‘No. Not by the sound of it. You’ve told me what your routines are. You’re doing everything right. You’re just unlucky, that’s all.’ Dr Prashad’s voice softens. ‘This will pass.’ Stephanie nods wearily. ‘The important thing is that you take care of yourself during this time. Is there anyone who can help out? Can you get a sitter or a family member to watch the babies for a night – or even for a few hours – so you can get some sleep?’
‘We tried that. But I couldn’t sleep through the noise.’ The sound of her babies wailing in distress creates a visceral reaction in her that she simply can’t ignore. She glances at them now. The twins are fidgeting less in their buggy, starting to look drowsy. She has to leave soon so she can get them home and have a nap herself. The two or three hours she gets in the afternoon and the four hours between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m. are all she can count on. Most nights she sends her protesting, sheepish husband to bed by midnight and tries to handle the girls on her own so that he is able to go to work and function the next day.
After the appointment, she pushes the buggy out the door of the clinic to where she’s parked on the street. She settles the twins into their infant car seats, wondering if it’s safe for her to be driving – her reflexes have been dangerously slow these days. She’s so tired that after she fastens the babies into their seats and closes the two back doors, she almost drives away without collapsing the double buggy and stowing it in the boot. Jesus, she thinks, noticing the buggy at the last minute, sitting alone on the pavement. That would be a thousand bucks wasted. It’s not like it would still be here by the time she realized her mistake and came back for it. Get a grip, she tells herself.
With extra care, she drives the ten minutes from downtown Aylesford to the comfortable suburb where they live. She turns onto their street, then pulls into the driveway and stops the car. She glances in the rearview mirror and sees that both babies are asleep. Thank God.
She brings them inside and settles them in their cribs. Both are down soundly. Why can’t they do this at night? If she bundles them into the car late at night crying, and drives around town until they’re asleep, they wake up when they’re brought back inside. It’s the most frustrating thing. She’s never felt as powerless as she does in the face of a crying baby – or rather, two – who won’t be soothed.
Relieved, she grabs the baby monitor and makes her way to her own bedroom, ignoring the pile of unwashed clothes in the basket just inside the laundry room, and the rank smell of the diaper bin that fills up too quickly. She only wants sleep. She’s heard that people can lose their minds if they go long enough without it – they can start imagining things.
As her head hits the pillow, she wonders again why the smoke alarm in the kitchen didn’t go off the other day – Patrick had found nothing wrong with it – and then she is asleep.
CHAPTER THREE
PATRICK KILGOUR RETURNS to his office after an unsatisfactory meeting with a new client. He’d expected it to go better. But he seems to have lost some of his polish, his shine. Patrick had felt his business partner’s eyes on him during the presentation. Niall had given him a hard look afterwards. ‘Get it together,’ he said and walked away.
Patrick slumps in his desk chair and swivels around to stare out the window, blearily taking in the view: the two arched bridges spanning the Hudson River, and beyond them the Catskills, smudged in the distance. His eyes are burning with tiredness and his body feels stiff. Too many weeks of not getting enough sleep, and it’s taking its toll. Maybe he can call the client back when he’s got more energy, more focus.
It’s four in the afternoon and his lids already feel heavy. He swivels back to face his desk, looks longingly at the leather sofa along the opposite wall of his office for a moment, but then turns his attention to his computer, loosening his tie and opening the top button of his shirt. He’s got work to do before he goes home, where work is impossible.
He needs caffeine. He gets up and goes out to the reception area to make himself a coffee from the machine. There’s a woman waiting there, her head down, reading a magazine. He catches her out of the corner of his eye – her profile, that blonde hair – and does a double take. Fortunately, Kerri, the receptionist with the keen eyes, is not at her desk, and not there to notice. He’s reached the coffee machine, and now his back is to the woman. She doesn’t seem to be aware of him.
Erica Voss. He would recognize her anywhere. The sight of her has sent a spasm of disbelief through him. What is she doing here? It’s been more than nine years since he last saw her. The past suddenly crowds in on him.
He’s not sleepy now; he’s shot through with adrenaline. He wonders what will happen when she looks up from her magazine and recognizes him.
He hears Niall coming into the waiting area. Patrick will have to face her to make his way back to his office. He turns around slowly. She lifts her head, glances at him – not a flicker of recognition – and stands up, turning towards Niall. Niall is reaching his hand out to greet her.
‘I’m sorry – have you been waiting long? Kerri seems to be away from her desk,’ Niall says. He notices Patrick then, standing near the coffee machine. ‘I’m Niall Foote, and this is my partner, Patrick Kilgour,’ he says, gesturing towards Patrick.
Patrick’s throat is so dry that he can’t speak. He remains where he is, not stepping forward to shake her hand. He gives a brief, frozen smile. She still shows no signs of recognizing him, but he’s not fooled. She’s better at hiding her surprise than he is. He’d always admired her poise.
‘Ms Voss is interviewing for the temporary administrative assistant position,’ Niall says, and escorts her down the hall to his own office, oblivious to Patrick’s hidden distress.
Patrick hears the office door close and Niall’s voice become muffled. He turns back to the coffee machine, goes through the motions of adding milk and sugar to his cup, and notices that his hands are trembling.
What is Erica Voss doing in Aylesford? Last he knew, she was living in Denver.
He decides to go home early. He leaves the coffee on the table, grabs his briefcase from his office and leaves.
Stephanie wakes from a profound sleep to the sound of the front door opening. For a moment she’s disoriented. She looks at the clock on the bedside table: it’s not even 4.30 p.m. She sits up quickly, listening. The room is dark, the curtains pulled across the window. She can hear someone moving around downstairs. She glances at the baby monitor; the lights aren’t flashing, and the babies are still asleep.
She gets out of bed, a bit dizzy at rising so quickly, a combination of fatigue and low blood pressure. She walks quietly down the hall to the top of the stairs. She sees Patrick at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her. She can’t tell what it is exactly, but something about him seems different. Maybe it’s just that he’s home uncharacteristically early.
‘Did I wake you? I was hoping I wouldn’t,’ he says softly.
‘What happened?’ she asks as she walks down the stairs.
‘Nothing happened,’ he answers. ‘I just left early today, that’s all. I’m beat.’
‘Tell me about it,’ she says, reaching him and giving him a warm hug and a kiss. ‘How did the meeting go?’ He frowns, shrugs, and she feels a twinge of sympathy.