Home > The Stolen Sisters(68)

The Stolen Sisters(68)
Author: Louise Jensen

‘Leah…’ Mum’s eyes glisten. ‘If you want me to stay, I’ll stay.’

I think about the unhappiness we have all suffered. The potential for happiness that is within her grasp. I don’t know if I will ever stop resenting her for what happened. If I stop her being with him – Simon – she might never stop resenting me.

‘Go,’ I give her my blessing.

She doesn’t speak but opens her arms and, although I hesitate, I step into them for the first time in years. It is both a hello and a goodbye.

She releases me. I blow my nose and dry my eyes as I watch her leave. She doesn’t look back.

On the way to the car I notice a shadow slip behind the trees. A halo of glossy blonde hair.

I think it’s Carly but I can’t be sure and by the time I get there, she is gone.

 

 

Chapter Eighty-One


Leah

Now

George rings the doorbell when he comes to see Archie, which feels odd. He still slots in here. The last puzzle piece of our beautiful, broken, healing family. Since I left Mulberry he has been renting a small place in town on a month-by-month basis. During our time apart I’ve been building on the work I started at the hospital. I’ve a new counsellor – a man this time – and slowly I’m learning to live again. I am choosing who I want to be and I want to be happy. I hope Carly is too, wherever she is.

I miss her.

She hasn’t been in touch, not once.

I think about her every single day.

These past few weeks George’s visits have stretched beyond the time Archie is tucked up in bed. Often, evenings find George sitting in one armchair, and me in the other. Steaming mugs of coffee and a plate of biscuits on the table between us, forming a barrier. At first we skirted around the real issues, clinging to the superficial that was less painful. Firing minor irritations across the room – the loo seat being left up, is it fair it’s always one person who empties the bin or does the shopping. We talked in circles – tag; you take the blame now – until one of us yawned and I’d show him to the door like the visitor he’d become, watching as he strode down the driveway, shoulders hunched, breath clouding from the mouth that hadn’t kissed me goodnight.

Eventually we talked about Francesca, of course we did.

‘Have you had any contact with her?’ I asked.

‘No.’

‘You would say no. How can I trust you?’ It was my stock reply.

‘I don’t know.’ George looked sad. ‘I can’t tell you how, I can only hope that one day you can.’

‘Did you think about me when you were with her?’

‘Every time. I felt horrible.’

‘Did you think about her with you were with me?’

‘Leah…’

‘Well, did you?’ I wanted to know everything; when it started, how often he saw her, how it felt. I cried every single time, and at first so did he.

I had spoken to Francesca on the phone. Just once. She couldn’t have been more sorry. At first I thought she was worried I’d report her for professional misconduct but as her apologies tumbled down the receiver I realized she was genuine. In her own way she cares about me, as does George. He was just at a loss to know how to help me. I get that. I had no idea how to help myself.

But now I do.

Once I had thought women who take men back after affairs were weak but, although I think sleeping with somebody else is inexcusable, it has taken strength for me to admit my share of responsibility for our problems.

Just like being happy, I could choose whether to forgive or not. I had already lost so much. Mum, Dad, Marie and Carly.

‘You’re stronger than I have given you credit for,’ George told me after I’d explained what had happened in the decontamination chamber with Carly. How my injuries were self-inflected.

‘We have to fight for the ones we love,’ I told him, and that’s what we’re doing. Fighting for love. For each other. The thing I have learned is this: nothing is irreparable. My sense of safety, my trust, my hope. It may feel spiderweb-fragile, easily swept away, but it can be rebuilt if I want it enough.

And I do.

We became gentler as we picked at the cracks in our marriage, peering in to see if there was any way we could possibly fill them, and we are. With hope and understanding, and love. We’re filling them with love. Little by little we’re healing from the inside out.

There’s been a change, a shift. Our conversations are not only deep and heavy but more and more peppered with lightness. Laughter. The do you remember when tales that everyone with a joint history has. The ones that are nice to share. We sip our wine. Hands wrapped around glasses, itching to touch each other. I wanted to take it slow.

We sit on the sofa together now, me with my legs tucked under me, leaning against one arm, him with his elbow resting on the other, still a distance between us, but perhaps not quite so far. I want to bridge the gap entirely.

‘George.’ His eyes meet mine, there’s an unspoken question in them, and then an understanding. Relief. He comes closer, leans in.

Our lips meet and I can almost hear Marie chanting, ‘Leah and George sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.’

We break away. He tenderly tucks a strand of hair behind my ear; it’s still long, still red.

I’m still me.

We’re still us.

 

 

Epilogue


Leah

Eight months later

‘Mummy!’ My son’s face is pure joy as I walk into the kitchen. Archie is my warmth on this biting autumn morning. ‘My rucksack is all packed.’

‘Great.’ I crouch and clip the lead onto the dog’s collar while George zips up Archie’s coat before tugging his bobble hat over his head. ‘You can come along for the ride, pooch.’

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ George looks at me with concern. ‘You know we don’t have to.’

‘It’ll be exciting for Archie and good for me to see it.’

‘Can we get a hot chocolate afterwards? With cream. Please!’ Archie pleads.

‘Yes.’ I ruffle his hair. I wouldn’t normally encourage such a hit of sugar in the morning, but then this is a special occasion.

It’s the day I’ve been waiting for.

The sky is dull and grey, which seems fitting. The windscreen wipers swish intermittently, although it’s more moist air than drizzle dampening the windscreen. I watch the scenery flash by, absent-mindedly running my fingers over yesterday’s new tattoo; a comma. I was terrified of infection and threw up beforehand, but I did it.

‘Can you pull in here?’ I gesture to a lay-by next to a café. ‘I think we could do with that warming drink to take with us, don’t you?’

Archie squeals in excitement and launches himself out of the car. I think how wonderful it would be to see the world through a five-year-old’s eyes. Finding the joy in something most of us would take for granted – complain about even, I think as I look at the queue.

Eventually it is our turn.

‘Three hot chocolates, please.’ Archie beams his biggest smile.

‘I think we only want two,’ George turns to me. ‘You haven’t brought your cup, have you?’

‘No. But I’ll have one, thanks,’ I say to the barista. I can feel George still staring at me in shock. Inside I am a mass of delight and pride with a hint of trepidation. The Acceptance and Commitment therapy I’ve been using seems to be working for me in a way that other methods haven’t, which isn’t to say I’ll drink the chocolate that’s now being topped with a heap of swirling cream, but I’m willing to try.

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