J
ess was only a kid.
She’d looked about fifteen years old. So young. So little. I don’t know what I had expected. She’d become something mythical in my mind, I realized. Monstrous. She wasn’t any of those things. She was just a kid. An unhappy kid.
I don’t think I’d ever hugged her before. Maybe when she was really little. If I had, I couldn’t remember it. But I hadn’t thought twice about it, there in her hotel room. As soon as I saw her, I wanted to forgive her. I did forgive her. As I’d walked up the four flights of stairs, I hadn’t been sure what I would say, what I wanted to happen, what would happen.
But then I saw her. And we didn’t speak at first. We just stared at each other and in those five or ten seconds, I remembered her with Felix. All the times she played with him. All the dancing and clowning she’d done with him. How much she had loved him too. And as I looked at her, I understood something for sure. It had been an accident. A terrible, tragic accident.
She started talking before I had a chance to say anything. She told me over and over how sorry she was, how much she had loved him, how much she wanted to change everything that had happened. And I told the truth. I told her that I knew. I did know.
I didn’t stay long. I don’t know what else we could have said to each other. Not then. Not there. We’ll have to talk again. I know that too. I will need to hear from her all the details that I’d needed to hear from Aidan. I’ll need to be able to picture that afternoon through her eyes. I’ll need to hear her say sorry again. I know that.
I didn’t say much to Charlie and Lucas about it. There wasn’t much to say. I told them exactly what had happened, what I’d said, what Jess had said.
The car was silent at first and then Charlie said thanks. Simply that. “Thanks, Ella.”
I looked at Lucas. “Good girl,” he said again.
I said good-bye to them in front of the airport. I told them I’d ring as soon as I could. I didn’t know when that would be. I didn’t know if I would be ringing with good news or bad news.
Charlie hugged me good-bye and told me he’d call as soon as he got back to Boston. “I love you, Ella.”
I hugged him close and told him I loved him too.
“Say hello to Aidan from me.”
I said I would.
“And from me,” Lucas said, when he hugged me good-bye.
I thanked him. For more than he knew.
He just hugged me again and wished me a safe trip.
I was in the departure lounge an hour later, about to start boarding, when I remembered. Something I’d read in Aidan’s manuscript. Something I hadn’t known about. Jess’s tattoo.
It was suddenly urgent that I ask her something. I got the number of her hotel and rang, just as my flight started boarding. I was put straight through to her room.
“Jessica Baum speaking.”
“Jess, it’s Ella.”
“Ella! Are you okay? Have you missed your flight?”
“I’m about to board. Jess, your tattoo—”
“Did Mum tell you about it? Ella, I’m sorry if you’re angry about it. I just wanted—”
“I’m not angry.” I wasn’t. One day perhaps I’d even ask to see it. “What does it say, Jess?”
“It’s his name. Just his name. On the spot where I used to measure him, when I used to get him to stand beside me to see how much he’d grown. Do you remember?”
I remembered. “Jess, which of his names? Your name for him or ours?”
“Yours. Felix. It says Felix. I thought it had to be his full name. Was that okay, Ella? You don’t mind? Would you rather I got it changed to Elix? I will if you want me to. It’s just I was the only one who ever called him Elix, so I didn’t think it was right—”
“You don’t need to change it, Jess.”
There was a last-call boarding announcement behind me. She wished me a safe trip and told me to take care. I told her to take care in return.
The flight was seven hours long. I didn’t read or watch a movie, have a drink or a meal. All I needed were my own thoughts. I landed at ten and went straight to the airport hotel. I was asleep by midnight, awake again by six, on a shuttle bus into Manhattan and at Penn Station thirty minutes before my nine a.m. train to Washington was due to leave.
I’d been to New York only once before, on a weekend trip while I was first living in London. I’d loved it. This time, I was in a hurry to leave. I forced myself to notice details: yellow cabs and NYPD cars, newsstands selling the
New York Times
and
USA Today
. The skyscrapers. The crowds of people everywhere. I heard the honking of horns, the sirens. In Penn Station itself, there were commuters, homeless people, a hubbub of different accents and languages. I was in New York but I was thinking about Washington.
I was thinking about Aidan.
I’d never been to Washington. I couldn’t imagine him there. I couldn’t picture the two of us meeting somewhere in the city, sitting down in a bar or restaurant. Where would we meet? My hotel? His apartment? Somewhere neutral? I’d seen films and TV programs set there, seen dozens of photographs of it in newspapers and magazines, seen it on TV news bulletins. I knew its landmarks, the White House, the Capitol, Arlington Cemetery. I’d heard it described as the most European of American cities, with long boulevards and majestic buildings. The Paris of America. But I couldn’t imagine being there myself.
During the flight, I’d made a decision. I was going to ring Aidan before my train left. I wanted our first conversation to be in person, not over the phone, but I’d missed that opportunity in London. I’d tracked his movements. He’d have arrived home from London yesterday afternoon, Washington time. He probably started work at nine or ten in the morning. Even if he had slept late after his flight, he would be awake by now.
I stood on the platform, beside my carriage. I dialed his cell phone number. My hand was shaking.
He answered after three rings.
“Aidan O’Hanlon.”
“Aidan, it’s Ella.”
There was a long pause. “Where are you?”
“In New York. I’m about to get the train to Washington.”
He didn’t say anything. I thought for a moment I’d lost the connection.
“Aidan?”
“I’m here, Ella.”
I wanted to tell him that I’d got his manuscript. That I had read every word. That I had got back to the hotel too late to see him. But I couldn’t say any of it when I couldn’t see his face.
“Aidan, would you meet me? Anywhere that suits you. Whatever time that suits you.”
“I’ll come to you. Where are you staying?”
I didn’t know the name of the hotel. The booking form was at the bottom of my bag. I thought of the only place in Washington I knew I could easily find. I couldn’t risk missing him again.
“Could we meet in front of the White House?”
He gave a soft laugh. “Fine. In front of the White House. At four?”
I’d forgotten how beautiful his voice was. “Four is great.”
“Great. See you then.”
“See you then.”
My heart was beating faster as I made my way to my seat. My palms felt clammy. It had been either the hardest phone call of my life or the easiest; I didn’t know which. I didn’t know if he’d talked to Charlie or not. But it was done. We’d spoken. The arrangements were in place. As if it were a business meeting. Or as if we were two people who had once known each other very well.
I spent the journey looking out the window. Spring was slower in coming here. The trees were still bare. As we made our way toward Washington, there were even signs of snow on roadsides, in fields here and there.
His manuscript was in my bag. I could have read it again. I didn’t need to. I’d already known every scene, every conversation, every moment he described. His story was my story.
I arrived at Union Station in Washington at one p.m. It was like entering a classical museum. I stopped in the main concourse, looked up, turned around. The building was three stories high, with sweeping arches and a soaring roof. There were marble busts and statues around the walls, decorated with gold leaf. I felt like I’d been transported back in time. I expected to hear classical music playing, to see women in long gowns, men in dress suits.
Outside the station it was very cold. The sky was a bright shining blue but there was a wind so icy my coat barely felt warm enough. I took a taxi to my hotel on Ninth Street. I checked in and went up to my room. I couldn’t sit quietly. I couldn’t settle, couldn’t keep still. I would go out for a walk instead. Just around the block. I’d stay close to the hotel. Any sightseeing could wait. I just needed to keep moving.
I walked until it was three thirty p.m., until it was time to go to our meeting point. I’d checked my map three times. I made my way along the city streets until there it was. The White House.
It was different from how I’d imagined. Smaller. It surprised me that tourists were allowed to get so close. There was security—cameras, guards with guns—but I was able to walk right up to the fence and look through the rails at the building itself. I’d seen news footage of state cars pulling up in front, the president and his entourage walking in. It was less grand in real life.
I was early. It was only a quarter to four. I made myself take deep, calming breaths. I watched tourists come and go, heard other people also remark that it looked smaller than they expected. There were all nationalities, but the majority were Americans. A woman and her husband came close to me to take their photos, first her in front of the railing, and then him. I asked if they wanted me to take a photograph of them together. They accepted. I was glad. Another few minutes filled.
“It looks different on TV, doesn’t it?” the woman said as they took up their pose.
“That’s because they don’t usually show it from this angle,” the man said. “They show the front of it on TV.”
I froze. “This isn’t the front?”
“No, ma’am. The front’s, well, at the front. This is the back.”
I thrust their camera back at them, apologizing. I checked the time. It was three minutes to four.
I ran. I ran faster than I’d run in years. I was wearing boots with heels. It didn’t matter. Aidan had waited long enough. I couldn’t make him wait any longer.
I ran down Fifteenth Street. I ran past the souvenir vans selling T-shirts, the food vans selling drinks and hot dogs, the tour buses lined up in a long row. I ran past the boundary fence, turned right onto another path, saw another long fence, a big fence this time. I saw the view of the White House I recognized. The curving front window, the pillars, the big fountain, the sweeping driveway.
Hundreds of people were standing in front of the fence, posing for photographs. Tour groups, family groups, pairs of travelers, single visitors. I couldn’t see Aidan. Had I got it wrong again? Had we said the back of the White House?
I couldn’t make another mistake. I was breathless but I had to phone him. He answered after one ring.
“Aidan, it’s me. I got it wrong. I’m so sorry. I went to the back of the White House first, not the front, and now I can’t find you.”
“Turn around, Ella,” he said.
I turned.
He was standing five meters away from me. He was in a long dark coat, wearing a dark blue scarf.
I had given him that scarf.
He wasn’t smiling.
I dropped my phone. I dropped it and I ran to him. I ran right into his open arms.
O
f all the photographs of the White House taken by tourists between four and four thirty that afternoon, a quarter captured a couple standing on the edge of the crowd. They had their arms around each other. They were holding each other tightly.
Video footage would have shown the couple talking. Talking over each other. Stopping. Starting. Interrupting. As though they both had so much to say, so much to hear.
If there had been sound, the first words heard would have been from the woman, tall with short dark hair, saying, “I’m sorry, Aidan. I’m so sorry.” And the man, dark-haired, in a dark coat, saying, “It’s okay, Ella, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
If a film crew followed them for the rest of the day, it would have recorded them walking, arm in arm, through the city. Not to any of the landmark sights. They went home. Back to his home.
Inside, they took off their coats. He offered to make tea, and she said no, thank you, she was fine, and then she said, “I’m not fine, Aidan.” And he said, “Nor am I, Ella.”
And he cried then, in his wife’s arms, for a long time. And she soothed him, again and again.
They held each other, arms tight around one another. They kissed, slow kisses, coming-home kisses. There was the slow removal of their clothing. They moved into his bedroom. They made love slowly, tentatively, as if they were getting to know each other’s bodies again. They were.
She didn’t sleep in her hotel room that night. She canceled the rest of her booking. He called his office, spoke to his friend and was given a week off. As much time as he needed.
They spent most of the next week in his apartment, staying close. They talked and cried and they even began to laugh again. Small remembered jokes found their way into their conversations, funny stories about their son that made them smile, that even made them laugh out loud once or twice. They had always laughed a lot, before it happened. They learned they could still laugh together now.
They didn’t mark an anniversary that passed. An anniversary of twenty months of loss and heartbreak. They’d marked those feelings every day already.
The day before her return flight, she rang the airline and postponed it for another week. After that, another week. She stayed for a month, until they both decided to make a journey back to London, to see her uncle Lucas, his friend Lucas. They spent three days in London, in her old bedroom, in the house where they had met.
Her half sister wasn’t there. She’d returned to Australia. Her stepbrother was back in Boston with his family too. Ella and Aidan were planning a trip to Boston soon.
They were also planning another trip, a week away, somewhere warm, somewhere sunny. Spain perhaps. Or Italy. They were spoiled for choice, with Aidan and his languages.
They were both looking forward to it.
They were looking forward to many things again. Together.