Page 69 of The Mother-in-Law

‘Give Papa a hug,’ she instructs them.

They look at her uncertainly and she nods.Go on. They’re a little frightened of him now. His hands are gnarled and his head is bent. He can be difficult to understand, but he is determined to keep talking. I think this is wonderful but the kids get frustrated by it or lose interest, or worse, say something rude.

‘Papa’s spitting,’ Harriet says. Or ‘Why is Papa’s head like that?’

‘Papa can hear you,’ I say in a false jovial voice.

But Diana doesn’t gloss over it like I do. A couple of weeks ago, she asked Archie and Harriet to imagine how frustrating it would be to want to say something to people when no one would listen. Archie came to me a few minutes later and told me he would always listen to Papa, and to his credit, he’s been very patient ever since. Harriet hasn’t been quite so empathetic, telling me she doesn’t understand why he doesn’t just watch TV and not bother talking to anyone. I vacillate between accepting that she’s just a child and feeling responsible for the fact that one day Harriet will be out there in the world, inflicting herself on anyone who’ll listen.

It won’t be long now. Tom has been in and out of hospital for months, with upper respiratory tract infections, breathing difficulties, pain and discomfort. Diana is constantly in motion, feeding Tom, shifting him in his seat, giving him medication. She phones doctors and nurses, gives instructions, makes arrangements. It is as though she’s become an extension of him—he just has to look at her and she’s out of her chair, tending to him.

Tom’s illness has put a temporary halt on the family conflict. We’ve all been working well as a team, taking him to appointments, dropping off meals, driving across town to pick up various pieces of equipment designed to make him a little more comfortable. But everyone is broken-hearted. I am broken-hearted. I can’t fathom this family without him.

I watch Diana, intermittently wiping the corners of his mouth. She says something to him and his eyes crinkle up and his lips twist, and I know he’s trying to smile. The rest of us, we’ll be broken-hearted after Tom dies, but it will be much worse for Diana. I’m not sure what will happen to her. I don’t know how she’ll go on.

41

LUCY

The present . . .

‘Is Ollie under arrest?’ Nettie asks me.

She’s on my living room floor surrounded by Lego, while Patrick engages the kids in an epic game of tiggy that involves pools of lava and cushions you have to stand on to stop your feet from getting burned. When the lady in active wear identified Ollie as being at Diana’s house the day she died, and Jones said she wanted to talk to Ollie back at headquarters, I called Nettie to see if she could help with the kids. (I never would have asked her a favour for myself, but I know Nettie would be there for the kids and I certainly need her help.)

‘No, he’s just answering some questions. He’ll be back in a little while.’

But, in fact, I have no idea if this is true. Ollie wasn’t under arrest when he left with Jones and Housseini, but for all I know he could be now. And I don’t know if he’ll be back in five minutes or five hours. All I do know is that he was wearing a blue and white checked shirt the day Diana died and that he came home sick from work early even though he wasn’t unwell.

Now, I’m wondering why.

Nettie’s face is drawn and worried. Nettie is the younger sister, younger by five years, but she has always seemed older. And despite our issues, I know she loves her brother.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask her, and her eyes immediately begin to well. I sweep the Lego to the side and kneel on the floor beside her.

‘I’m sorry.’ She produces a tissue from her shirt sleeve and dabs at her eyes. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me . . . there’s just a lot going on.’

I hover awkwardly beside her. Once I would have hugged Nettie, but as we are no longer in that place, I put a reassuring hand on her shoulder instead. I’m caught off guard when she throws her arms around my neck in response.

‘Shhh,’ I say. ‘It’s all right.’

But it’s not all right. None of it is. My heart bleeds for Nettie. Even without everything else going on, I still remember the rawness of losing my mother like it was yesterday. It occurs to me that Nettie and I have this in common now. She is older than I was when Mum died, obviously, but the loss of your mother is profound at any age.

‘Sorry.’ Nettie says, sitting back and wiping her face.

‘Please. Don’t apologise.’

‘It’s just . . . being here. The kids. The toys . . . it’s just hard, you know. It reminds me of . . . what I’m not going to have.’

‘What you’re not going to . . .?’ It takes me a moment to understand. She’s not upset about her mother. She’s not even upset about Ollie. She’s upset about her fertility.

I shift away from her.

‘I thought you were upset about your mother. About Ollie being called in for questioning.’

‘Oh, everyone’s been called in!’ Nettie waves her hand dismissively. ‘It’s no big deal.’

‘No big deal? Didn’t the police tell you about the cushion? Didn’t they tell you they think someone might have smothered Diana?’