‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
‘You don’t need to be sorry.’
There was a pause.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘My husband is on his way here.’
‘Ah.’
‘Apparently he and Felicity are over before it’s even begun.’
‘So I guess we are too.’ He didn’t make it sound like a question.
She could see Liam playing in the front garden. She’d told him that Will was on his way. He was racing back and forth across the yard, tipping first the hedge and then the fence, as if he was in training for some life and death event.
‘I don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s just that, with Liam, you see, I have to at least try. At least give it a go.’ She thought of Will and Felicity sitting on the plane from Melbourne, hands gripped, faces stoic. For fuck’s sake.
‘Of course you do.’ He sounded so warm and lovely. ‘You don’t need to explain.’
‘I should never have –’
‘Please don’t regret it.’
‘Okay.’
‘Tell him if he treats you bad again, I’ll break his knees.’
‘Yes.’
‘Seriously, Tess. Don’t give him any more chances.’
‘No.’
‘And if things don’t work out. Well. You know. Keep my application on file.’
‘Connor, someone will –’
‘Don’t do that,’ he said sharply. He tried to soften his voice. ‘No worries. I told you, I’ve got chicks lining the streets for me.’
She laughed.
‘I should let you go,’ he said, ‘if this bloke of yours is on his way.’
She could hear his disappointment so clearly now. It made him sound abrupt, almost aggressive, and part of her wanted to keep him on the line, to flirt with him, to make sure that the last thing he said was gentle and sexy, and then she could be the one to put an end to the conversation, so that she could file these last few days away in her memory under the category that suited her. (What was that category? ‘Fun flings where nobody got hurt’?)
But he was entitled to be abrupt, and she’d already exploited him enough.
‘Okay. Well. Bye.’
‘Bye, Tess. Take care.’
‘Mr Whitby!’ shouted Polly.
‘Oh, my god. Mum, make her stop!’ Isabel lowered her head and hid her eyes.
‘Mr Whitby!’ screeched Polly.
‘He’s too far away to hear you,’ sighed Isabel.
‘Darling, leave him alone. He’s talking on the phone,’ said Cecilia.
‘Mr Whitby! It’s me! Hello! Hello!’
‘It’s out of his work hours,’ commented Esther. ‘He’s not obliged to talk to you.’
‘He likes talking to me!’ Polly grabbed hold of her handlebars and pedalled away from her father’s grasp, her wheels wobbling precariously along the footpath. ‘Mr Whitby!’
‘Looks like her legs have recovered.’ John-Paul massaged his lower back.
‘Poor man,’ said Cecilia. ‘Enjoying his Good Friday and he’s accosted by a student.’
‘I guess it’s an occupational hazard if he chooses to live in the same area,’ said John-Paul.
‘Mr Whitby!’ Polly gained ground. Her legs pumped. Her pink wheels spun.
‘At least she’s getting some exercise,’ said John-Paul.
‘This is so embarrassing,’ said Isabel. She hung back and kicked at someone’s fence. ‘I’m waiting here.’
Cecilia stopped and looked back at her. ‘Come on. We’re not going to let her bother him for long. Stop kicking that fence.’
‘Why are you embarrassed, Isabel?’ asked Esther. ‘Are you in love with Mr Whitby too?’
‘No, I am not! Don’t be disgusting!’ Isabel turned purple. John-Paul and Cecilia exchanged looks.
‘Why is this guy so special anyway?’ asked John-Paul. He nudged Cecilia. ‘Are you in love with him too?’
‘Mothers can’t be in love,’ said Esther. ‘They’re too old.’
‘Thanks very much,’ said Cecilia. ‘Come on, Isabel.’
She turned to look back at Polly, just as Connor Whitby stepped off the footpath and onto the road, the kite floating above him.
Polly swung her bike down a steep driveway towards the road.
‘Polly!’ Cecilia called, at the same time as John-Paul yelled, ‘Stop right there, Polly!’
chapter forty-eight
Rachel watched the man with the kite step off the kerb. Look out for traffic, matey. That’s not a pedestrian crossing.
He turned his head in her direction.
It was Connor Whitby.
He was looking right at her, but it was as though Rachel’s car was invisible, as if she didn’t exist, as if she was completely irrelevant to him, as if he could choose to inconvenience her by making her slow down if it suited him. He stepped briskly across the road, with every confidence that she would stop. His kite caught a gust of wind and spun in lazy circles.
Rachel’s foot lifted from the accelerator and hovered over the brake.
Then it slammed like a brick on the accelerator.
It didn’t happen in slow motion. It happened in an instant.
There was no car. The street was empty. And then, just like that, there was a car. A small blue car. John-Paul would say afterwards that he knew there was a car coming from behind them, but to Cecilia, it just materialised out of nowhere.
No car. Car.
The little blue car was like a bullet. Not so much because of its speed but because it seemed as if it were on some unstoppable trajectory, as if it had been shot from something.
Cecilia saw Connor Whitby run. Like a man in a movie chase scene leaping from one building to another.
A second later, Polly rode her bike directly in front of the car and vanished beneath it.
The sounds were small. A thump. A crunch. The long thin squeal of brakes.
And then silence. Ordinariness. The sound of a bird.
Cecilia didn’t feel anything except confusion. What just happened?
She heard heavy footsteps and turned to see John-Paul running. He ran straight past her. Esther was screaming. Over and over. A shocking, ugly sound. Cecilia thought, Stop it Esther.
Isabel grabbed Cecilia’s arm. ‘The car hit her!’
A chasm cracked open in her chest.
She shook Isabel’s hand free and ran.
A little girl. A little girl on a bike.
Rachel’s hands were still on the steering wheel. Her foot was still pressed hard on the brake pedal. It was compressed all the way to the floor of the car.
Slowly, painstakingly, she lifted her trembling hand from the steering wheel and wrenched on the handbrake. She placed her left hand back on the steering wheel and used her right hand to turn off the ignition. Then she cautiously lifted her foot from the brake pedal.
She looked in the rear-vision mirror. Maybe the little girl was all right.
(Except she’d felt it. The soft speed-hump beneath her wheels. She knew with perfect sick certainty what she’d done. What she’d deliberately done.)
She could see a woman running, her arms dangling oddly from her body, as if they were paralysed. It was Cecilia Fitzpatrick.
Little girl. Pink sparkly helmet. Black ponytail. Brake. Brake. Brake. Her face in profile. The girl was Polly Fitzpatrick. Gorgeous little Polly Fitzpatrick.
Rachel whimpered like a dog. Somewhere in the distance, someone was screaming over and over.
‘Hello?’
‘Will?’
Liam had kept asking when his dad was arriving and Tess had felt all at once infuriated by her impassive role, waiting for Felicity and Will to make their scheduled appearances. She’d called Will on his mobile. She was going to be icy and controlled and give him his first inkling of the almighty task that lay ahead of him.
‘Tess,’ said Will. He sounded distracted and strange.
‘According to Felicity, you??
?re on your way over here –’
‘I am,’ interrupted Will. ‘I was. In a taxi. We had to stop. There was an accident just around the corner from your mum’s place. I saw it happen. We’re waiting for an ambulance.’ His voice broke, then became muffled. ‘It’s terrible, Tess. Little girl on a bike. About the same age as Liam. I think she’s dead.’
easter saturday
chapter forty-nine
The doctor reminded Cecilia of a priest or a politician. He specialised in professional compassion. His eyes were warm and sympathetic, and he spoke slowly and clearly, authoritatively and patiently, as if Cecilia and John-Paul were his students and he needed them to fully understand a tricky concept. Cecilia wanted to throw herself at his feet and hug his knees. As far as she was concerned, this man had absolute power. He was God. This man, this softly spoken, bespectacled Asian man in a blue and white striped shirt that was very similar to one John-Paul owned, was God.
Throughout the previous day and night there had been so many people talking at them: the paramedics, the doctors and nurses in the emergency department. Everyone had been nice, but rushed and tired, their eyes slipping and sliding. There was noise and bright white lights constantly shining in her peripheral vision, but now they were talking to Dr Yue in the hushed, churchlike environment of Intensive Care. They were standing outside the glass-panelled room where Polly was lying on a high single bed, attached to a plethora of equipment. She was heavily sedated. An intravenous drip had been inserted in her left arm. Her right arm was wrapped in gauze bandages. At some point one of the nurses had brushed her hair away from her forehead, pinning it off to one side, so that she didn’t look quite like herself.
Dr Yue seemed highly intelligent because he wore glasses, and perhaps because he was Asian, which was racial stereotyping, but Cecilia didn’t care. She hoped that Dr Yue’s mother had been one of those pushy tiger mothers. She hoped poor Dr Yue didn’t have any other interests apart from medicine. She loved Dr Yue. She loved Dr Yue’s mother.
But John-bloody-Paul! John-Paul didn’t seem to understand that they were speaking to God. He kept interrupting. He sounded too brusque. Rude, almost! If John-Paul offended Dr Yue, he might not try as hard for Polly. Cecilia knew that this was just a job for Dr Yue, and Polly was just another one of his patients, and that they were just another pair of distraught parents, and everyone knew that doctors were overworked and got exhausted and made tiny errors, like airline pilots, that turned out to be catastrophic. Cecilia and John-Paul had to differentiate themselves in some way. They had to make him see that Polly wasn’t just another patient, she was Polly, she was Cecilia’s baby girl, she was her funny, infuriating, charming little girl. Cecilia’s breath caught, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe.
Dr Yue patted her arm. ‘This is incredibly distressing for you, Mrs Fitzpatrick, and I know you’ve had a long night with no sleep.’
John-Paul glanced sideways at Cecilia, as if he’d forgotten she was there too. He took her hand. ‘Please just go on,’ he said.
Cecilia smiled obsequiously at Dr Yue. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ Look how very nice and undemanding we are!
Dr Yue ran through Polly’s injuries. A serious concussion, but the CT scan had showed no sign of a serious brain injury. The pink sparkly helmet had done its job. As they already knew, internal bleeding was a concern, but they were monitoring and so far, so good. They already knew that Polly had suffered severe skin abrasions, a fractured tibia and a ruptured spleen. The spleen had already been removed. Many people lived without their spleens. She might have some danger of reduced immunity, and they would recommend antibiotics in the case of –
‘Her arm,’ interrupted John-Paul. ‘The main concern through the night seemed to be her right arm.’
‘Yes.’ Dr Yue locked eyes with Cecilia and breathed in and out, as if he was a yoga teacher demonstrating breathing techniques. ‘I’m very sorry to say that the limb is not salvagable.’
‘Pardon?’ said Cecilia.
‘Oh God,’ said John-Paul.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Cecilia, still trying to be nice, but feeling a surge of fury. ‘What do you mean not salvagable?’
It sounded like Polly’s arm was at the bottom of the ocean.
‘She’s suffered irreparable tissue damage, a double fracture, and there’s no longer sufficient blood supply. We’d like to do the procedure this afternoon.’
‘Procedure?’ echoed Cecilia. ‘By procedure you mean . . .’
She couldn’t say the word. It was unspeakably obscene.
‘Amputation,’ said Dr Yue. ‘Just above the elbow. I know this is terrible news for you, and I’ve arranged for a counsellor to see you –’
‘No,’ said Cecilia firmly. She would not stand for this. She had no idea what a spleen did, but she knew what a right arm did. ‘She’s right-handed you see, Dr Yue. She’s six years old. She can’t live without her arm!’ Her voice skidded into the ugly maternal hysteria she’d been trying so hard to spare him.
Why wasn’t John-Paul saying anything? The brusque interruptions had stopped. He had turned away from Dr Yue and was looking back through the glass panels at Polly.
‘She can, Mrs Fitzpatrick,’ said Dr Yue. ‘I’m so very sorry, but she can.’
There was a long wide passageway outside the heavy wooden doors that led to Intensive Care, beyond which only family members were allowed. A row of high windows let in dust-flecked rays of sunlight, reminding Rachel of church. People sat in brown leather chairs all the way along the passageway: reading, texting, talking on their mobile phones. It was like a quieter version of an airport terminal. People enduring impossibly long waits, their faces tense and tired. Sudden muffled explosions of emotion.
Rachel sat in one of the brown leather chairs facing the wooden doors, her eyes continually watching for Cecilia or John-Paul Fitzpatrick.
What did you say to the parents of a child you’d hit with a car and nearly killed?
The words ‘I’m sorry’ felt like an insult. You said ‘I’m sorry’ when you bumped against someone’s supermarket trolley. There needed to be bigger words.
I am profoundly sorry. I am filled with terrible regret. Please know that I will never forgive myself.
What did you say, when you knew the true extent of your own culpability, which was so much more than that assigned to her by the freakishly young paramedics and police officers who had arrived at the accident scene yesterday. They’d treated her like a doddery old woman involved in a tragic accident. Words kept forming in her head: I saw Connor Whitby and I put my foot on the accelerator. I saw the man who murdered my daughter and I wanted to hurt him.
Yet some instinct for self-preservation must have prevented her from speaking out loud, because otherwise, surely, she would be locked up for attempted murder.
All she remembered saying was, ‘I didn’t see Polly. I didn’t see her until it was too late.’
‘How fast were you going, Mrs Crowley?’ they asked her, so gently and respectfully.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know.’
It was true. She didn’t know. But she knew there had been plenty of time to put her foot on the brake to let Connor Whitby cross the road.
They told her that it was unlikely she would be charged. It seemed that a man in a taxi had seen the little girl ride her bike directly in front of the car. They asked her who they could call to come and collect her. They insisted on this, even though a second ambulance had been called just for her, and the paramedic had checked her over and said that there was no need for her to go to the hospital. Rachel gave the police Rob’s number, and he arrived far too quickly (he must have been speeding), with Lauren and Jacob in the car. Rob was white-faced. Jacob grinned and waved a chubby hand from the back seat. The paramedic told Rob and Lauren that Rachel was probably suffering from mild shock, and that she should rest and stay warm and not be left alone. She should see her GP as soon as possible for a check-up.
It was awful. Rob and Lauren dutifully followed orders, and Rachel couldn’t get rid of them, no matter how hard she tried. She couldn’t get her thoughts straight while they hovered about, bringing her cups of tea and cushions. Next thing that perky young Father Joe turned up, very upset about members of his flock running each other over. ‘Shouldn’t you be saying the Good Friday mass?’ said Rachel ungratefully. ‘All under control, Mrs Crowley,’ he said. Then he took her hand and said, ‘Now you know this was an accident, don’t you, Mrs Crowley? Accidents happen. Every day. You must not blame yourself.’
She thought, Oh, you sweet, innocent young man, you know nothing about blame. You have no idea of what your parishioners are capable. Do you think any of us really confess our real sins to you? Our terrible sins?
At least he was useful for information. He promised that he would keep her constantly informed about Polly’s progress, and he was as good as his word.
She’s still alive, Rachel kept telling herself as each update came. I didn’t kill her. This is not irretrievable.
Lauren and Rob finally took Jacob home after dinner and Rachel spent the night replaying those few moments over and over.
The fish-shaped kite. Connor Whitby stepping out on to the road, ignoring her. Her foot on the accelerator. Polly’s pink sparkly helmet. Brake. Brake. Brake.
Connor was fine. Not a scratch on him.
Father Joe had called this morning to say that there was no further news, except that Polly was in Intensive Care at Westmead Children’s Hospital and receiving the very best of care.
Rachel had thanked him, put down the phone and then immediately picked it up again to call a cab to take her to the hospital.