Page 97 of The Art of Loving You

‘Bethany … it’s difficult to talk about.’

‘I appreciate that but …’ I was holding back my tears. ‘It’s just that sometimes …’ My voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I feel I’m going mad with it all.’ My cup chinked against my saucer. My trembling hand placed it on the worktop.

‘After we … lost Bethany it was like the heart had been ripped out of our home but you have to carry on as best you can. That doesn’t mean you forget that person. When you lose a child, you grieve not just the person they are but the person you thought they would be,’ she said, sadly.

‘After, did you talk to her?’

She looks confused.

‘I mean,’ I expanded, ‘after you buried her. Did you talk to her, here or at her grave or anywhere?’ My voice was tiny. The room unbearably warm. I rubbed my hand across the back of my neck and felt the sweat that slicked my skin. Sandra’s eyes were brimming with tears and I wished I had never come. Wished I had never started this conversation.

‘Libby,’ she said finally. ‘Bethany … Bethany isn’t dead.’

Seconds ago I was boiling hot. Now I was freezing cold. My blood, my bones, nothing but ice. My tumbling questions were pushed back by one thudding thought.

Bethany. Wasn’t. Dead.

It didn’t make sense and yet as I looked at Sandra I saw it. The shame in her eyes, the slump of her shoulders, the pinch of her mouth. She recognised my despair and I recognised her guilt. I knew. I had felt it. The weight of responsibility we carried. The ceaseless ‘if-only’s that spun around my head.

Noah had lied.

‘You grieve for the things that you had hoped your child would be,’ she had said moments ago.

Honest. Open. Kind.

Noah wasn’t any of those things. Perhaps it wasn’t Bethany she had been talking about at all. Perhaps she was grieving for the man she wished Noah had become instead of the liar he was.

But … why?

Had I misunderstood?

‘Bethany isn’t dead?’ I repeated. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I think I’d know if my own daughter wasn’t alive.’ Her tone had changed, anger poking her words.

‘Of course. Sorry. It’s just that … Where is she?’

She pushed her chair back, knocking the table as she stood, the china rattling together. ‘You should leave.’

‘I’m sorry. I only—’

‘I’ll tell Noah you called.’ She crossed her arms tightly across her chest defending herself against any more questions.

I couldn’t help glancing at the photos on the wall as I hurried down the hall. The photos of Bethany which stopped abruptly at her teenage years.

Was Sandra confused? So overcome by grief she pretended Bethany was alive? I had to find out.

The churchyard was empty. I was frantic as I raced around, examining the names on each and every headstone, even the ones that were obviously too old, squinting as I deciphered the faded lettering.

I read them all.

‘Bethany isn’t dead.’

‘Bethany has gone … I lost Bethany …’

Gone.

Lost.

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