Her head moves up and down in agreement, but the pain in her eyes tells me that it will take more than his arrest to give her closure.
FINLAY HAS BEEN A constant figure around my apartment since I told him about James and his brother a couple of weeks ago. Mum confirmed that the only room that had things missing from it was mine, and it was pictures and underwear, to my utter mortification.
The police are linking it to James, but James wasn’t perverted, so my gut tells me it’s Jackson.
Thank God Mum and Dad weren’t there.
Fear lives inside my chest for them, worrying about him coming for them. It plagues my dreams, despite them reassuring me that they’ve had new alarms fitted and video monitoring installed.
Pulling my attention back to what I’m doing, I step back from the painting I’ve been working on and smile.
It looks great. It’s only the first in the series, but it’s already coming together nicely.
Finlay talking on his phone distracts me and ruins my concentration, so I cover the image and go to the sink to rinse the brushes.
He hasn’t been back to work, putting a lot of pressure on Brad who has to pick up the slack when Finlay can’t be there to do it. It’s a strain on their friendship. In fact, Brad has been non-existent around here these days. We haven’t seen anyone but Gavin, who, more often than not, crashes on the couch if we have a late night. Gabe and Libby are away on holiday so it’s been quiet around here, which I’m grateful for.
My thoughts wander to Gaby’s visit yesterday. She appears to be her old self and in bride mode. She isn’t around as much as usual, but she popped in for a cup of coffee yesterday and we finally got to talk about our dad.
“I’ve been chatting with our dad on the phone.” She drums her fingers on the side of her cup and watches me over the rim. I’m not sure if she’s waiting for me to get jealous or something, but I’m not. It makes me happy that they’re trying to build a relationship.
“That’s wonderful, honestly,” I say, taking her other hand in mine and squeezing.
“Are you sure?”
“Gaby, seriously.”
“He told me that he loved me from afar and was always proud of the girl I grew up to be. That he thought it was truly best to not know for sure because I was loved and wanted, and maybe that was wrong, or maybe it meant I got to have two fathers in the end, and that’s kind of lucky.”
“It sure is.”
I don’t think Finlay is keen on her having another man to look up to and go to for help if she ever needs it. He adored his father, and all this feels like he isn’t important anymore. It’s irrelevant, when in actual fact, he raised and cherished Gaby. It’s going to take time, and with Gaby intent on marrying Mike, he’s going to feel even more pushed out.
Things with us are balancing on a knife-edge. Things feel jaded between us. It’s difficult; this divide was created among the chaos, and trying to close the gap and get back to us is so much harder than it should be.
He’s working hard to keep us together, and I’m holding my façade in place because the thought of losing him causes an ache in my chest so intense I can’t breathe.
Some moments I think we’re killing each other, and maybe too much has happened and we will never get back to what we were because we’re not who we once were. My mind and soul feel like a china cup; life has taken chunks out of me and stuck the pieces back together, but I’ll never be the same. The cracks will leak and be visible no matter how secure the glue.
Waiting to hear from Detective Ross is maddening.
James still hasn’t surfaced, and his mum has been over to see mine, asking for my number. Not telling my parents about James’ brother because I’m a coward backfired, and they found out on their own. I didn’t want them to blame me. It was irrational thinking, but they were my thoughts all the same.
I must make an appointment to see Dr Evans; she can help me find the courage to tell them I’m sorry.
Dad tries to bring it up in conversation after Detective Ross paid them a visit, informing them about Jackson being the suspect in the murder and robbery. I think it gave my mum some semblance of solace in a weird way, knowing it wasn’t a random act by a stranger, that she was just that unlucky. I don’t understand why it makes a difference. The end result was still the same. She’s hopeful they will find him and put a stop to this once and for all. I’m not as optimistic. We didn’t even know of his existence; he’s used to being in the shadows, hiding.
Finlay ends his call and is standing in the middle of the room, gazing at me. I fiddle with my fingers and then rush towards my bedroom. “I need to clean the bathroom,” I tell him as I flee.
I brace myself as I hear Finlay’s footsteps as he continues to mope from room to room. He struggles to look at me anymore, and I him.
The loss of the baby hits me out of the blue some days and knocks my healing back weeks.
“It’s not your fault,” he reminds me when he finds me crying in the bathroom. And I know, deep down, that’s true.
Miscarriage is common, and that’s so freaking sad to think about. There are other women at this moment feeling this cruel agony, and I want to weep for them, for me, for Finlay.
“My mother’s here,” Finlay yells through the wood of the door separating us. I’ve been in the bathroom for over an hour “cleaning” it, when we both know it’s clean and I just needed to escape the silence between us. She’s here for my hair sample. We’re finally getting the tests to tell us for sure that Gaby and I share a father, just to have it on paper for Gaby’s peace of mind.
Checking myself in the mirror is pointless; I know I’m a puffy mess. Tears refuse to obey my command to stop, they happen at random moments.
I was talking to my teacher the other day about the early work of an artist he follows, and my mind drifted, and then my lip began to tremble and large, salty droplets dropped onto my cheeks. Mortification instantly brightened my skin tone, but my professor thought I was extremely passionate and commended me for being so free with my feelings towards art. I’ve caught him nodding at me a couple of times on campus like we share a secret.
“Antonia, baby. Please come out.”
“I’m coming,” I call back, and inhale a deep breath before unlocking the door. “I was just cleaning the shower.” I smile as I brush past him.
He won’t pull me on the lie, and that furthers the divide because he’s allowing me to fade from him. It’s not his fault; he thinks he’s doing the right thing, and in a way, it’s what I want. But there’s the other part of me, the complicated woman part we all possess, where we tell people we’re okay in the hope they see the empty hole and fill it with them.
Pulling myself together, I greet the doctor Diane brought with her.
“I just need to swab the inside of your cheek.” He holds a cue tip looking thing up, so I open my mouth and let him rub it against my gum.
He pulls it free and puts it in a plastic bag, sealing it and putting it in an envelope.
“I thought you needed a hair sample?” I query.