Jude squeezed his hand. ‘It doesn’t, actually. Not at all. It’s exactly how I feel when I sing.’
He reached out an arm and placed it gently around her, and she told herself to stop thinking about the future and let herself enjoy the night – and Bertie. Even if it was just for a few hours, she’d found someone she could have a real conversation with; a connection that was more than just physical.
The waves crashed in her ears, and she leaned back against Bertie’s chest and closed her eyes.
CHAPTER SIX
ELLA
After my shower, I crawled into bed with Dolby and grabbed my book. As a child, books had always been my shield against the images waiting to ambush me at night. Now they were a comfortable companion, gently lulling me off to sleep. This time, though, the book I was reading lacked its usual anaesthetising power. When I did manage to fall asleep, I jerked awake after what felt like just seconds, my heart beating fast as I struggled to take in air. Dread seeped through me, and I sat up in bed.
I’d had the dream again – the dream that had played in my mind for years, starting the night after my mum had left me.
It began with her walking into the sea in the black of the night. I was on the beach, trying to call out to her, but the howling wind swallowed my voice. Mum kept walking, waves crashing into her, higher and higher, until one went right over her head, enveloping her in dark water. I tried to run, but I couldn’t move. I could do nothing but watch the waves, praying to see her head re-emerge, unable to do anything to save her.
When I was younger, I always awoke screaming and crying. Carolyn and Rob would run to me, Carolyn cradling me in her arms even as I pushed her away, with Rob biting his lip and his face creased with worry. Carolyn always asked me to tell her what the dream was about, saying talking about it would make it less scary. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t begin to explain I was dreaming that my mother was dead. That would make it true.
The dream stopped when I’d finally accepted that my mother was dead . . . when I’d finally stopped hoping. The scenario that had played out in my subconscious was no longer a nightmare but a reality.
I crawled from the warm covers and padded to the window. The sea was dark except for white foam capping the waves, and I shivered as I stared at it, feeling exposed and vulnerable. Before I could stop myself, I yanked the blinds closed and burrowed back under the covers, pulling Dolby’s warm body up against me.
This was ridiculous. My mother had been gone for thirty years. My mother had been dead for thirty years, and any hope – any longing to see her once more and have a mother again – had vanished ages ago. I was over the swamp of fear, the panic and the desperation I’d lived in for so many years as a child. Life was moving forward, carrying me with it, and it would take more than a random advert to burrow through my barriers and plunge me backwards.
But in the days that followed, I felt just that: plunged into the past again. My mum’s voice lingered in my brain, those ten words looming larger each time I closed my eyes. The comforting, soothing concoction of safety, trust and love I’d felt in my mother’s arms slid over me – a feeling I hadn’t had since she’d disappeared – followed swiftly by the brutal see-saw of hope and loss that had engulfed me when she’d gone.
And instead of providing an escape, the nights made it worse: every time I sank into sleep, I was pulled into that same old dream of waves breaking over the top of my mother’s head as I screamed in vain. I’d awaken with Dolby crouched under the bed in fear and my pillowcase soaked in sweat.
I told myself over and over that I was past it all, but my subconscious wouldn’t listen. I went into work early and left late, but even the huge list of sound files to digitise didn’t distract me. In fact, I’d made my first ever mistake at work after cataloguing the files in a completely different era, then accidentally deleting the whole folder when I’d tried to move them. Luckily, we’d been able to restore them.
‘Are you all right?’ Jane had asked, tilting her head to look closely at my face.
‘I’m fine,’ I’d said, although I knew I looked anything but. Nights of little sleep had left dark circles under my eyes, and I’d run a hand through my hair so much I resembled a hedgehog. I’d neglected to do my weekly shop, which meant my familiar packed lunch was now down to three Babybel cheeses I’d found in the back of the fridge. I’d been so off-kilter lately that I’d forgotten to do my usual Wednesday night load of laundry, so I was sporting a T-shirt that a diplomatic person might say was ‘a little snug’. I looked a mess, and that was exactly how I felt inside, too. For God’s sake, I’d almost forgotten to feed Dolby this morning.
‘Just . . . er, well, just be careful next time you add a file, okay? Siobhan almost lost a few months’ work.’ Jane had looked uncomfortable giving me a warning, since I’d never made a mistake before. I prided myself on my concentration and my accuracy.
‘Okay.’
Jane had given me another look and then backed off, and I knew she didn’t believe I was fine any more than I did.
Because for the first time in years, I wasn’t fine. I could decry it as much as I liked, but seeing that advert had punctured the neat, ordered bubble I’d been living in. A chink somewhere in my subconscious had allowed those ten words to penetrate, igniting the charred remains of memories I’d thought had long since burned out but were obviously still smouldering. And those memories of my mother’s death and the painful aftermath were burning now, trying to consume the defences I’d worked so hard to build; the life I’d worked so hard to build.
I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat and I couldn’t work. All my attempts to ignore the flames and carry on as usual were failing, and I couldn’t keep going like this. I needed to find a way to put out that fire for once and for all . . . to patch up my armour and get my life – get me – back again.
But what could I do?
I drew my knees to my chest as my brain whirled. Perhaps instead of trying to run from the memory of my mother’s death, I should invite it in full force. It might sound implausible, but I’d never allowed myself to wonder why my mother had killed herself, and I’d never permitted myself to remember that day. I couldn’t, if I ever wanted to move forward. And while my efforts might have worked as a stopgap to let me live the life I wanted, clearly it wasn’t a permanent solution.
Clearly, some part inside of me still needed rooting out.
But . . . I wrapped my arms around my legs as hesitation filtered in. Was I prepared to fully abandon my defensive stance? To ask the questions I’d buried and bring back that day – the day my mother had died; the day the waves had broken over her head and the sea had swallowed her under?
I had to. I had to, if I ever wanted to return to normal. By knowing what had happened, my subconscious would finally be at peace and the dream would disappear for ever. I’d have my life back again.
I crossed to the window and opened the curtains. I wasn’t a hurt, confused little girl any longer. I knew my mother was gone, and years had passed since she’d died. That advert with those ten little words may have stirred up something inside me, but I was stronger.
I’d douse the flames with the truth of the past. It was time, and I was ready.