Thomas had come home from work about six months beforehand and noticed some bruises on the side of Andrew’s face, one on his back and two on his arms.
Andrew had fallen down the stairs. I’d only turned away for two minutes while I rushed up the stairs to use the toilet. I explained that to Thomas, but he made me feel as though I was a bad mother. The last thing I wanted to hear was that I wasn’t good enough; I couldn’t take another blow to my self-worth.
‘We can’t take him outside,’ I’d said. ‘What will people think of us with a baby covered in bruises.’
Thankfully Andrew didn’t have a broken arm; otherwise Thomas said we would have had to take him to the hospital. I remember panicking and shaking with worry. I couldn’t take him to the hospital; I begged Thomas not to go. Too many people rushing around and too many bad memories.
‘I did complete some of my midwife training,’ I reassured him. ‘We don’t need to go to the hospital. If his arm was broken, I’d know how to fix it. I do know how to fix a broken arm. We would only need to find a sling.’
I was so mentally detached from Plymouth Hospital and all my training. I knew I needed a different direction with work, and maybe when Andrew was older, and at school full-time, I could think about doing something else. I liked the idea of doing something for charity because that’s what good people do. I wanted to give something back to the community with a sense of purpose. It would really show this village how nice a person I could be. A caring, loving mother who could use her spare time to do something great.
I’d struggled to make friends in the village. Coming from a busy urban environment in central Plymouth to this small village on the outskirts was a culture shock, but it made me feel disguised in my own little corner of the world. I had tried to make friendly chit-chat with the neighbours, often at times I joined the woman across the road for a natter about the news and weather. I looked at them and felt their indifference towards me because I’m not sure they had ever met anyone like me before. Maybe I was just being paranoid because I never felt like I fitted in here. I’ve never really had a feeling of belonging anywhere. I would rather not have any friends than waste my time on fake conversations.
I said to Thomas that I had given up on the neighbours. We’d just keep ourselves to ourselves and get on with our own lives. When we first moved out of Plymouth, I felt that everyone wanted to know my business and judge me here. It was intense and stressful because I thought village culture was about keeping yourself private. Most of the neighbours wanted to know who we were, where we came from, what we did. I hated that, but nobody really bothered with us anymore, so Elmton suited me perfectly for the privacy I craved.
‘We have to fit in here,’ he’d reminded me. ‘It’s better to make friends than enemies.’
Thomas was the more talkative one out of us both – he could chat for hours on end about all kinds of random crap. I knew he must resent me at times for him leaving university to support us as a family. It was his choice to do so, but I really loved how supportive he had been to me since we had had a child in our lives.
Having Andrew completed me. I knew what direction my life was heading in. I got the depression in the beginning because I felt a little out of control and living together with a baby was new to both of us. It was thanks to Thomas I had my stability, my sanity and my beautiful family.
I didn’t have anyone else to support me. I have never felt that loved in my whole life.
Andrew had taken hold of the small drums and was inspecting them with his tiny hands. He was unsure what to do with them so he walked towards me, shaking them up and down.
‘No, they don’t work like that,’ I said, taking them off him. ‘This is how you do it.’
I placed the drums flat down on the floor and banged my hand on the left drum, then patted the right one with less force. Andrew was stood in front of me, watching with awe as he witnessed my hands make a sound that he had never heard before. I had gauged his interest with something he loved. He was smiling at me, and the sound of his laughter was music to my ears. I had made my little boy happy on his birthday. I had a feeling of warmth rush through my body as he watched me play the drums for him.
‘Look at me, Andrew,’ I said. ‘Copy Mummy.’
Andrew turned around to abandon me. He went back to run around the carpet again. He had disowned me in a moment when I thought we were connected by his learning. I was growing upset; I couldn’t shout at him because he was only three years old, and he had succeeded in making me feel like a useless mother.
I’m trying to do my best for you. Working so hard.
I picked up the drums and threw them against the wall. Andrew stopped running around the floor, jumped and stood still as I had startled him. It was such a loud bang that I could guarantee the neighbours heard the thud against the wall. The plastic broke into many pieces, some shards would have been dangerous for Andrew to stand on.
‘Now look what you’ve gone and made Mummy do,’ I said in a firm voice. ‘I thought you loved Mummy.’
I’m not convinced he even liked me, let alone loved me.
I sacrificed a lot for you, Andrew.
Five
Patricia Mullner – Now
Sunday, 9 September 2018
Staring at my own shadow dancing on the wall as the candlelight flickers is mesmerising. These guilty feelings that eat away at me make me think that I deserve to be punished. My eyes are focusing on the flickers of light, but in my head all I can hear is my mother’s words coming back to haunt me.
‘You’re evil, Patricia. You are damaged.’
My mother would have beaten me if I’d ever told her the secrets that I kept from her, despite my father knowing what he did to me. The secrets I keep from my family now are far bigger than I can cope with. All my life I have felt like a disappointment, but now I’ve done something this terrible. Maybe I deserve to feel this way.
Maybe I am evil?
The living room is quiet as I sit in silence watching the glimmer of light from the candle I lit in memory of my son. Andrew did not come home today after all. I am disappointed and upset, but deep down, I never really expected him to walk back through the door. But I refuse to let go of the hope that one day it could happen. The only way that he exists to me now is in my memories.
Thomas retired to bed about an hour ago. I’ve been on the vodka ever since because the pressure of the thoughts in my head is driving me insane.
He’s dead, isn’t he? The police never found the body?
My worst fears have never been confirmed, but I always wonder if he’s decomposing face-down in a ditch somewhere. I often think that he might have met someone who murdered him, hid the body, or even if he had ended up drowning by accident in a river. However, I push to the forefront of my mind that while there’s no sign of him, there is still hope that he is out there somewhere living a life. I wonder if I had given him more freedom and cared a bit less then he might still be here with us today.
People around me think I am going insane; I can see the look in their eyes when they talk to me. I can see them all stare at me as I go about my routines in the village. Maybe I should move away to start a new life, but then Andrew would never know where we are. So long as I live and breathe in this house, he will always know where his home is. If we moved, then I would still be worrying about him coming back, and finding we were gone.