Kyle and I hardly spoke because he'd also accepted he wasn't going to see them again. I knew he accepted that because the other day, I noticed he'd tacked the picture Summer hadn't finished drawing onto the edge of his drawing table, and Jaxon's errant trainer sat underneath it. I noticed a few days later, when I braved the house to get Kyle's post and few other bits and pieces, that he'd washed up and tidied away their breakfast things.
CHAPTER 39
You have to call the police,” I said to Kyle on day thirty-seven.
I'd had enough. I'd held my tongue, but no more. He had to do something. We couldn't sit passively by and let this thing happen to us. We couldn't accept this situation. We had to do something.
Kyle paused in what he was sketching out, but didn't glance up in my direction. He stared unseeingly at the paper in front of him, listening but not looking.
“We've got to accept that she's not going to bring them back on her own; you have to call the police.”
“She's their mother,” he said and lowered his head to start drawing again.
“I know, but this is hell, Kyle. This is hell and we have to do something.”
“Not that.”
“Why not?”
“She's their mother.”
My eyes flew around the room, looking for something to throw at him. Something that would glance off the back of his head, knock some sense into him but not actually kill him. I couldn't explain a dead body to the police. But then, maybe they'd understand. They'd understand the pure frustration of this situation. The kids were gone and their father wouldn't do anything about it.
“I know she's their mother, I know she loves them, but she's an alcoholic. She might hurt them without even realizing.”
“She's their mother,” he said, his voice dangerously low.
“STOP SAYING THAT!”
He spun on his chair. “No. I have to keep saying it because I need to remember it.”
“You need to remember it?”
“I lived with Ashlyn, I remember what she was like. I remember the things she did but I know she's sober. And that she wouldn't hurt them when she's sober. And that's what's going to keep her sober. She's their mother and she won't do a thing to hurt them. If I thought for one minute she would, I'd call the police in a heartbeat.”
“You're deluding yourself, Kyle. No one else keeps an alcoholic sober. They keep themselves sober. They can't do it for anyone else. If they could, do you think they'd be alcoholics? They'd be able to stop drinking when someone they love asks them to. They can't. They have a disease and it's all- consuming. That's why it's so destructive, nothing else is as important as the next drink. So what happens if that urge overwhelms Ashlyn? What happens if she slips? What happens to the kids then? You have to call the police.”
“No.”
“If you don't, I will.”
He stood, pulled himself up to his full height. I wasn't sure if he was aware that he was trying to intimidate me, trying to get me to do what he wanted with his physicality.
In response I stood up to my full height, planted my feet firmly on the floor, folded my arms defensively across my chest. This was far too important to be scared by him. Nothing mattered but the kids’ safety.
“No you won't. They're my kids. They're Ashlyn's kids and I won't get her into trouble by calling the police. She's going to bring them back.”
“Then why hasn't she even called to tell you that they're OK? Or dropped you an e-mail? Or even sent a carrier pigeon? Because maybe they're not. Maybe they're not OK and she doesn't know how to tell you.”
Kyle paused, the many scenarios playing out across his mind. He knew, he'd been on the front line, he knew better than me what could happen to them. What more could happen to them. He buried his hand in his thick black hair, dragged it backwards.
“I wished for this so many times,” Kyle said, his voice loaded with emotion. “When Summer was complaining about going to school, when Jaxon wouldn't tell me what was wrong with him, when I wasn't given a great assignment—I wished that I wasn't tied down. It wasn't anything that I played out or that I meant, it just crossed my mind. I feel so guilty about even thinking it. And now they're gone and it's all my fault.
“If I'd been more reasonable about visitation, hadn't used them as pawns to get her to come home, she wouldn't have felt cornered into doing this. This is all my fault and I know exactly how she felt. And why she did it.”
“The difference being you'd let her know they're OK. You wouldn't torture her like this. You never have, you never would.”
“You think I should call the police?” he asked after a pause.
“Yes,” I breathed. “Not to get her into trouble. If you call the police, they can get the message out there. Somebody might get in touch if they've seen the kids. We'd at least know that they're all right. It can't be doing her any good, either, living like this, always looking over her shoulder. They could be constantly on the move for all we know, sleeping in different places every few days. And that's not good for kids, is it? Especially not kids who've been through a whole load of disruptions in the past eighteen months.”
“I don't want to get her into trouble,” he said, looking defeated.
“Neither do I. Look…” I dashed into my bedroom, dashed back with a folder I'd compiled. “I found this thing on the Internet for help to get your children back if they've been taken by another parent.” I held out the folder to him. “I filled in as much as I could from what I know, I've put in the most recent pictures I could find. You have to fill in the rest and then give it to the police and a solicitor.”
“How did I get here? My wife's kidnapped my children and I have to report her to the police. When did my life become a made-for-TV drama?”
I put the folder on the coffee table and went towards him, rested my hand on his forearm, tried to reassure him with a touch. “We both know that Ashlyn loves the kids. They're a part of her. They're her life. But we have to make sure they're safe. Surfing the Web and waiting for that knock on the door that says something has happened is no way to live. And it's not fair to them to have this happen to them twice. First Ashlyn just disappears and then you, essentially, disappear. It's not right.”
For long moments Kyle stared into the middistance. I could see him working it out, turning it over slowly and carefully in his mind.
I went to take my hand away: I'd said my piece, it was up to him now. Of course I wouldn't call the police, it wasn't my place. But I wish Kyle would see it was the right thing to do. We had to find them. We had to do something to find them. Kyle's hand covered mine and then slowly moved it off his forearm, then his fingers linked into mine. Our hands fit together. The spaces between our fingers became filled, whole and complete. We stood facing each other, holding hands. He was clinging onto me, as if trying to draw the strength from me to do this. To start this process of revealing to the world how far apart he and Ashlyn were; how fractured their family was. To start the process of accepting that he might not see the kids again. I suppose the police were the last hope—if they didn't find the kids, then we might not ever find them. Knowing for sure that they weren't coming back was something that had to be dealt with slowly. This reality had to creep up on us, not slap us in the face. By inviting the police into this we'd be putting our faces forward to be slapped. I was pretty sure I was ready for that mental slap, had braced myself for it.
He came back to the present from wherever he'd been and stared at me. He inhaled, his chest expanding as he breathed deeply, then it fell, hopelessly. “I can't do it,” he whispered. “I can't. She's going to bring them back. I know she will.”
Kyle wasn't ready for that mental slap—was he ready for a real one? Because I was three seconds away from delivering a real one right onto his denial- ridden cheek. To slap some sense into him.
I ripped my hand free and tightly folded my arms across my chest. Holding myself together.
This man was an expert at denial, I'd forgotten that. He
'd lived with an alcoholic for more than a decade and he'd managed to pretend it wasn't a problem, he transmuted everything she did into little hiccups in behavior so he wouldn't have to accept the reality of his situation. He'd refused to accept that Ashlyn was going to fight him legally for his children, so sent me in his place. He disavowed the fact she'd done something so heinous to him so he did nothing to find the children. Denial made up most of who Kyle was. Denial defined his life. Why would anything change?
I'd become a part of that, I realized as I turned away and moved to the far end of the sofa, sank down and pressed my forehead to my knees. I'd become caught up in the sphere of denial that encompassed this family. I'd been submerged in it. And as a result I accepted his way of doing things.
“I don't know how you can bear it,” I said through my knees. The weight of it grinding down into the very cells of my body, crushing me. “I don't know how you can bear being without them.”
“I can't,” Kyle replied.
“Then why won't you do everything possible to get them back?”
“You don't understand, when I make that call, that's it. I can't unmake it. I can't tell the police she didn't mean it. And mean what, exactly? There's no residency order in place. If anything, it's Ashlyn who's got something in writing that she intended to get the kids to live with her. I never made a formal application. I just assumed, just left it as it was because she'd left them with me. I never put it in writing.”
“Then why don't you apply for a custody order now? You can do that. She hasn't applied for one because she'd have to contact you. So you do it, and then you can do something. Then you can call the police and have them find her. But I'm sure if you explained Ashlyn's history they'd do something now. You need to do anything possible to find them.”
“I don't know if I can do that to Ashlyn. I can't tell anyone what happened, what she did. She's not like that anymore, I don't want people to think she is.”
Every muscle in my body snapped to attention, wrenching my body upwards so I sat bolt upright. “WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO STOP PROTECTING HER?” I screamed at him. “WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO STOP PUTTING HER BEFORE EVERYONE ELSE INCLUDING YOUR KIDS?”
His ever- diminishing frame, clothed in a white T-shirt and baggy blue jeans, drew back, surprised. “You don't understand—” he began.
“NO YOU'RE RIGHT, I DON'T,” I continued to shout, cutting him off. “I DON'T UNDERSTAND AND I DON'T WANT TO FOR AS LONG AS YOU PUT SOMEONE ELSE BEFORE YOUR KIDS, I WON'T UNDERSTAND AND I WON'T EVEN TRY.”
I struggled to my feet.
“Kendra—”
“I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT!” I screamed. I wasn't a shouter, wasn't the type to cause this much fuss, but I'd reached the end of my tether. I couldn't take this anymore. This grief, this insurmountable grief was too much to bear. Especially, especially when Kyle could end the suffering. We didn't even have to get them back, we just had to find out that they were safe and well and alive. Alive. “UNTIL YOU PUT YOUR KIDS FIRST, I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT.” I stepped out from beside the sofa, went towards my bedroom, to hide from him. To seek refuge, even a temporary one from the man who was driving me crazy.
“It's not that simple,” Kyle protested to my retreating back.
The words stopped me, but didn't force me to turn around. “Yes,” I said with a frustrated sigh, “it is.”
“Don't hate me,” he said, quietly. “I can't take you hating me on top of everything else.”
“I don't,” I replied. “Of course I don't, Kyle. But I'm not going to condone this passivity. Not when it comes to this. Even if you're scared to try to get them back, don't you at least want to know they're safe and healthy and happy? You can start the process of that with one phone call.”
“I can't do it,” he said.
“Then we have nothing to talk about.”
Brriinnngggg! The ring of the phone, the white phone from the main house that sat on Kyle's drawing table, made us both jump.
My heart leapt to my throat as hope exploded inside me. Both of us turned to it, stared at it as it continued to ring. It'd rung before, of course, but not that often. Most people were in the habit of calling him on the flat's phone because he'd told them he was staying there for the time the kids were on holiday with their mother. His hand shook as he reached out for the receiver, picked it up, clicked the green answer button and put it to his ear. “Hello?” His voice wavered as he spoke. He said nothing for the few seconds that he listened to the other person speak, and then his face began to tremble, he closed his eyes and sank to his knees on the floor beside his drawing table, the receiver slipping from his limp fingers as he went. He pushed his forehead against the ground and began to rock back and forth, back and forth.
Oh, God, no. No, please, no.
Moving like I was walking towards my death, I went to him, bent and picked up the receiver. I put my hand on his shoulder, steadying myself as I tried to offer him comfort. Pausing for a moment, wanting to delay what I was going to hear for as long as possible, I pressed the phone to my ear.
CHAPTER 40
The sun had set a few hours earlier and I was driving in a blanket of indigo blackness by the time we turned down the semiprivate road that led to the cottage where Ashlyn and the kids were. A cottage in Penzance. Hundreds of miles away.
We'd driven most of the way in our own worlds—not speaking, not really acknowledging each other. I'd had to do the driving because, between the two of us, I was the most composed.
After I'd picked up the phone and pressed it to my ear, I'd heard a woman's voice. “Kyle, are you there?” she said. “Did you hear me? I need you to come and get the kids.”
When Ashlyn had given me the address and I'd hung up without speaking to the children, he'd swamped me. His arms enveloping my body, pulling me into him, his face buried against my neck as he cried. A true grief letting. All his composure, all his terror being released in a torrent. I'd realized as I fought my urge to break free, as I stroked the soothing point in the middle of his back, absorbed his tears into my body, that despite all he'd said, he'd thought he wouldn't see them again. That he hadn't been able to face the possibility of not seeing them again, or that she'd hurt them, so had decided not to find out. He'd been locked into a cycle of fear of not knowing, which was awful, and fearing that knowing would have been worse. I knew how it was to be locked into that cycle, to not know which fear—knowing or not knowing—was worse.
Once he'd stopped, we'd broken apart, stared into each other's eyes, understanding each other far more than we had even fifteen minutes earlier. With my thumbs, I wiped away his tears, then gently pressed my lips onto his forehead. He'd closed his eyes as he received my kiss. Then we got to our feet, he'd gone to the bathroom and I'd printed out a route map from the Internet. I'd blanked out. Didn't think about anything apart from the driving I had to do. If I'd stopped to consider it, to take note of the fact we were only hours instead of days, weeks or months away from seeing them, I might have fallen apart like Kyle and we wouldn't have been able to get there as soon as possible.
As I drove, all that motivated me, pushed me, was the thought of Summer's little face, grinning because she had a secret she was probably going to share, and Jaxon's big eyes as he explained to me what Garvo was doing.
My muscles ached, my eyes were dry and tight behind my driving glasses as I concentrated on the house in the distance. It was a yellowish-stone building with a slate roof and three windows at the top, and two large windows at the bottom. The light spilling out from the bottom windows glowed orange, drawing us closer. I slowed to double-check the white sign that stood on the edge of the property: Agateaen Field Cottage.
“This is it,” I said to Kyle, my excitement muted by my tiredness. I hadn't stopped the whole way. Nearly seven hours I'd been driving; the only real rests were the snarl-ups in traffic when we waited sometimes twenty minutes to get moving.
Kyle, who'd been wide awake, his head resting on the window, his eyes staring unblin
kingly ahead, sat up. His face, which had been mottled red and white from his crying, and his eyes, which had ballooned red and sore once he'd stopped crying, had both calmed down. He looked normal again. The nearness of his family had injected the spark of life into him again. I crawled the car up the wide gravel drive with green grass on either side, up towards another car sitting beside the entrance.
The front door swung open. Before I'd even had a chance to fully stop, Kyle had unlocked his seat belt, clicked open his door and he was out of the car. I slammed on the brakes, although I was nearly at a virtual stop.
Jaxon came running out first. And then Summer. Both in their nightclothes: Jaxon in his Superman pajamas, Summer in her Spider-Man knee-length T-shirt. Both had socks on.
“DAD!” They both screamed at the top of their voices. “DAD!”
Kyle threw himself onto his knees in the headlights of the car. Jaxon leapt on him first, flung his arm around his dad's neck. Then Summer, her arms linking around his neck. His arms looped around them. The kids were talking. Both of them gabbling, telling their father everything they'd done in the past few weeks. Everything, at once. I stared at them, my eyes running over every inch of them, checking. Double-checking. They were fine. They were fine and safe and happy.
The relief hit me like a fist driven into the deepest, softest part of my stomach. I folded forwards, holding my stomach over the epicenter of the relief. The sweet relief. It hurt and it made me feel good. It was OK. They really were OK. I hadn't felt this in a lifetime. Too many things hadn't turned out OK, too many things had gone the bad way. I hadn't been sure this wouldn't go the same way. My body started to heave, the tears I hadn't shed in all the time we were apart rushing up to the surface, fighting to be free, struggling to be released.