding? Had he forgotten the heartache we endured before you came into our lives? My voice was sharper than I’d intended and he stepped back as if my words stung his face.

Demanding? He sat on the sofa in the kitchen and drew me down beside him. ‘I’m trying to talk about our future,’ he said. ‘Even if we don’t have another baby, we can’t continue living like this. I don’t know what you want from me, Susanne. If you tell me, I’ll try and change whatever it is that makes you so unhappy.’

Tears glistened in his eyes but – perhaps – that was my imagination.

‘I’m not unhappy,’ I rushed to reassure him. ‘I have everything I need.’

‘And what about me,’ he asked. ‘What am I to you? Was I just a stud, convenient until you achieved what you desired?
Your bed was always a cold place, Susanne. But at least there was space in it for me.’

He is not good with words. They come out the wrong way and are difficult to forgive.

‘You still share my bed,’ I said. ‘And I never refuse you.’

‘Like a teacher,’ he said. ‘Offering me a star for being a good boy.’

It was a bitter argument. We’d kept our voices low. Afterwards, David moved back to his old bedroom. I’d made a comment but he claimed it was an accusation. Such a shame that you had to be the cause of a row between us, and over something so trivial. Usually, I have to coax you awake in the morning. You are a grouch until you finish your breakfast. Not when David comes home. Then you run to our room and leap into our bed, sprawl across his naked chest, cuddling under the duvet, clinging tightly to his lanky body. He sleeps only in a pair of boxers and for a little girl so finely tuned and imaginative as you, I believe it’s unseemly to lie so intimately with him. It makes me uncomfortable.

The colour drained from his face when I tried to explain how I felt. He accused me of trying to destroy the loving relationship he shares with you. His voice shook when he called me ‘a jealous, paranoid bitch’.

The accusation reverberates through my brain. How can he speak to me in that way? I did not suggest his behaviour is inappropriate. We both understand the coded nuances associated with that word. I’m positive I said ‘unseemly’. In the heat of the argument, he must have misunderstood. He immediately pulled his clothes from the wardrobe, turning his back on me when I tried to apologise, explain my point of view. Every word only added to the tension. I waited until he was in bed before entering his room. I sat on the edge of
his bed and placed my hand on his cheek. He turned away, as if my touch repelled him.

‘What do you want from me,’ he asked. His voice was low and hoarse.

‘I want us to be happy,’ I replied.

‘You and I will never be happy together,’ he said. ‘Joy was meant to hold us together…but the love we feel for her is the wedge that drives us apart. Why is that?’

Some questions can’t be answered, and I made no effort to do so.

‘You have destroyed the spontaneity I shared with my daughter,’ he continued. ‘When I’m away from home, earning the money you insist is necessary to refurbish this house, I think only of her, how she will run to greet me. I think about her laughter, her joy. You named her well but I will never be able to embrace her again without wondering what vile thoughts are going through your mind. I can never forgive you for tarnishing the love I feel for her.’

How many times is it possible to ask for forgiveness? I looked into his eyes and knew that our marriage was over. But we have time on our side…and we have you. You are our purpose in life. We will stay together for your sake.

We are home again. Canada was good. I felt free for the first time in years. The month flew. David visits Vancouver every year to see Joey but this was your first opportunity to meet your half-brother. The apartment we rented was within walking distance from Joey and Corrine allowed him to spend as much time as he wanted with us. At first, not being used to other children, you were cautious around him and his two sisters. But, gradually, you relaxed. You fought with Leanne and Lisa. ‘He’s my brother too,’ you shouted and demanded to know why Joey couldn’t live with us in Rockrose.

He taught you to write your name. ‘Just an E between us,’ he said, as you struggled to form the letters.

Visiting Whistler was the best part of the trip. While Joey and David skiied, you and I build snow boys and snow girls. ‘Joy and Joey,’ you chanted, and wrote your names on the snow…‘just an E between us.’

But the journey home was a nightmare. The air hostess tried soft drinks and lollipops. Nothing stopped you crying. In desperation, David searched our bags in the luggage rack and found the furry polar bear Joey bought for you at the airport. You clasped it in your arms and sobbed yourself to sleep. Why is it that you only cry for those you cannot have? I am here for you, my darling child. See
me.

I don’t know why or how…but the news broke tonight. The remains of Isobel Gardner have been found.

For three years Carla had steeled herself to hear such news. Now the waiting was finally over, the last flicker of hope blown out, the file closed.

The industrial estate where a crazed woman claimed to have abandoned Isobel three years previously was being razed to the ground. A complex of apartments and small townhouses would soon rise in its place. Tree-lined avenues and street lighting would replace the rubble-strewn paths and, according to the developers, there would be a water feature to admire and a small playground for children. But all that was in the future. Asbestos had been discovered in the roofing of some of the factories and the ground around a chemical plant had proved to be contaminated. Development work had been stopped until a thorough investigation of the site was carried out. In the process of this investigation, a tiny, fragile skeleton, badly degraded, had been discovered in the soft earth on the perimeter of the chemical plant.

‘The state pathologist is at the scene,’ Robert said. ‘We’ll know the results as soon as possible…but they’ve so little to go on…’ He placed his head in her lap and began to
weep. She noticed how grey his hair had become. Funny not to have noticed sooner.

‘The preliminary tests show she died within the first few days of life.’ Robert slowly gathered himself together and stood upright. ‘DNA tests are being done on the remains. We’ll have this information immediately the results come through.’

She wanted to cry with him but that would offer her some relief. Her body seemed incapable of seeking such comfort until the tiny bones were officially identified.

The media arrived shortly afterwards. Carla had no comment to make. She did not leave her house. All her phone calls were monitored by Leo before she accepted them. Her DNA was taken, such a simple procedure to establish such a momentous truth.

The baby was naked, not even a fragment of fabric had been found on her, but when the results were finally released, they were inconclusive.

Once again, they sat in front of Detective Superintendent Murphy.

‘I thought DNA was an exact science,’ said Carla. ‘Why can’t the tests reveal whether or not you’ve found our daughter?’

‘It
is
an exact science,’ the superintendent replied. ‘But this is a most unusual situation. You do realise that the area where the bones were discovered was contaminated by a number of dangerous chemicals?’

‘Yes. Robert explained everything to me,’ said Carla.

She tried to follow the lengthy explanation that followed. When a leakage of chemical fluids had occurred at the chemical plant, the seepage had gone unnoticed or unreported by the owners. An investigation to establish the facts was already underway. There would be repercussions; the superintendent’s
eyebrows beetled as he contemplated the punishment that would be meted out to the owners. But, sadly, the contamination had created problems and the forensic team who had examined the bones could not reach a definitive conclusion.

Carla was aware of phones constantly ringing in the background of the Garda station, and of Robert’s hand clenching hers, willing her to absorb the information.

‘Sadly, the bones were too badly degraded by their exposure to the chemicals to give us an exact result,’ said the superintendent. ‘We believe that the woman who made that call is the same person who buried the remains.’ He shook his head, still capable of being amazed by the random cruelty of people. ‘She is obviously deranged. I’m so sorry, Carla. So sorry.’

That night, Carla awoke in the small hours, her body jerking with shock. Rocks, slabs of rock, a dolmen tomb. She tried to hold the nightmare before it slipped away. She had been crouched underneath the leaning stone, unable to move as it began to collapse on top of her. Already the dream was breaking into watery particles, floating away from her. Something…a child crying…that was why she was underneath the stone…reaching towards that cry.

She sat up in bed and switched on the light. Robert, blinking, rubbed his eyes and squinted up at her.

‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I had a dream…’ Unable to continue, she buried her face in her hands.

He pulled himself upright and embraced her. ‘It’s okay…okay…you’re all right now. It was just a dream.’

‘No.’ Her voice steadied. ‘It was more than that.’ She drew back from his embrace and stroked his face. ‘That was not Isobel.’

‘What do you mean?’ His stubble grazed her skin as he moved his head sharply to one side. ‘Everything tallies.’

‘Everything
seems
to tally.’ Her hand sank limply into the folds of the duvet. She stared down at her fingers. She had been crawling, not crouching, under the slanting stone, her fingers clawing the earth, freeing her child’s cry. ‘But we don’t know for definite. Even the superintendent said—’

‘Carla, stop this right now.’ Robert sounded too weary to argue any further. ‘If you go into denial—’

‘Are you suggesting I’m delusional?’

‘I didn’t say that. Denial is an inability to accept facts. Delusional is a flight of fancy. Our daughter is dead. We have to bury her and grieve over her and then, Carla, we
have
to move on.’

‘No…’

‘
Yes.
I want to live with the hope that some day…but it’s not going to happen. I’m a policeman. I work with facts. And these facts are indisputable.’

‘How can you say that? Forensically, the results are inconclusive. That’s the only fact I’m prepared to accept.’ She lay back down beside him. ‘Why do you want this little scrap of bones to be our daughter?’

‘I don’t want it to be her. I just want an end to this interminable wait. Otherwise, I’m going to go crazy.’

She believed him. He was gaunt and depressed, utterly defeated, unable any longer to disguise his feelings over the direction their lives had taken.

‘A new beginning,’ Robert said after an inquest was held to determine the cause of death. The coroner had returned an inconclusive verdict and, as DNA tests could not definitively prove that the remains were those of Isobel Gardner, he was unable to give a ruling on her identity.

They accepted the remains as their own, and buried her. Carla refused to allow Isobel’s name to be mentioned throughout the bleak short service. They called her Angel and laid her to rest in the Angels’ plot in Glasnevin Cemetery.

The media hung around the perimeter. They had invested their emotions in the story of the Anticipation Baby and it was only fitting that they should witness its conclusion, said Josh Baker when Carla asked them to leave.

Grieving Mother Weeps as Anticipation Baby Buried.
Her tears dominated the pages the following day. She refused to look at
The Week on the Street
or the newspapers. But the headlines lied. She had been weeping for an unknown mother who had buried her child in that bleak industrial estate. She had wept also for Robert, who believed their search was at an end. He grasped this belief, unaware that it was their marriage, not her hope, that was ending. Only then did she realise the weight of the gift Gillian had passed on to her.

‘We go together to Australia or I go alone,’ he said when the inquest was over. An ultimatum. No going back. Strange that they had weathered the publicity following the revelation of her affair with Edward Carter but this find, this miniature tragedy with its own history, had snapped something inside Robert. It could prove the breaking of them. But that was too simplistic. Her marriage was over, and she had known it instinctively when Josh Baker walked across Sandymount Strand and held a microphone to her mouth. Since then they had been marking time, drifting towards this inevitable conclusion.

The desire they had known in the early years claimed them again, sweetened by the realisation that they could soon part. Neither admitted that their decisions were made, each hoping the other would be the one to capitulate and stay, capitulate and go.

In the end they compromised on a trial separation. He would go ahead and she would follow within a year. Then they would make a final decision on their future. They sold their house without difficulty. Before they moved out, Carla entered the nursery for the last time. A fine layer of dust lay over the cradle and the seahorses still danced, luminously restless on the slightest drift of air. Slowly, carefully, she unhooked the mobile and dismantled it. She wrapped each seahorse in layers of tissue paper and laid them in a box. She took them with her to her new apartment. She donated the cradle to Oxfam.

Her only feeling as Robert’s plane took off was one of relief. Her world seemed lighter, as if gradually the weight of other people’s sorrow was being lifted from her. It was similar to the emotion she had experienced when Gillian released her last battling breath and, as then, she knew her relief would be equally fleeting.

He joined the Victoria Police Department. He phoned her every morning, her day beginning, his ending. It seemed an appropriate portrayal of their lives.