That’s why it was comforting to listen to the dozens of messages on her mobile phone from her family and friends; to hear her sister, Bridget, practically incoherent with shock; to hear the normally unflappable Mahalia’s voice breaking in two; to hear the school principal, dear Trudy McDuff, burst into tears, apologize, and then call back and do it again. (Her mother said no fewer than fourteen casseroles had already been delivered by school mums. All those casseroles she’d made over the years finally coming home to roost.)
“Mummy,” muttered Polly again, but her eyes were shut. She seemed to be talking in her sleep. She shuddered, and her head moved from side to side agitatedly, as if in pain or fear. Cecilia’s hand hovered over the call button for the nurse, but then Polly’s face calmed.
Cecilia breathed out. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath. This kept happening too. She had to remember to breathe.
She sat back in the chair and wondered how John-Paul was doing with the girls, and without warning she was racked with a violent spasm of hatred like nothing she’d ever felt in her life. She hated him for what he’d done to Janie Crowley all those years ago. He was responsible for Rachel Crowley’s foot on the accelerator. The hatred spread throughout her body like fast-acting poison. She wanted to kick him, to punch him, to kill him. Dear God. She couldn’t bear to be in the same room as him. She breathed shallowly and looked around her desperately for something to break or hit. Now is not the time, she told herself. This will not help Polly.
He blames himself, she reminded herself. The thought of his suffering gave her some relief. The hatred gradually eased to a manageable level. She knew that it would come again, that as Polly suffered through each new stage, Cecilia would look for someone to blame—other than herself. That was the root of the hatred: the knowledge of her own responsibility. Her decision to sacrifice Rachel Crowley for her family had led to this moment in this hospital room.
She knew that her marriage was damaged at its very core, but she knew also that they would keep limping along together like wounded soldiers for Polly’s sake. She’d learn how to live with the waves of hatred. It would be her secret. Her loathsome secret.
And once the waves passed, there would still be love. It was an entirely different feeling from the uncomplicated, unstinting adoration she’d felt as a young bride, walking down the aisle to that serious, handsome man; but she knew that no matter how much she hated him for what he’d done, the love was still there, like a deep seam of gold in her heart. It would always be there.
Think about something else. She pulled out her iPhone and began making a list. First up, Polly’s seventh birthday. Could they have a pirate party in the hospital? Of course they could. It would be the most wonderful, magical party ever. She’d make the nurses wear eye patches.
“Mum?” Polly opened her eyes.
“Hello, Princess Polly,” said Cecilia. This time she was ready, like an actress about to sweep onto a stage. “Guess who dropped off something for you last night?” She produced an Easter egg from under Polly’s pillow. It was wrapped in shimmering gold, with a red velvet ribbon tied around the middle.
Polly smiled. “The Easter Bunny?”
“Even better. Mr. Whitby.”
Polly went to hold out her hand for the egg, and an expression of mild bemusement crossed her beautiful face. She frowned at her mother and waited for her to fix things.
Cecilia cleared her throat, smiled and took Polly’s left hand firmly in her own.
“Darling,” she said.
So it began.