It was unfathomable.
And yet, fathom it I must. Because it had happened. And now I was saying goodbye. Goodbye to the bum-shuffling baby who never learned to crawl, goodbye to my little mittened preschooler, goodbye to the nervous reception child, goodbye to the confident year six pupil who’d outgrown primary school, goodbye to the gawky pre-teen with her spots and training bra and first period. And goodbye to my beautiful, clever, darling girlwho would never again be described as ‘living at home’, only, ‘back for the holidays’.
I know I’m making it sound as though she’d died. And I’m sorry, because that’s terribly insensitive to parents who have suffered the tragic death of a child. But in those moments, it did feel like a bereavement of sorts. A wrenching away. A pulling apart. The finality of separation. And as I made my way out of that flat, back down the steps that would take me to the car, and then far, far away from my daughter, the numbness that I knew would develop over the hours into a physical pain reminded me of a sensation I’ve only experienced once before – when my father died. It was grief.
Chapter Seven
‘I can’t believe we forgot to leave her the shortbread,’ I said mournfully as we cruised back down the motorway with our newly lightened vehicle.
‘I’m sure she’ll still be able to make friends without it,’ Joe said through a mouthful of crumbs. He seemed to be on a personal mission to eat the evidence, clearly hoping that if he consumed the entire tin of thirty biscuits, I might eventually stop banging on about it.
‘D’you think we should be worried about the fact that we didn’t see any other kids in the flat?’ I tried a different tack – but very much on a similar theme. ‘Do you think she’s even spoken to anyone else yet?’
I reached out for my phone, but Joe put an arm across from the driver’s seat.
‘Don’t message her, Hattie,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’
‘I wasn’t going to!’ I said hotly (Iwasgoing to). ‘I was just thinking I’d see if she’s still in her room.’ I brought up the tracking app on my phone. Layla had confirmed that she was happy for me to use this function three years ago when she was fifteen, but I was sure the same consent would extend to me using it now.
‘We only left her thirty minutes ago,’ said Joe. ‘I don’t think she’s gone far.’
‘It was an hour ago actually. And I thought she might have gone to the bar or something. Or she might be sitting in the kitchen at least, chatting to her new flatmates…’
‘I don’t think the GPS is that specific. Unless you’ve tapped into military intelligence and are planning a drone strike, you’renot going to be able to tell exactly where she is within the flat. Besides, she might have left her phone in her room.’
I gave him an incredulous look. ‘Left her phone behind? Have you met our daughter?’
‘Still, don’t be reading too much into it wherever she…’ He trailed off, knowing this was a futile request. I would of course be reading all manner of things into my daughter’s precise geographical location.
‘Hmmm.’ I surveyed the purple dot somewhere in the eastern wing of block four of Milton Court where Layla’s flat was situated. It remained stationary and had updated two minutes ago. I checked Instagram. ‘She hasn’t posted anything either,’ I said, worried.
‘Well, hopefully she’s meeting people IRL instead,’ said Joe. I could tell he was pleased with himself for using the appropriate vernacular. Sure enough, two seconds later he couldn’t help himself but explain… ‘It meansIn Real Life.’
‘Yes. Thank you, darling.’ I scrolled listlessly through her reels and stories, which were all from earlier this morning and mainly involved videos of her saying goodbye to the cats with a mournful soundtrack playing beneath.
‘I hope some new people have arrived –IRL,’ I said. ‘I wonder if it’s mainly boys or girls in that flat. I wonder what they’ll be like. I really hope they’re nice. Not too cool. Not too judgy. But maybe not really quiet types who never want to go out either. What if—’
‘She’ll be fine,’ he said, cutting me off. ‘Layla will be fine. She’s an only child, Hattie. She’s much more resilient and self-sufficient than you think.’
I was evidently radiating distress because his voice softened. ‘Layla’s used to her own company,andshe’s used to having to introduce herself to strangers. Please don’t worry love. She’llmake a tonne of friends. In her halls, on her course… There’s so much opportunity. She’ll find her tribe.’
I didn’t want to burst his bubble or provide more evidence that I was being silly worrying about my daughter, but I had my doubts about some of this. What he said about Layla being an only child was true, obviously. She’d sometimes had to make her own entertainment as a child and didn’t really mind being alone. But I couldn’t think of a single previous occasion where she’d had to introduce herself to a group of total strangers. Layla had grown up in a small village and been to a school where she’d known pretty much everyone from birth. Other than camping holidays when she was small there had been no scenario where my daughter had needed to introduce herself to a new group of children, and as a teenager she had rarely strayed from the tight network of her immediate friends. She wasn’t quite as sociable as Joe thought. And even if she had been, even if she’d been the most gregarious and extrovert of party animals, there were countless ways that other people, other girls, specifically, could make you feel isolated and ostracised – even as they ostensibly ‘befriended’ you. I dearly hoped that Layla would just be one of the lucky ones, that she’d instantly land on her feet, or meet her tribe as Joe said. But I couldn’t help feeling that the signs were mixed. If we’d seen one or two people before we left – cheerful friendly girls or jolly and handsome (but not so handsome as to be arseholes) chaps, it would have put my mind at ease.
‘I just want to be able to imagine what she’s doing,’ I said, trying to explain my frustration and unease. ‘And I can’t picture her friendship group, even an imaginary one, if I’ve got literally nothing to base it on.’ I jabbed angrily at my phone. ‘I need photos! I need information to work with. Why’s she not posting anything?’
But Joe merely sighed, patted my hand, and pulled off the motorway into yet another service station. Here he spent half anhour in the toilets, claiming asubacute bowel obstructionfrom the kilo of shortbread he’d eaten, while I began to look longingly at the massage chairs, wondering whether I could vibrate the sadness out of my being.
By the time we got home we were both a peculiar combination of exhausted and wired – like jet-lagged toddlers who’d had too many Fruit Shoots. Joe plonked himself in front of the television and was asleep within minutes while I wandered around the house in a state of numb confusion until my phone began to ring. It was Layla. This was unusual, given that the current generation of young adults would generally rather run naked into the street than make a voice call, but the fact that it was happening during her first evening at university, a time when she should be out making friends and doing fun studenty stuff, also felt ominous.
It appeared that in the immediate aftermath of us leaving Layla’s halls of residence she had tidied her room with the door open, as instructed, gone into the kitchen numerous times on the off-chance that she might see someone, and even plucked up the courage to tentatively knock on one of the doors that she thought might be occupied, all to no avail.
By the time she called me she was squirrelled away in her room with a microwave meal she’d bought from the on-site shop, where she’d seen a few people chatting together but not been bold enough to insert herself into their conversation. She explained that although there seemed to be ‘welcome drinks’ happening in the bar, she hadn’t really felt like going on her own and thought instead it might be a good idea just to rest up after what had been a long and emotional day.
As you might imagine, this was a situation that really tested my acting abilities, and we both tried to play along with the charade that sitting in front of the television watching re-runs ofGilmore Girlswith your mother on FaceTime was a completely normal thing to do on your first evening as a student. When heeventually woke up, Joe almost had to physically restrain me from getting back in the car and driving up to collect her there and then.
I realised that of all the terrible university scenarios I had planned for – arriving at halls and discovering that the deposit hadn’t gone through and Layla had nowhere to live; finding out that she hated the course she had chosen or that she couldn’t keep up with the work and became horribly anxious and stressed; hearing from a stranger that Layla had fallen in with the wrong crowd, was doing drugs, had been arrested, etcetera – my daughter being friendless was not one of them. Layla got on with everyone; she was kind, funny, interesting and interested in others. Prior to today I had assumed that the main social challenge (and a scenario we had discussed at length) would be navigating some of the tricky personalities she might encounter, sorting the wheat from the chaff. I’d offered her advice about how she should try to resist hitching her wagon too all-consumingly to the first group who spoke to her.
It had never really occurred to me that she simply wouldn’t meet anyone, that her student flat would be largely unoccupied or have as much life as a monastic order, and I went to bed that night with a tight feeling of anxiety in addition to the huge swell of grief at her absence. Not a great combination, if I’m honest.
