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I blink at the shortness of his voice. “I'm sorry.” Who am I to judge? I've not exactly been stable recently.
David shakes his head. “Nah, you're all right. It was a dick move. Stupid, too, because it gave Claire enough ammo to shoot me down.”
I'm still trying not to think about someone taking Max away. A whole week? As much as I dislike the sound of Claire, she must have gone through hell.
“Everybody deserves a second chance,” I say with a small voice. “We all make mistakes.”
“Claire doesn't see it that way.” He stares at the ground. “Nor does the judge. I'm too much of an abduction risk, apparently.”
“But you wouldn't take her again, would you? Not after everything that's happened?”
“Of course not. But every day I don't see her, she's growing up. I'm scared she's not gonna know me, not going to want to know me. Claire will find someone else and then Mathilda won't even need me anymore. She'll have a new dad.”
“You'll always be her dad,” I reassure him. “No matter what happens, nobody can change that.”
“What's the use in a title if I can't spend any time with her?” he asks. “She's gonna forget I even exist. I've lost her, Lara, I know I have.”
His face crumples, and I close the space between us, reaching out to hug him tight. For ten long minutes he cries into my shoulder, sobbing for a child he's lost, one he so desperately misses. Though my eyes water, I don't join in. I try to comfort him as best I can, trying so hard not to think about another absent dad, touring over in the States. One who would rather spend time with nameless blondes than call his wife and check up on his baby.
* * *
The next time I attend the PND support group I actually feel able to speak in front of everybody. We’ve taken the babies swimming, and after drying ourselves off and getting our clothes back on, we congregate in a small restaurant at the back of the sports complex. I’ve noticed that we all feel more comfortable with our hands occupied—whether it’s holding a coffee or rocking a baby, and though often we don’t make eye contact, there’s still a feeling of being heard.
The swimming has worn Max out for once. He’s slumped in his buggy, his head lolling to one side, fingers stuffed in his mouth like a soother. I tuck the blanket around his legs before lifting my coffee from the table, and look at the others who are doing the same.
“How has your week been, Lara?” Diane, the group leader asks. I take a mouthful of coffee before speaking, letting the liquid warm my throat.
“I saw a photograph of my husband with another woman.”
There’s a gasp from the others, as they whip their heads up to look at me. Their shock lessens as I try to explain the situation, finding myself making excuses for Alex, but the sympathy in their eyes remains.
“Have you been sleeping?” Diane asks.
“Not much,” I admit. I look down, smoothing the wrinkles from my jeans. “Even when Max is asleep I can’t drift off. I keep seeing it in my mind.”
“Do you think there’s anything in it?” Debbie, one of the other mums, leans forward. “You seem remarkably calm.”
“I don’t know… I don’t think so. We’ve been together for seven years and he’s never ever strayed, even when he’s had opportunity to.” I look up, catching her eye. “He’s had a lot of opportunity, as you can imagine.”
“Have you asked him about it?”
I shake my head. “Remember I told you about his phone? I can’t bring myself to ask him over somebody else’s connection. What if we end up talking for hours? What if he hangs up and I can’t get hold of him? This is something I need to do face to face.”
“That sounds sensible,” Diane says. “From what you’ve told us, you’ve both in a volatile position right now. And this is a conversation you really should have in person.”
She’s right, I know that. Because I need to see his eyes when I ask him, to see his expression when he tries to explain the situation. More than that, I need him to see me, the way his actions are affecting me, the way I sometimes feel like I’m falling apart.
The only problem is, there’s still another six weeks until he comes home.
18
Two days later Max has developed a hacking cough that a sixty-a-day smoker would be proud of. Loud dog-like barks wrack his tiny body, making him cry with the shock of it all. In spite of the heat, I wrap him up and take him to the doctor's surgery, only to be told that colds are to be expected and I should keep him cool and hydrated, and that I shouldn’t take him swimming again until his breathing is better.
Though the doctor didn't say it, I got the sense he thinks I'm being neurotic. He only has to see my notes to know I've been diagnosed as having PND. Though I've heard from the others at the PND group that they have the same problems with their own GPs, this is the first time I start to wonder if it really is me.
Maybe I am being neurotic.
Alex has called twice since the weekend. Even over a dodgy connection he could hear Max's wheezing, and he sounded sweetly concerned, telling me to try the doctor again, offering to call his mum for advice. I have to admit I tried to play down my worries.
