‘I know that there comes a point where…’ Oliver’s voice catches. ‘Where we have to let the ones we love go.’
Again, Anna grasps my hand with both of hers. She squeezes. I squeeze back but she can’t feel it.
I’m back in Alircia when we first met. Watching Anna’s anxious face as the bird is placed on my arm. Feeling my fingers fumble against the chain that tethers it. Watching the parrot soar into the brilliant, blue sky. But I’m not there.
I’m here.
I’m at home with Harry.
I don’t know where I am.
I don’t know who I am.
My head hurts. My body hurts. My heart hurts.
Anna sniffs. She doesn’t let go of my hands to find a tissue. Her tears drip onto my forearm. I can’t wipe them away.
‘I won’t give up. Adam wouldn’t want me to give up either,’ she says.
But she’s wrong.
Her sitting day after day in this room, living out a life, a fantasy almost, that can’t be real, no matter how solid it feels, means she’s missing out on the outside world because of me. Putting her health at risk.
You could have died, Anna.
This isn’t what I want at all.
I summon up every ounce of energy in my body to tell her this, but my voice remains silent when I speak.
Anna, don’t kill yourself over me. I’m not there, I’m here. I’m everywhere.
I’m nowhere.
But no matter where my mind hops to, my heavy, unresponsive body remains in this bed.
A 3 per cent chance of recovery, I had overheard.
If you love someone, set them free.
She needs to let me go.
I need to let her go.
I won’t let her destroy herself, miss out on living her life to the fullest because of me. I love her too much for that.
‘One last time,’ Oliver says. ‘Just to say goodbye.’
He’s caved. I knew he would but it doesn’t matter. I know what I have to do.
Chapter Seventy-Two
Oliver
Oliver knows Anna’s right. He’d want the chance to say goodbye to Clem, it seems only fair. He’s shaking as he watches Sofia help her with the goggles through the console room window.
One last time.
Thirty minutes.
He’s here to monitor every second.
Nothing can go wrong.
Can it?
Chapter Seventy-Three
Adam
My body is slid onto a cold hard surface. I want to shout no. To tell Oliver that he can’t let Anna keep risking everything for me. I am not the same person. I no longer feel like me. I am not aware of my body. I cannot move, can’t force my eyes open, but love? I still feel love.
If I were to stir, Anna, then what? You’d spend the rest of your life caring for me and I’d spend the rest of my life not being able to tell you how I feel. You’ve lost the husband you had. But Harry… the son that shouldn’t exist and yet we have somehow brought into being, is a light shining in the darkness. Your guiding star, just as you are mine. It isn’t fair for you to be wrenched away from him time and time again. It is too painful to bear and it will be your ruin.
What I’m about to do is for you. Please forgive me.
Brief snatches of the life we almost had is too cruel. If I could find a way to give you it all, I would, but I can’t. But there’s something I can do for you.
If you love someone, set them free.
Remember, Anna?
For one last time, I wish I could take your hand in mine. Look deeply into your eyes and tell you that whenever things seem impossible, they aren’t.
There is always an ember of hope quietly smouldering if you know where to look.
There’s always a miracle waiting to happen.
Love will find a way.
Chapter Seventy-Four
Anna
For the last time I allow my body to relax, my mind to fall. Adam’s hand in mine.
Instead of being in the UK, I find myself back in our apartment in Alircia.
Alone.
‘Adam?’ I’m hesitant. Suddenly afraid but unsure why. ‘Adam?’
Why aren’t we at home? Where is Harry?
Perhaps we are back on the island, celebrating an anniversary. Or Harry’s birthday? Despite hoping I will find Adam and Harry napping on the bed, I still enter the bedroom with a sense of unease. The hairs at the back of my neck prickling.
Something isn’t right.
The room is empty. White duvet pulled up over the pillows. I pull it back and touch the sheet with my hand. It’s cold.
‘Adam?’ His suitcase is on the floor, lid open. His clothes strewn around it haphazardly. I open a drawer; my shorts and tops are neatly folded. There are no baby things. No travel cot. My chest tightens as panic courses through me.
Where is Harry?
The longing to see my son is painful. I try to slow my breathing. Regulate my pulse. I can’t have Oliver bringing me back yet. The thought I might not get to say goodbye to my husband and child causes a crack to appear in my heart. Where are they?
The bathroom is empty but steam lingers from the shower. The scent of musky shower gel hanging in the air. He’s been here then, and recently.
In the kitchen, a pen and pad rest on the worktop. An address scrawled on the top page. Upper Harringdon. It’s a town about thirty miles away from our home in the UK. Adam is always chatting to the other hotel guests about football. Perhaps someone had given him their address to keep in touch, but that doesn’t explain where he is right now.
Another sheet of paper catches my eye; it’s stuck to the fridge with the ‘I love Alircia’ magnet.
Anna, meet me at Pacifico Beach and remember I LOVE YOU xxxxx
My anxiety increases, remembering the disaster that struck last time we were at Pacifico Beach. How could he possibly think I’d want to go there? How could he want to go there? But then I remember in Adam’s mind the accident never happened. He doesn’t know. But still, my nerves are jangling. Why are we here? Has his mind forgotten Harry? I just can’t figure out what’s going on.
A fierce desire to find my husband, my son, propels me out of the door.
My arms feel empty, my heart full of dread. Shockwaves travel up my shins while my sandal-clad feet pound the pavement. By the time I get to the beach, my sundress is plastered to my back with sweat. When I see what’s waiting for me, it’s like running into a wall. Shock slamming the breath from my body.
It’s exactly the same.
Pacifico is a riot of noise and colour. Music and laughter. Red and green bunting hanging between wooden poles that have been pushed into the sand.
It’s exactly the same.
A BBQ sizzles the scent of beef. On the makeshift bar rest goldfish-sized glasses filled with milky pina colada, garnished with chunks of pineapple, straws and pink paper umbrellas.
Boy George’s voice drifts from the speaker. ‘Do you really want to hurt me?’
It’s exactly the same.
‘Ma’am?’ asks a voice to my left. I turn to the man in the navy polo shirt with the red ‘WLY’ logo, who offers me a leaflet. ‘Free trip? It’s the launch of Webster’s Luxury yachts. We’re dropping people off at the island over there, and collecting them later. Trips are every forty-five minutes. You’re too late for this one but—’