Page 16

Adam

It’s taken forever to get home after a two-car crash.

I tried not to rubberneck when I passed the accident but couldn’t help noticing the badly mangled Mini.

I parallel park, badly, further down our street, pondering the symbol I left for Sophie.

Should I have drawn it? What will she make of it?

Hopefully, she’ll realise I haven’t forgotten us , but she may not welcome the reminder.

I probably should have stuck to making a joke about coincidences.

There’s no point worrying about her reaction.

.. I didn’t leave my number or email for her to get in touch.

I turn off the engine, unclip the seat belt and fumble for my vibrating phone, which has slipped beneath the panda.

As I pick it up, Anna’s name disappears from the cracked screen.

She’s probably complaining about my lateness. I call up her WhatsApp message.

Are you nearly home? Wren is hurt. She may need to go to hospital.

I abandon the toy and my rucksack and jump out of the car, clutching my phone. Fear crackles in my chest as I run down the street and up our path. I fumble for my key but realise I’ve left it on the car seat. I hammer frantically on the door.

‘Anna! It’s me.’ I bang louder.

Footsteps tap in the hallway and the door finally opens. Anna’s hands and white blouse are smeared with blood. My stomach rolls over and my knees weaken.

‘Don’t panic, s’il vous pla?t !’ she says quickly. ‘This looks far worse than it is.’

‘Where is she?’

Anna points behind her and follows as I stagger towards the kitchen. Wren is perched on a stool, white-faced, her hand wrapped in a bloodstained tea towel. I try to embrace her, but she shrinks away as if stung.

‘W-w-what happened?’

Wren glances down, her eyes wet with tears. I hover as Anna tightens the fabric around her wrist.

‘Well?’

Anna pipes up when my question is met with silence. ‘She took the sharp scissors from the kitchen drawer and cut up her maman ’s clothes. She accidentally stabbed herself. The wound is très profonde , very deep. I’ve kept pressure on it for ten minutes, but it’s still bleeding.’

‘Why on earth would you do that?’ I gasp, staring at Wren.

She shrugs, avoiding my gaze. I spot a bundle of bloodied, ripped clothes next to the washing machine and look away as my stomach lurches.

‘Can I see, please?’

Anna lets go. My heart contracts as Wren tentatively stretches out her right hand.

I cup it in mine, carefully unwrapping the tea towel, which reveals a large gash.

Gloopy redness seeps out. My head swims, pulling me back to the scene of the crash when Tom and I found four bloodied, motionless bodies in the car and the other vehicle ablaze.

I steady myself against the counter, battling my light-headedness and the traumatic memories.

‘You’re right, Anna. I think this means a trip to A Wren is buried deep beneath the duvet.

‘I’ll put your mum’s stuff away,’ I tell her. ‘Unless you want to use one of her cardigans as a blankie? I’ve read that can help...’

Her head shoots out, her bottom lip wobbling.

‘No! Take it all away. I don’t want to keep anything.’

I stare at her, taken aback. ‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Yes, I do! There’s no point. Nothing smells of Mummy.’

‘Oh, Wren. I’m sorry... If I could rewind time, I would. I’d remember to tell Anna not to wash any of this.’ I raise my hands in despair. ‘I wish I could make everything better.’

‘You can’t,’ she says brokenly.

‘Why don’t you keep a few things? You’ll be sorry if we throw it all out.’

She shakes her head vigorously.

‘Well . . . I don’t know . . . I guess if that’s what you want?’

I move closer to offer a goodnight kiss, but she dives beneath the duvet again. I perform a U-turn and quickly stuff the clothes into the cardboard box before carrying it to the landing. I return to flick on the night light.

‘Goodnight, Wren. I lo—’ I stop myself in time.

Dad never used the ‘L’ word, whatever the time of day. He just said he was proud of what I’d achieved. Wren won’t want to hear ‘I love you’ from me and she’s never likely to utter those three words back.

‘Sleep well. Hope the bed bugs don’t bite!’

I manage to get the words out without choking on them, and leave the door open at precisely eight centimetres wide, per Carley’s instructions. I lean against the wall by the bathroom for a few seconds before scooping up the box and heading downstairs.

Questions pound my temples with every step:

Why didn’t I remember to tell Anna not to wash the clothes?

When will I learn how to be a better dad?

A better man?

Black dots swirl in front of my eyes and a roaring noise grows in my ears. I drop the container and grab the handrail as air is squeezed from my lungs.

Count backwards and forwards.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

I sit on the step, my head between my knees, until my breathing becomes calmer. Panda casts a pitying stare in my direction, the way he did in the dry cleaners when Sophie escaped out of the back door.

Sophie.

Her name is like a lifeline. I can almost hear her voice in my head, talking me through one of my old panic attacks.

You are safe. This will pass. Take it one moment at a time.

I shove on trainers, find my keys and jog down the road to my car, zapping it open. I snatch up the flyer from the passenger seat footwell and return inside. Sitting at the kitchen table, I re-read Sophie’s leaflet:

Sewing together scraps of a loved one’s treasured clothing is a wonderful way to keep their memory alive. A personalised patchwork quilt is a truly unique family heirloom, bringing comfort to those in need. It helps you keep someone close even when they’re gone.

Please get in touch to discuss sizes of memory quilts and prices.

Sophie saved me when I was sixteen... is there a possibility, however slim, she could come to my rescue again?

Before I can procrastinate, debating all the pros and cons of getting in touch, I tap out an email to the first, and last, girl I ever truly loved.

I take a deep breath and press ‘send’.