Who We Were Before Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Leah Mercer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503938151

  ISBN-10: 1503938158

  Cover design by Lisa Horton

  For my father

  CONTENTS

  1 ZOE, SATURDAY, 12 P.M.

  2 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 12.15 P.M.

  3 ZOE, SATURDAY, 1 P.M.

  4 ZOE, JUNE 2008

  5 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 1.30 P.M.

  6 ZOE, JUNE 2008

  7 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 2 P.M.

  8 ZOE, JANUARY 2009

  9 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 3 P.M.

  10 ZOE, SATURDAY, 3 P.M.

  11 EDWARD, JULY 2009

  12 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 3.30 P.M.

  13 ZOE, SEPTEMBER 2009

  14 ZOE, SATURDAY, 4 P.M.

  15 EDWARD, DECEMBER 2009

  16 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 5 P.M.

  17 ZOE, FEBRUARY 2010

  18 ZOE, SATURDAY, 5 P.M.

  19 EDWARD, APRIL 2010

  20 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 6 P.M.

  21 ZOE, JULY 2010

  22 ZOE, SATURDAY, 6.45 P.M.

  23 ZOE, AUGUST 2010

  24 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 7 P.M.

  25 ZOE, SEPTEMBER 2010

  26 ZOE, SATURDAY, 7.15 P.M.

  27 EDWARD, SEPTEMBER 2010

  28 ZOE, SATURDAY, 7.30 P.M.

  29 EDWARD, SEPTEMBER 2010

  30 ZOE, SEPTEMBER 2010

  31 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 7.30 P.M.

  32 ZOE, SEPTEMBER 2010

  33 EDWARD, SEPTEMBER 2010

  34 ZOE, SATURDAY, 8 P.M.

  35 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 8 P.M.

  36 ZOE, OCTOBER 2010

  37 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 8.45 P.M.

  38 EDWARD, NOVEMBER 2010

  39 ZOE, SATURDAY, 9.15 P.M.

  40 ZOE, APRIL 2011

  41 ZOE, SATURDAY, 9.45 P.M.

  42 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 9.45 P.M.

  43 ZOE, SATURDAY, 10 P.M.

  44 EDWARD, OCTOBER 2011

  45 EDWARD, SATURDAY, 10.45 P.M.

  46 ZOE, SUNDAY, 12 A.M.

  47 EDWARD, OCTOBER 2012

  48 ZOE, SUNDAY, 6.30 A.M.

  49 EDWARD, SUNDAY, 6.30 A.M.

  50 ZOE, APRIL 2013

  51 EDWARD, SUNDAY, 7 A.M.

  52 ZOE, SUNDAY, 8.30 A.M.

  53 EDWARD, SUNDAY, 8.30 A.M.

  54 EDWARD, MAY 2013

  55 ZOE, SUNDAY, 9 A.M.

  56 ZOE, JUNE 2013

  57 EDWARD, SUNDAY, 9 A.M.

  58 ZOE, SUNDAY, 9.45 A.M.

  59 ZOE, JUNE 2013

  60 EDWARD, SUNDAY, 10.30 A.M.

  61 ZOE, SUNDAY, 10.45 A.M.

  62 ZOE, SEPTEMBER 2013

  63 EDWARD, SUNDAY, 11 A.M.

  64 ZOE, SUNDAY, 11.30 A.M.

  65 EDWARD, SUNDAY, 12.45 P.M.

  66 ZOE, SUNDAY, 12.45 P.M.

  67 EDWARD, SUNDAY, 1 P.M.

  68 ZOE, ONE WEEK LATER

  69 ZOE, TWO MONTHS LATER

  70 EDWARD, TWO MONTHS LATER

  71 ZOE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  ZOE, SATURDAY, 12 P.M.

  People always say a child’s death is the worst thing a parent can suffer, but that’s not true. The worst thing is knowing your child died because of you.

  One second. Less than a second, even. That’s all it took for Milo to slip from my fingers, and then he was gone. Forever.

  No one said I was to blame, of course. No one except for my husband, as we faced each other over my son’s unmoving body. So much easier to think of Milo as still, rather than dead. Even now, I can’t get my head around that word.

  Why weren’t you watching him? Why didn’t you stop him? How could you let this happen? Three sentences that hammer my brain each time my heart beats, along with the look on Edward’s face – a look I’ll never, ever forget. To describe it as hatred is like saying scalding water is tepid. In that moment, he could have easily killed me, if only it would bring his son back. I was the enemy, someone who’d taken away what he loved the most.

  But I didn’t need Edward to tell me I was to blame. He was right. I should have grasped harder, run faster, lunged quicker. In the two years since Milo died, countless people have pressed my arm, touched my hand, and said there was nothing I could have done. But there was. There was.

  I turn from the train window and gaze at my husband, trying to feel something, anything, as I trace his familiar silhouette. Long black eyelashes Milo inherited – midwives always commented they were wasted on a boy – along with an aquiline nose and dimpled chin. Edward’s apologised for those words countless times, saying he didn’t mean them; it was just the shock. Of course he knows it wasn’t my fault. It could have happened with him, too.

  But it didn’t happen with him. It happened with me, and that has hung between us ever since: a concrete barrier frosted with jagged glass. No matter how many times he tries to hug me, or comfort me, or even just talk, I’m already ripped to shreds. I can’t bear any more.

  Two days together in Paris, and then we can go home – back to our quiet, four-bedroom house in an idyllic village both of us now hate, and where neither of us spends any time . . . not that he knows what I do with my days. We wouldn’t even be on this trip if my parents hadn’t sprung it on us, saying wouldn’t it be nice to have a romantic getaway? If they knew the last time we had sex (I can barely remember), they’d realise just how laughable a weekend of romance is.

  The tannoy comes on, announcing we’re about to pull into the Gare du Nord. Edward stops fiddling with his phone and raises his head. ‘Almost there.’

  God, he sounds as excited as me. I nod, shifting my gaze to the couple across the aisle. They look about mid-twenties, still young enough to believe nothing can go wrong. I wonder what they think of Edward and me? We haven’t touched this whole ride; we’ve hardly spoken. I bet they’re telling each other they’ll never be this way: a stale married couple who’d rather be anywhere else than with each other. How sad, they’re saying. How do you get like that, anyway?

  I can tell them: lose your son. Have a huge, gaping hole in your life, a kick in the stomach each morning you wake up, and a pain that leaves you struggling to breathe. That’s how you get like that. Like us.

  The brakes squeal as we pull into the station, and Edward stands to get our case. I can barely recall what I threw in there. It doesn’t matter what I wear, anyway. Edward rarely looks at me – I mean, really looks. I could show up one morning in a clown suit and he’d carry on crunching his burned toast as usual, then kiss me quickly on the cheek and dash out to get the 7.07 a.m. commuter train to work. That kiss makes me feel worse than no kiss: dry lips, eyes already on the door, heart already gone from our home. Just like it has been for two years.

  ‘Zoe? Come on.’ Edward’s voice is tinged with impatience, and I jerk towards him, blinking to clear my thoughts. I spend a lot of time inside my head. I like it there, blanketed from the world. It pisses off Edward, though. That much I notice.

  I follow my husband down the platform, the tannoy bleating out muffled announcements in French. The misty air is cold and clammy, and I cross my ar
ms to keep warm. Edward turns to make sure I’m behind him, then swings back, striding along with our case clicking across the tiles. There was a time when he’d give me his jacket, or put his arm around me, gently slapping my hands against his to warm up my perma-blue fingers. Now, he doesn’t even walk beside me.

  He reaches the main concourse and stops, grabbing his phone from his pocket as he waits for me to catch up. That bloody phone! He and his mobile have more of a relationship than we do, not that it would take much.

  ‘I need to find a cashpoint and get some euros,’ he says, still tapping away. ‘Why don’t you have a mooch around, and I’ll ring you when I’m done?’

  ‘Leave the case here, then,’ I say, but he’s already gone, cutting through the crowd and heading in the direction of a cash icon. I wonder why he’s so anxious to hit the cashpoint on his own, but I’m not complaining. As soon as Edward disappears, so does the heavy tension pressing on my chest whenever we’re together. I almost feel like I can breathe again. He probably feels the same way – or does he? I can’t begin to read him any more.

  I wander around the station, turning aimlessly in this direction and that. As far as train stations go, the Gare du Nord is rather grim. It doesn’t even try to pretend it’s a mall – not like St Pancras, with the world’s longest champagne bar and myriad of shops. I can almost picture this place doing a Gallic shrug while blowing smoke across the Channel.

  I glance at my watch, eyebrows rising as I notice Edward’s been gone twenty minutes already. I should be used now to time slipping by, the hours moving on a conveyor belt past my foggy gaze, but sometimes it still catches me unawares. What’s taking him so long? I have to say, I’m a little surprised he’s waited until now to get euros. He’s like a Boy Scout: always prepared. Even a trip to the supermarket requires a half-hour preparation and endless lists, whereas I usually just wing it. Funny, I can’t remember the last time I was actually in a supermarket. There’s no need. Edward’s never home for supper, and I’m lucky if I can choke down a sandwich from the corner shop on my way home.

  Twenty-five minutes now. Maybe I’ll give him a ring. My hand slips into my bag in an automatic gesture, patting the sides for my mobile. Where the hell is that thing? This bag is like a black hole. Sighing, I swing it off my shoulder and crouch down on the grimy station floor, rooting through old receipts and random tissues to catch a glimpse of its silver case. Frustration rising, I dump out the contents then sift through them, staring in disbelief. It’s not there. And . . . My gut clenches. Neither is my brown leather wallet.

  Shit.

  I scoop up my stuff and throw it in the bag, rising on shaky legs. Did I forget them at home? I shake my head, my mind’s eye clearly seeing me slide both items into my handbag. I did pack them; I know I did. So where are they? I spin left and right, as if the answer lurks somewhere around me, then drop to my knees and examine the floor in case I dropped them.

  Nothing.

  I stand up slowly, my head buzzing. Somewhere, in my wanders around the station, I must have been pickpocketed. What a great start to our romantic rendezvous! At least cancelling my cards will give me something to focus on in the hotel room. I’m already dreading the silence between us in such a close space.

  My eyes widen as a thought enters my head. Without a mobile to arrange meeting up again, I’d better run to catch Edward at the cashpoint. I head in the direction he went half an hour earlier, my legs churning as I dodge suitcases and travellers. Finally, after what feels like a marathon, I reach the cash machine. There’s a long queue, but Edward’s not in it.

  I lean against the wall, wiping my sweaty top lip as my breath tears at my lungs. Okay, think. If he’s not here and he couldn’t reach me on the mobile, he must have gone back to where he left me. That’s what I would do, but then, I’m not him – that’s never been clearer than in the past little while. Our differences have become magnified, mountains we can’t traverse.

  I retrace my steps to the busy concourse, but there’s no sign of my husband. Frantically, I scan the moving crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse. People flow past my eyes in waves, and after a while, they blur.

  I slide down the wall onto the grungy floor. Edward’s not here. Or if he is, I can’t find him. What the hell am I going to do now? He has our case, not to mention the folder with all our accommodation information – I can’t for the life of me remember the name of our hotel. Even if I’d been paying attention, it’s unlikely I’d remember, anyway. French is not my strong suit.

  So, here I am. Alone, in a foreign place, with no clue where I’m going.

  Not much different from my life at home.

  2

  EDWARD, SATURDAY, 12.15 P.M.

  I race through the crowd, my jaw unclenching more and more the further away I am from her. I don’t need euros – I have a fat wad in my pocket that I got out yesterday after work. I just want to get away for a few minutes to ring Fiona, to hear a friendly voice before spending the next two days with my wife, who barely even notices I’m in the room.

  It’s obvious she doesn’t want to be here any more than I do – the way she pressed her lips together when she opened her parents’ gift was a dead giveaway. It’s a new expression for her, but one I’ve come to hate over the past couple of years. Just say something, I want to scream. Just tell me how much you hate me, how much you hate this, how awful life is. Something. Something that will end this terrible silence between us, one way or the other. But she never does.

  Making up an excuse to get away from her probably wasn’t even necessary. Today, as always, Zoe has that vacant, I’m-not-here expression on her face. I could have had phone sex on the train and she wouldn’t notice. I feel my groin tighten at the thought. Even phone sex would be more than I’m getting now.

  I shake my head and walk faster, trying to dodge the thoughts flying through my brain. I miss her. I miss how she used to do big donkey-style guffaws that made me laugh, how her eyes used to crinkle as she smiled, how she used to curl up against me, her cold feet pressing on my calves.

  I didn’t just lose my son, I lost my wife.

  I knew it would take us time to move on from Milo’s death, and that it would be a difficult period to get through. After all, isn’t that what everyone says: time is the best healer? I can’t count how many people told us that in the first few weeks, and I stupidly believed them. Now, I want to laugh in their faces. Time? Time has done nothing but solidify the silence between us, to freeze-frame every horrifying moment in technicolour. When it comes to death, nothing can numb the avalanche of grief, loss . . . anger. An avalanche that will bury you if you don’t keep moving.

  I wish I could take back the first words I said to Zoe, there in the hospital room. I wish I had put my arms around her and held on to her. But I didn’t – I couldn’t. I was so disbelieving, so incredibly not wanting this battered boy to be our son. It was like, if only I could figure out how this happened, I could go back and make things better, change the end result.

  I tried to explain that to my wife, but Zoe just checked out, closed up shop. On me, on anything to do with Milo, on her life. I made all the funeral arrangements, I chose the gravestone and the inscription, I packed up his room, thinking that shutting away all his things might help her – although I couldn’t have been more wrong. A muscle in my jaw jumps. Does she think that was easy for me: having to comb through each and every belonging of his short life? With every tear of the packing tape, I felt like my gut was tearing, too. My chest tightens when I picture that small pine coffin, dressing Milo in his beloved Spider Man outfit, placing the worn blue blankie into his fist . . .

  I swipe a hand across my face, leaning back against the wall beside the cashpoint. Almost two years, for God’s sake, and sometimes I still walk into his room expecting to see him looking up at me with that cheeky grin. He would have been four this month – hell on wheels, I’m sure, sliding down banisters and jumping on the sofa. If I close my eyes, I can hear his laughter now.


  God! This is why I’m barely home. I can’t stand the emptiness. Not just in the house, but in my wife. I know she blames herself. I’d blame myself, too, if I were in her shoes. But there’s no point going down that road, is there? It’s not going to change things – not going to make it better. Two years on and we need to live again. I need to live again, and if she doesn’t want to, well . . .

  Get a grip, I tell myself, conscious of the queue’s curious eyes. I dig in my pocket for my mobile. I just need to talk to Fiona. Whenever I feel like this – like the avalanche will engulf me – she always calms me down. I wish I could say that about Zoe, I really do, but there it is. No one can say I haven’t tried. And actually, trying makes me feel even worse. It’s like banging my head into a brick wall over and over, feeling the crunch of pain with every impact.

  ‘Hey, honey.’ Fiona’s warm tone comes on the line, and already I feel better. ‘Everything okay? How’s Paris?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, actually. I’m still at the station. Just wanted to give you a quick call and say thanks for the drinks last night.’ Fiona and I both work at a computer software company outside London – me as a software engineer, and Fiona in marketing. I’ve been there for years, and although I scaled back my hours when Milo was born, lately I’m there from seven in the morning until nine at night. You can lose yourself in coding; it makes sense in a way my life doesn’t.

  We’ve always been friends, but ever since Milo’s accident, we’ve become . . . I’m not sure what, exactly. She knows about my son’s death – she organised the huge bouquet of sympathy flowers from my work, someone told me – but she doesn’t look at me with eyes full of pity, offer meaningless hugs, ask how I’m doing . . . or how Zoe and I are doing. With her, I’m the same Edward I’ve always been, and I can laugh and joke without feeling awkward. She reminds me a bit of what Zoe used to be, actually: always laughing, full of energy, up for any adventure. Fiona and I haven’t kissed, we barely even touch. But the more time we spend together, the more I want to.