She pauses, drinks more, and I see a sheen of tears in her dark eyes that immediately provokes a similar response in mine. I hate hearing this. I hate hearing how he suffered – but I owe it to him to at least listen, to understand, to get a glimpse into what happened in his world while mine was sedated and being lived in a slow motion haze.
‘Eventually, though, even he couldn’t keep believing it … your mum, she told him you didn’t want him in her life. Your dad … well, some stuff happened, you know? The police were involved. There was a restraining order. And his so-called family didn’t help. None of us really helped … we were all still kids, weren’t we? Kids with kids. Kids trying to deal with losing kids. Kids trying to navigate a world getting fucked up by the grown-ups. God, I wish things had been different … I wish I’d had the skills I have now back then. Everything could have been different.’
I reach across the table and take both her hands in mine, and squeeze her fingers. She’s falling down a rabbit hole of regret, and it’s not fair to let her.
‘It isn’t your fault,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ve already played the If Only game myself, and it’s impossible to win. If only I’d been stronger. If only I’d asked for help sooner. If only my parents weren’t such snobs. If only … if only we hadn’t been there, outside those shops, at that time. None of it changes anything, or has any effect on the here and now. And to answer your earlier question, I was in hospital for all that time.
‘I was diagnosed with a form of PTSD, on top of what they called complicated grief. It took a long time to get back to anything approaching well, and a lot of drugs, and a lot of therapy, and way too much of my life. My parents loved me, but they never wanted Joe around – it was only having Gracie that made them tolerate him. I have to work on the belief that my mother did what she did to protect me, at a time when I was vulnerable to the point of suicidal. It wasn’t right, but I can’t waste even more of my life hating them for it.’
As I say the words, I recognise the truth of them. My parents did a hateful thing – but to hate them would only add to the monumental mountain of pain and misery that I’ve already had to scale. I have to focus on what I can do now, not what they did then.
‘My mum did some crazy stuff,’ she says, half smiling. ‘But at least she had the excuse of being, you know, actually crazy …’
‘How is she?’ I ask, a sudden and vivid image of Belinda’s mother flashing up in my mind: her running around the garden of their small council house, wearing a neon pink tutu, holding Grace in her arms and singing the ‘Circle of Life’ from the Lion King. One of her more manic spells, with hindsight – but I also remember her crashed out days later, staring through the window of the living room into the rain, not speaking, still and silent, wrapped in a blanket. Completely alone.
‘She’s actually very good,’ replies Belinda, her half-smile making it the whole way. ‘The medication and treatments have got so much better over the years, and at least now people understand bipolar more – she’s not just the mad lady down the street. She remarried, and he’s great, and … I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear this.
‘I’m sorry, Jess – sorry you lost your parents, and sorry they were such twats, and sorry that you lost Gracie and lost Joe, and sorry we didn’t find you.’
‘What would you have done if you did find me?’ I ask. ‘Break me out?’
‘Yeah. Like in one of those heist movies – we’d have come up with a cunning plan and smuggled you free in a laundry basket …’
‘Funny as that sounds, the hospital was the right place for me. At least to start with. And it wasn’t all so terrible. Anyway … I’m glad your mum is good, I really am. She was always very kind. What about Mal? Or … do you have any more children now?’
‘No. One was enough. He’s … irritating. And wonderful. And gone away for the summer, to work in some bloody orphanage in India …’
‘What a selfish bastard,’ I say, grinning.
‘I know!’ she exclaims, returning the grin. ‘The youth of today, eh? I’m glad, deep down. He did his A-levels early, and there’s time for uni later, if that’s what he wants. It was right for him, but I was sad to see him go. I always thought that empty nest thing was a myth made up by middle-class mothers with too much time on their hands – but the other day, I was ordering an online shop and had to remind myself that I didn’t need the usual crate of Pot Noodles, or as much milk, or any Quorn sausage rolls, because he won’t be here. And it made me even more sad.’
‘I can imagine,’ I reply, knowing what will happen next. Knowing that she’ll think through the last few sentences, and worry that she’s been insensitive – that she’s dared to moan about her own circumstances with her child when sitting in the same room as me, a woman who lost her child. I wait for the shadow to cross her face, and quickly add: ‘Don’t say you’re sorry. I’m fine.’
Michael has remained silent throughout this exchange, watching us speak, his eyes moving from one to the other.
‘OK, Jess. But I am. So, I’m working on the assumption that you didn’t get hitched, have any more kids? I tried googling you but you seem to have zero online presence.’
‘I know. That’s because I work for the CIA in special ops.’
‘It’s not though, is it?’
‘No. It’s because I don’t like people being able to contact me. And I’m busy … my mum was ill for a long time before she died. Strokes, big ones. They didn’t leave much of her behind.’
‘That’s really shit,’ she replies. ‘Want any more brandy?’
She pours herself some, and I shake my head. I can see Michael is tempted, and can almost hear his inner debate as to whether he would be over the limit. He places his hand over the mug, having come to the sensible conclusion.
‘So, this has been weird and sad and also a bit nice. But what can I actually do for you, Jess?’
‘I want to find Joe, Belinda. And I want you to help me. Do you know where he is?’
She shakes her head sadly, and I feel the hope I didn’t know I was harbouring shred inside me. It hadn’t been a lot of hope, but even a little can kill you.
‘I don’t. I can help you try and find him, but the last time we spoke was years ago. Maybe … 2008, something like that? He’d been in Dublin, mentioned a few other places, but sounded different. More guarded, as though he was putting this life behind him. I’d left a message, and he actually called back, because … well, because I mentioned you.’
She gets up immediately after she’s said this, and I hear her messing around with her phone. The music changes, and death metal is replaced with Nina Simone. I wonder if she’s trying to soothe me somehow.
‘Me? Why did you mention me?’ I ask, noticing the way she sits with her legs crossed for the first time, her arms folded on her lap, her eyes not quite meeting mine.
‘Because I saw you,’ she replies quietly. ‘I saw you in Manchester city centre, shopping in King Street, and you looked … good. Really good.’