Page 56

Sophie

This is it – Adam’s last day.

I listen to the rain pattering against the window, feeling the warmth of Adam’s body slowly leave the mattress.

My fingertips brush against the cotton where he lay minutes ago.

I press his pillow to my face and inhale his scent; I want to bottle it to keep forever.

After tonight, I won’t smell his aftershave on my pillowcase.

We won’t hug, talk in bed, have sex, make each other laugh or share a slice of carrot cake.

Adam won’t draw another Mobius strip on my wrist and kiss it, making goosebumps rise on my skin.

He won’t tell me he loves me over and over again to make up for all those missed opportunities when we were teenagers.

He won’t take Wren to the beach to build sandcastles or paddle in the rock pools tomorrow.

They won’t bake or sew together. She won’t hear him say he loves her. Neither will his mum.

Unless, unless, unless.

Despite everything, I can’t stop trying.

My optimism has shrunk, along with his numbers, reduced to the size of a grain of sand.

But it hasn’t been washed away completely.

I was dreading the reunion tonight, particularly having to see Tom, but maybe, just maybe, this will save Adam.

The party at The Wave was pivotal for Walter.

Being surrounded by faces from the past could spark something inside Adam and help prolong his life.

It’s all I have left to cling on to, my last card to play.

When Adam’s side of the bed is cold, I get up and shower, turning the tap to hot. My stinging skin helps distract me from the unbearable, crushing pain in my heart.

I’m towelling my hair dry, thinking about Adam and Wren going to the beach, and become light-headed with panic.

I’ve focused on what might happen tonight and haven’t considered the chances of Adam having an accident before the party.

Wren could be swept into the sea by a freak wave, and he’ll die saving her.

Or his car may crash on the way to Plymouth; he narrowly missed a motorway pile-up on the journey from Bristol.

Why is he even driving there today? The weather’s terrible.

I dress quickly and grab my phone.

Think an agricultural show’s on this afternoon. Traffic will be bad in the rain! Maybe leave Plymouth? xx

The message I fire off sounds lame, but it’s the only excuse I can come up with. I can’t tell Adam: Don’t do anything risky because you could die.

My heart is beating ridiculously fast, and I flex and unflex my fingers, attempting to calm myself as I wait for his reply. It pings back after a few seconds.

Don’t worry! Will drive carefully. Look forward to seeing you later. xx

I send the same emoji and throw my phone on to the bed.

I need to get a grip, otherwise I’ll never make it through the day.

I pack my bag and leave the house, striding down the street, away from my van and the temptation to drive over to his mum’s house and shadow him all day.

Walking is better; I need time to prepare myself for this visit.

A plastic bag tumbles down the street before it’s blown high into the sky like a shooting star and lands, tangled in a tree.

Rain slices my face but it’s too windy to put up an umbrella.

I plough on and half an hour later I’m standing outside Lily’s parents’ farmhouse, 1.

1 miles west of Modbury. Crawling along the wall are 5,743 ivy leaves and 1,558 tiles stretch over the roof.

The memories are countless: the movie marathons, make-up tutorials and secret drinking in Lily’s bedroom before we went out for the night.

I lay on her bed and confessed I’d fallen for a geeky but gorgeous boy who was joining our sixth form.

I slept on a camp bed next to hers when Mum was at a yoga retreat and the loneliness had become overwhelming.

Guilt has kept me away, despite her parents’ invitations. I trace Adam’s symbol on my wrist with my finger before walking up to the front door and rapping the brass lion’s head knocker. Lily named him Aslan from her favourite book growing up, The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe .

I hold my breath at the light tap of footsteps in the hall. The door opens and Lily’s mum appears. Betty’s hair is completely white, her face gaunt and deeply lined. The purple fleece swamps her thin body. Her number is 4,015: 11 years.

‘Sophie!’ She clutches the doorframe. ‘Oh my.’

I open my mouth to explain, apologise , but she gathers me into her arms. ‘I knew you’d come back to see us one day.’

We embrace, memories exploding between us. Finally, Betty lets go and stands back.

‘Come in. This is a lovely surprise.’

‘Thank you.’

I step inside, gripping my tote bag tighter as more recollections flood back.

The hall was once a bright yellow, and smelt of pine freshener, but now the walls are faded, the air stale.

Dust has settled into the double-stacked history books on the top-to-bottom shelves.

I follow her into the sitting room: the green sofa and brown carpet are the same, but more threadbare.

Framed photos of Lily smile down at me from the mantelpiece, making my heart flinch.

‘I heard you were back in Modbury.’ Betty slowly eases herself into a chair and gestures for me to sit on the settee opposite. ‘I wanted to make contact and find out how you’re doing, but I was worried that would be too difficult for you.’

Tears fill my eyes. I always found her sympathy and understanding harder to bear than anger, because I didn’t feel I deserved it. I still don’t.

I stare at the inside of my wrist, taking a deep breath. ‘Lily left clothes in Mum’s house and I wanted to—’

‘Keep them!’ Betty interrupts, raising her hand.

‘We packed up Lily’s bedroom when Roger retired.

All her hippo ornaments are in boxes in the garage.

We couldn’t bear to throw anything out, but we didn’t want to.

..’ She clears her throat, straightening.

‘Well, the room’s become Roger’s study for his local history research. ’

My hands shake as I open my tote. ‘I sew for a living. If I can mend a piece of clothing that is meaningful to a customer, it feels like I’m giving something back, however small. I also make patchwork quilts to help people hold on to their memories.’

I pull out the single bedspread. I finished it in a day; it’s a more basic design than the one I created for Adam and Wren. But it’s still stunning and meaningful, with bold blocks of pink, green and blue.

‘I’ve made this from clothes Lily loved to wear. I’ve included scraps that belonged to me, Adam and Tom because we used to be a big part of her life.’

Betty covers her mouth with her hand as I point to a denim patch.

‘Lily wore this miniskirt to your anniversary dinner when Roger organised karaoke and we all sang “It’s Raining Men”.

’ I touch a fragment of turquoise cotton.

‘This is the dress she spilt punch down at our joint eighteenth birthday party. She couldn’t bring herself to throw it out because it was her favourite colour. ’

‘They’re such wonderful memories.’ Betty’s body shakes as she weeps.

‘I’ve sewn all our stories together to show the beautiful patchwork of her life,’ I say, my voice faltering.

‘I wanted something permanent to show how much Lily meant, means , to me.’ My hands shake as I hold out the quilt and repeat the mantra I said in the weeks after the accident: ‘I’m sorry, so very sorry. ’

Within seconds she’s on the sofa, her arms wrapped around me. I breathe in a faint rose scent.

‘If I could go back in time, I’d change places with Lily,’ I say, through juddering sobs.

‘I know, sweetheart! The same here.’

‘What’s going on?’ a gruff voice asks. ‘Why have you let her in?’

Roger appears in the doorway, glaring fiercely. His number is 4,020 – he’ll die 5 days after his wife. I blink, momentarily stunned by his hostile tone. He was as forgiving as Betty after the crash. I rise and face him, my heart beating rapidly.

‘Sophie’s brought us the most beautiful present.’ Betty stands in front of me, as if acting as a buffer. ‘She’s made a memory quilt from Lily’s clothes.’

Roger’s cheeks flush scarlet with anger. ‘Well, she can take it with her! I don’t want it. She forgot about Lily long ago.’

I stare at him, taken aback. ‘That’s not true! Not a single day goes by when I don’t think about her or want to tell her something. I love and miss her so much. She’s always here.’ I touch my heart.

‘I don’t believe you.’ Roger crosses his arms over his moss-green gilet.

Betty takes the quilt and carries it over to him. His lined face softens as he stares down at the multicoloured fabric, touching a shocking-pink patch.

‘This was going to be Lily’s prom dress,’ he says in a strangled tone.

‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘But she changed her mind last minute and wore black.’

His face crumples and his shoulders sag.

‘Oh my!’ Betty points to a corner of the quilt where I’ve machine-embroidered Lily’s favourite sweet.

‘It’s a half-eaten peanut butter cup!’ Roger says croakily. ‘God, how she loved these! I could have papered this house with the empty wrappers.’

Betty stares at the shape next to it. ‘And look at this, Roger. She’s stitched the face of a hippo for Lily. For us. ’

Roger lets out a cry, his face taut with pain. ‘You remember... the things our daughter loved the most?’

I nod. Chest heaving, he staggers to the sofa and slumps down, tears streaking down his cheeks.

Betty rushes over to comfort him. ‘You see, I told you Sophie still cares.’

‘I do! I love Lily. I miss her every day.’

Roger’s shoulders shake harder as he weeps. Betty gestures for me to join them. We all hold on to each other and cry for the girl we loved and lost, the quilt and all our memories draped over our knees.

We look through photo albums and drink tea, swapping anecdotes about Lily before Betty gets up to make a fresh pot.

‘Lily would be glad we’re doing this together,’ she says. ‘But she’d want the two of you to make up properly.’ She stares pointedly at Roger. ‘You must apologise.’

‘There’s no need,’ I protest as she heads to the kitchen. ‘ I’m sorry. I should have visited you both years ago.’

Roger adjusts his gilet and sighs deeply. ‘And we’d have welcomed you into our home gladly. But Betty’s right. I’m sorry too.’

I frown. ‘For what? You didn’t do anything wrong.’

He coughs, clearing his throat. ‘The messages I left on your website and Instagram page – I should never have stooped so low.’

I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. ‘That was you?’ I gasp.

‘Betty was horrified when she found out, but not as disgusted as I was with myself.’

I shake my head, trying to make sense of everything. ‘You do blame me for Lily getting into the car?’

‘No. I came to terms long ago with the fact that Lily used free will – she chose to follow you, her best friend, that night. It wasn’t your fault.’

‘But what then?’

‘You moved on with your life without a backward glance.’ Before I can protest, he talks rapidly.

‘We treated you like a second daughter, but you cut us off completely after Lily died. You never replied to our messages or came to see us. You never contacted us on the anniversaries of her death, when we’d have appreciated the support.

Tom stayed in touch over the years, as did Priti’s parents and the family of Margaret, the other driver.

But it felt as though you left us , and Lily, behind without another thought. ’

I touch the scar beneath my hair. ‘It wasn’t because I didn’t care.

I felt too guilty to see either of you. I blamed myself, and still do.

But I never stopped thinking about Lily or the two of you.

I never stopped caring. I didn’t move on.

I feel like I’m always trapped in that car, but in my dreams I shut the door before Lily manages to climb in. ’

‘I had no idea.’ He rubs his bristly jaw as Betty returns to refill the biscuit plate.

‘I’m not excusing what Roger did, but it was a shock for us both hearing Tom mention you after so many years,’ she says. ‘He came round to see us several weeks ago and admitted he’d come across your quilting business online. He said you’d started a new life in Bristol.’

My mouth falls open. ‘Tom claimed I didn’t care about Lily? That I’d moved on?’

‘Not at all,’ Betty replies. ‘He was happy for you. Tom’s had his own struggles, and he was glad you’ve managed to make something of yourself.’

‘But the news triggered something dark inside me,’ Roger admits.

‘You lost all reason,’ Betty agrees. ‘I barely recognised the man you became.’ She rests her hand on his shoulder.

‘It’s awful, I know, but I wanted to punish you for having a career, a life , when Lily didn’t get to have one.

’ He squeezes his wife’s hand. ‘Our lovely daughter could never find her vocation, get married or have children. I wanted a reaction from you, anything to acknowledge that you hadn’t forgotten her.

I lashed out in the worst possible way and I’m extremely ashamed. Please forgive me.’

‘Of course I do! I always marked the anniversaries of Lily’s death privately by lighting a candle for her, but I should have reached out to you both. I will always love Lily and you and Betty. I won’t be a stranger anymore, I promise.’

I will stay in touch, despite selling Mum’s house. Even if I’m alone and have lost Adam, I’ll come back and visit. I won’t shut everyone out like before.

‘We both want you in our life, no matter what,’ Roger says firmly.

After more tea, hugs and sharing memories about Lily, they wave me off at the front door, clutching the quilt.

I pull up my hood against the rain and wind and notice the drawing on my wrist. The ink has streaked, but the symbol remains.

Adam once told me the Mobius strip proves that if you travel far enough, you’ll end up where you began without even realising it.

He was right.

I mistakenly blamed Trevor and then Tom for the messages I received, but the fault lay squarely with myself: I’m the culprit.

I turned my back on the past instead of having the courage to confront it.

Everything is finally coming full circle tonight for me, Adam and Tom.

We’re all going back to the beginning.