I can still make it home in time. I just need to keep going.
I turn into the park, deciding to cut through it: it’ll be faster and also I’ll get some shade. But, as soon as I’m there, I regret it. The park is all noise. It’s children laughing and screaming and splashing in the pool. It’s perfect trees and ice cream and happy families.
I’m intruding. I pause near the entrance, thinking that maybe I should stick to the road after all, but then I get caught up in a big group of mums and tiny kids and I’m being swept along with them towards the play area. There’s no way out – children and smiley mums surround me.
When we reach the playground, they all spread out. And I’m left standing there, alone. I could carry on home. I should. But instead I’m staring at the big red slide at the centre of the play area. I walk towards it, wooden chips lumpy beneath my pumps. I go right up to the red slide. I touch it. It’s smooth and warm and has tiny scratches.
‘Watch out!’ a little girl calls from the top. She has big eyes and is wearing glittery pink trainers. Her feet come rushing towards me and I move my hand out of the way just in time. The girl gets off the slide and comes up to me.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks.
I’m shocked to find that I’m crying.
‘Oh! I …’ I wipe my tears away as fast as I can, but they keep coming. I want to go down that slide with Akash waiting for me at the bottom. I want to be nine years old again.
I’m being ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
‘I’m OK,’ I tell the girl.
She makes a sad face. ‘You don’t look OK,’ she says, before running off.
I walk over to the grassy patch near the slide and sink down on to the grass. I feel heavy. My whole body – legs, arms, feet, hands – feels too heavy to move. I have no idea how long I sit there. It’s hot and I’m sweating and there are kids everywhere. I need to get home. But, for some reason, I can’t get up.
I just want to be nine years old again.
My phone is buzzing in my bag. It’s Fi. I answer it.
‘I thought you were popping over?’ she says. ‘Or were you too busy?’ She laughs. ‘Tell me everything!’
‘I want to be nine again,’ I tell her, sobbing into the phone.
‘Oh! Bloody hell, Neens,’ she says. ‘Is it happening again?’
‘Is what happening again?’
‘Don’t worry. Where are you?’
I explain where I am. I tell her about the red slide and how much Akash loved it.
‘I’m coming,’ she says. ‘Don’t move.’
When I hang up, I see that I have twenty-three missed calls from Mum and Dad. I have a feeling that I’m in deep, deep trouble. I look across the playground, at the black pirate ship. And I feel like I’m on it. I’m on a ship and it’s sinking. Sinking fast.
Fi’s arm is round me and we’re walking down the drive to my house. When we reach the door, she rings the doorbell, which is a bit confusing. She has walked me home from the park. Her arm has been tight round me all the way. She smells of expensive perfume. It’s nice. Comforting.
‘I think I can just go in,’ I say, giving her a little smile.
She smiles back, which I’m pleased about. She seemed angry on the way here. She said I’m working too hard and I need a break and why won’t anyone give me a fucking break. I think she’s angry with the world, not with me. But I somehow feel responsible.
She hugs me. ‘Oh, thank God, Neens. I think you’re OK now. Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ I’m not sure why she’s asking me that. Though I do feel a bit weird. Weak, tired. But then I haven’t slept properly for weeks. There’s something else too: my head feels stuffy and it’s hard to think straight.
‘Oh, good.’ She hugs me again. ‘I’d better go. I’ll message you later.’
‘Wait,’ I say, remembering something important. ‘Have you found anything out? From Jay?’
Fi shakes her head. ‘I’m really sorry, Neens. Not yet. But I’m working on it. OK?’
I nod. She gives me another hug and then I watch her designer skinny jeans race up the driveway. Turning back to the house, I push down the door handle.
‘Hello?’ I call as I step into the hall. I’m nervous. I’m very late home. But Fi said I should say I went to the library after work and that everything will be fine if I say that.
‘Oh, thank God, Neena,’ Mum says, rushing out of the kitchen and towards me. Her face is swollen from crying. She grabs me, pulls me in for a hug.
‘Oh, hey, Mum,’ I reply, like it’s no big deal. ‘Sorry I’m late. I went to the library to study after work.’
She stares at my face. ‘Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you answer my calls?’
‘I … I forgot to call. And I turned my phone on to silent at the library. I’m sorry. I should have messaged.’
She starts full-on crying now. ‘I was so worried. When I couldn’t get hold of you on your mobile and the minutes turned to hours …’ She breathes in deeply through her nose. ‘I started getting all these thoughts …’ she continues. ‘Bad thoughts … Terrible, terrible thoughts …’ Mum presses her forehead into my shoulder and cries.
‘Shhh. I’m here now,’ I say, pulling her closer. I feel awful. I understand the bad thoughts. The bad thoughts are agony. I hate them so much. ‘I’m so sorry, Mum.’
‘It just made me think … you know …’ Mum goes on. ‘It was like it was happening all over again.’
Like picking at an old wound, I remember the day Akash didn’t come home. I start crying too, and we just stand there, in the hallway, getting each other’s shoulders wet.
Mum’s broken.
Everything’s broken.
But I’m also out enjoying myself, feeling all these new, crazy, wonderful things with Josh. How could I do this to her?
When we finally stop crying, I lead Mum into the living room. We sink on to the sofa, side by side. Mum looks at me. Her mascara has smudged so she looks like she’s got two bruised eyes. She touches my cheek.
‘I know you hate me calling you my jaan,’ she says. ‘But you really are, you know.’
‘I know, Mum,’ I say. ‘I know that.’
Fresh tears drip down Mum’s cheeks. I lean forward to get her a tissue from the box on the table and catch a glimpse of her swollen ankles. ‘Mum! Your feet! What’s happened?’
She takes the tissue, wipes her cheeks, and laughs. ‘Can’t tell where my ankles end and my calves start. Cankles! Another joy of pregnancy.’
‘I don’t know, Mum,’ I say, looking more closely. Mum’s right – everything’s swollen together. ‘It doesn’t look right to me. You should see someone.’
She frowns and shakes her head.
‘Mum! You need to.’
She shakes her head again. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Shall I … shall I call someone? I’m sure a doctor could come to the house?’
Mum sighs and waves a hand at me. ‘Really, you’re worrying about nothing. This is normal in pregnancy.’