Page 28

Adam

Memories of that night resurface. My voice was hoarse with fear as I called after Sophie in the lane.

Lily blowing Tom a kiss before the car sped away.

Minutes later, the sound of glass smashing and metal ripping rang out.

Tom and I ran after them and saw... I open my eyes, blinking away the harrowing images and sounds.

‘Erm... how was, is , the accident connected to maths?’ I ask.

Sophie touches her head, tossing curls to one side. ‘I suffered a head injury, and it caused irreversible brain damage.’

‘No!’ My hand automatically reaches for hers across the table. ‘I knew it was serious, but I honestly had no idea... I mean, I did try to...’

Our fingertips brush briefly before she shifts position. Our hands remain only a few inches apart, but the distance is painful.

‘It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt. I’ve learned to live with it.’

‘Is this the bad thing that happened before you went to university?’ Wren fixes me with a laser-like stare.

‘Mm-hmm.’

‘I still don’t understand,’ my daughter admits. ‘What does that have to do with sums?’

‘You don’t have to explain, Sophie,’ I say hastily.

‘I want to.’ She inhales deeply before speaking quickly. ‘My neurologist said the injury caused damage to an area of the brain that’s not usually used. The tear to the tissue must have activated these dormant nerve cells. When I woke up, I discovered I was good at maths, exceptionally so.’

‘I think I’ve read about this... well, something similar!’ My brain goes into autopilot, digging out the memory while my emotions churn. ‘Some people suddenly start speaking Spanish or French after a concussion, even though they weren’t fluent before.’

‘That sounds cool!’ Wren says.

I nod in agreement, attempting to process this info. ‘Erm, I guess it must be like developing a new superpower?’

Sophie takes a gulp of coffee. ‘Kind of. I started seeing the world mathematically. It means everything comes with a number.’

Wren wrinkles her nose in confusion as Sophie explains how she can see digits all around the room, including in front of her.

‘But there’s nothing there!’ Wren points to the space between us.

‘Only I can see them,’ Sophie admits. ‘Your floor has 121 tiles, this table is 1.3 metres by 2.5 metres and has a height of 75 cm, and you have 97,301 hair follicles on your head.’

‘How did you work that out so fast?’ Wren gasps.

‘It’s automatic. People have numbers too – you’re 4 foot 3 inches tall. You’ve grown 0.018th of an inch since I last saw you.’

My daughter’s face flushes with pleasure, and I’m trying to stop my jaw from dropping open.

‘It’s an amazing ability! I wish I had it. I’d finish my dissertation quicker.’

‘It has its drawbacks,’ Sophie discloses.

‘Such as?’

‘Nothing looks the same as it did before. I can’t turn off the figures when I’ve had enough. They’re permanent.’

‘Hmmm.’ I frown, trying to imagine what it must be like. ‘I guess you don’t always want to see them?’

‘I’d prefer to see the world like everyone else, but I don’t have a choice. I’m bombarded with digits and calculations all the time and it can get too much, the way someone with autism might find sounds and colours overwhelming.’

The thought hits me. ‘You were wearing sunglasses when you came to the café... is that why? To try to turn them off?’

‘It dims my vision, but not completely. That’s partly why I enjoy making quilts like this.’ She taps her finger on a photo of her Pascal’s triangle design. ‘It gets the figures out of my head.’

‘It’s incredible how it makes you more creative... but I am sorry. I had no idea you were going through this. I wish you’d...’

My voice trails off. Why didn’t she confide in me after the accident?

I’d have hugged her and tried to understand what she was seeing.

Was she too embarrassed or fragile to talk about her life-changing injury?

It would have been a lot to take in. I much prefer that explanation to thinking she hated me for contributing to Lily’s death.

‘I don’t usually tell people about my injury,’ she says, as if reading my thoughts. ‘It’s too personal.’

I flash her a grateful smile that she’s trusted us enough to reveal it now.

‘And I’ve only brought it up so you know I can create mathematical patterns, or we can keep it simple like the log cabin.’ She gestures at a picture. ‘This was the first design I made on my own. It looks striking with small strips of multicoloured material.’

‘Why’s it called a log cabin?’ Wren asks, rubbing her nose.

‘It has a red square in the centre to represent the hearth – the fire in a house. Look, here.’ Sophie’s curls brush against the table as she traces the colours with her finger. ‘Can you see how half the block is light in colour and the other dark?’

Wren leans closer, nodding eagerly.

‘That’s supposed to show the light in the windows and the rest are the “logs” in the cabin. I prefer to think of it as a person’s life. Good and bad things happen; we’re all made of the light and dark. Somehow, they manage to co-exist and make us who we are.’

‘I like that idea,’ Wren says, her eyes bright with interest.

‘We could use log cabin blocks around the edges and something different in the middle?’ Sophie suggests.

She flicks through the book and a piece of paper falls out. I lean down and scoop it up, placing it on the table. It’s a sketch of a polygon, but not like one I’ve ever seen before.

Wren stares at the shape. ‘Ooh, you mean like this? I love how jagged and squiggly it is!’

Sophie’s face pales. ‘It’s just a doodle. I meant to throw it away.’

She reaches for the notelet, but Wren snatches it up and sits back in her seat, examining it closely.

‘Mummy drew lots of different shapes whenever she was on the phone. She said it helped her think. I liked her pictures. I wish I’d kept them.’

‘I’m sure I came across one the other day, and—’ I begin.

‘I bet you threw it away,’ Wren interrupts.

‘I didn’t.’

‘Well, you never remember where you put anything.’ She rolls her eyes.

I’m usually guilty of this, but for once I have a vague recollection. ‘I think it fell out of a cookery book when I was looking for a recipe.’

I jump up and yank one from the shelf, flicking through.

Searching a second, I spot the tip of a piece of paper.

Triumphantly, I pull it out. Carley must have been making an appointment – the notelet is dotted with times, phone numbers and tiny Biro drawings.

She’s written Wren’s name in boxes, capped with triangles on the edges and love hearts.

‘Here you go. Da-dah!’

Wren’s face lights up with delight as I pass it. She looks far more elated at receiving this compared to when I gave her Panda.

‘I can’t believe you kept it,’ she says gruffly, scouring the page as if studying a precious ancient manuscript. ‘Thank you for not throwing it away.’ She flashes a rare grin that takes me by surprise.

‘You’re welcome! I’d never get rid of something that belonged to your mum.’

She nods, her smile growing wider. ‘Can we use Mummy’s shape and the squiggly wiggly one?’

Sophie catches her breath and I have the horrible feeling she’s about to say no.

‘Erm, that won’t be a problem, will it?’ I ask, keen to hang on to my daughter’s good mood.

Sophie chews her lip. ‘We can definitely use the shapes Wren’s mum drew, but mine is a silly scribble.’

‘I like it, and Mummy would have too!’ Wren cries.

‘I agree 100 per cent.’

If incorporating strange shapes into our quilt produces more smiles from my daughter, I’m in. I count the edges of Sophie’s unusual polygon: it has thirteen sides.

‘It might be difficult to stitch, but you said you can create complicated patterns... It could look interesting with these shapes.’ I point to Carley’s squares. ‘Could you embroider these triangles and the love hearts?’

‘That’s what I want!’ Wren exclaims. ‘Lots of different shapes and a log cabin for Mummy because she’s at the centre of everything.’

Sophie’s face is chalk white and she grips the edge of the table.

‘Erm, are you feeling all right?’

‘Yes, sorry. It must be my caffeine hit wearing off.’

‘Do you need a refill?’

‘Please!’

She rubs her lips, deep in thought as I fetch the coffee pot and milk from the fridge. Perhaps, like me, she’s worrying about the huge amount of work that needs to be done in a short period of time. Or, maybe, the numbers she can see have become too much.

‘Well... what do you think?’ I fill her mug.

‘Of course. Whatever you both want. This is your quilt.’

Her hand trembles as she picks up a notepad and pencil and begins drawing.

‘We could have panels with these shapes in the middle, here, surrounded by log cabin blocks, and squares containing Carley’s favourite things in these two corners. That leaves corners for each of you. We could reflect your hobbies, such as ballet or anything you like.’

‘I want a panda,’ Wren replies. ‘And Mummy liked chocolate cupcakes.’

‘Also, strawberry ones with vanilla buttercream,’ I add.

Wren screws up her face. ‘I forgot that. And she loved thunder and lightning.’

‘The louder the better!’

Wren smiles briefly, then looks serious. ‘Mummy wants her pot to be emptied on a beach when there’s a storm because the whole sky will light up! But I don’t want to do that. It sounds scary.’ She rubs her eyes.

‘You don’t have to,’ I tell her. ‘I mean, not yet anyway.’

‘Her pot?’ Sophie frowns.

‘The funeral urn.’

‘I scattered my mum’s ashes on a beach in Bali, which is what she wanted,’ Sophie says before I can move the conversation on to safer topics.

‘I paddled in the sea and said a few words about her life.’ She chews her lip.

‘It was comforting to know she became a part of something much bigger in the end.’

Wren’s mouth hangs open. ‘Was there a storm?’ she asks.

‘Not that afternoon, but there was a huge one the next morning. The lightning was amazing – it felt like my own personal firework display. It wasn’t scary at all. It was beautiful. Shall I show you how I’d create a lightning scene for your mum?’

‘Yes please,’ Wren replies, hugging her waist.

I study Sophie as she sketches, taking in the freckle on the side of her nose and the hollow at the base of her throat.

The Mobius strip necklace I gave her hung below that dip.

I used to kiss her there and work my way up, feeling her nails dig into my back as she arched her neck.

I blink, trying to stay focused. Her long, graceful fingers make intricate swirls on the page; mine had once fitted perfectly between them.

‘Here you go.’ Sophie shows Wren where the panda, cakes and a storm scene will fit into the quilt.

‘Oooh! It’s going to be so good.’ Wren rubs her hands with delight.

That’s a tic she’s inherited from me... I noticed it when her mum suggested we all went to the park to help break the ice during our first meeting.

‘What do you like, Adam?’

Sophie gazes at me, her face flushed with pleasure at Wren’s reaction.

I want to reply: You! You’re the most amazing girl, woman , I’ve ever met.

‘Numbers, I guess?’

‘There’s a surprise! Any specific ones? Or random?’

‘You decide! My life’s in your hands.’

Sophie scribbles furiously in her notepad. She’s biting her lip so hard with concentration that a tiny dot of blood appears.

‘How about this?’

She pushes the pad towards me, revealing a complex whirlwind of digits. They look as though they’ve been swept into the air before being sucked towards a tunnel, getting smaller and smaller.

‘I’ll embroider these panels, but it’s a rough draft to give you an idea of how it could look. What do you both think?’

‘I love it, Sophie!’

‘So do I!’ Wren smiles broadly.

I raise my hand for a high-five. She brushes it limply with her ‘good’ hand rather than slapping it, but at least she didn’t leave me hanging as usual.

Finally , I’m doing something right. The quilt is slowly helping me get through to Wren. Dr Hunt’s given me a short extension for my dissertation, and I didn’t lose control of my year 9s yesterday – well, not for the entire lesson.

Things are looking up.

It feels like the universe is sending good luck my way.

I can’t help thinking this has something to do with Sophie re-entering my life.