The Lake by Louise Sharland (best ereader for pc txt) 📕

school gates, crying. I read on, my eyes scanning the pages. There are at least half a dozen other entries.

9 February

We meet by the lake. You’re wearing my grey hoodie, your hair thrown wild by the wind.

3 March

No one about, we stay under cover all morning, our bodies entangled like seaweed on the shore

Beneath the entry is a rough sketch of a female figure lying naked on a bed, her face turned so that her profile is barely visible. The gentle swell of her hips, the roundness of her breast, points to an understanding and intimacy that makes me feel both shock and sadness. Michael was far too young for this kind of relationship, just a few months younger than me when I got pregnant. Yet part of me also feels an odd sense of relief. Michael had been in love, had experienced love.

Scribbled in small letters beneath the portrait is one final poem.

Carnation

Moonlight lingers on

       the pale abandon

                              of

                                your

                                       skin.

Sea-soaked tendrils,

                                                Entwine

the smooth pillars of your thighs.

                                                             Encase

the cool whisper of your sighs

                  And

                                   Await

                                                           My coming.

I am astounded. This is a poem of extraordinary skills and aptitude, a far cry from that first, clunky attempt. How could I not have known about this side of him? It’s as if my son is suddenly revealing himself to be someone else – someone I would very much liked to have known.

7

I make sure I leave early for the hospital, recalling Adam tapping his finger on his watch yesterday: don’t be late. I’ve put on makeup to cover my blotchy cheeks and wear glasses instead of my usual contact lenses to hide my bloodshot eyes. I’m just heading to the car when my mobile rings. It’s Adam.

‘We’re short staffed in A&E and I’m not sure I’m going to be able to make it until after lunch.’

It takes a moment for me to formulate the correct response. ‘That’s all right, darling. I can manage until then.’

‘They’ll be trying to take her off ventilation if they haven’t already. There may be complications and you don’t know—’

‘I’ll be fine, Adam – really.’ How many times have I said this in the last few days?

‘You’ll need to make sure that they—’

‘Don’t worry sweetheart; I know what to say. I’ve got to go. I don’t want to be late.’ It’s not often that I cut my husband off like this, but after last night’s drinking session I just don’t have the stamina to listen to his instructions. ‘I’ll call you when I get to the hospital.’

When I arrive, I’m surprised to see a trio of specialists surrounding my mother’s bed.

‘Mr Emery started the reduction in pressure support early this morning,’ whispers the nurse, ‘and your mother regained consciousness very quickly. She’s been reasonably lucid, which is good news.’

Is it?

The nurse pauses and I realise she’s doing the good news bad news thing.

‘However, there appears to be some paralysis to the right side, which is why the specialists are with her now.’

‘Ah.’ I watch as the occupational therapist helps my mother to drink a glass of juice. Her gnarled, liver-spotted hand is holding the plastic beaker as if it were made of fine china. ‘Is she able to speak?’

‘Yes, but not very clearly,’ the nurse replies. ‘She asked after someone.’ I can see her wracking her brain. ‘Sam, is it?’

‘Tam,’ I reply. ‘Her cat.’

‘Oh.’ The nurse giggles, a light, bell-like sound that seems oddly out of place in this room full of buzzes and bleeps.

‘Can I see her?’

I wait until the physio, speech and occupational therapist have completed their assessments before approaching.

‘Hi, Mum.’ I place her Bible on the overbed table in front of her. ‘I thought you might want this.’ My mother’s good eye flickers to it and then away. ‘The nurse says you’re doing really well.’ She’s finished her drink and I reach out to take it from her.

My mother pulls back, gives a low grunt, and then with agonising effort places the beaker on the table herself.

I feel tears prickling the back of my eyelids. ‘Grace arrives tomorrow,’ I say, with forced brightness. ‘She should be here about one.’

My mother’s face brightens, and I find myself flooded with resentment.

I clear my throat. ‘So, I was tidying the spare room, and I found Michael’s old rucksack. The one you hid in the suitcase.’

Those Gorgon eyes seem to be turning me to stone where I stand.

‘And when I was looking for your Bible, something else.’ My mother begins to shift uncomfortably. I lean forward to adjust her pillows. ‘His diary.’

She gives a small groan.

‘It’s okay Mum – really. I just want to know how long you’ve known about it.’ I can feel my nails digging into my palms. I glance down at the tiny half-moon indentations.

My mother’s eyes narrow and her face begins to contort.

‘You must have read it.’

Silence fills the space between us like a thick sludge.

‘You must have known about his girlfriend too; the one he called Diving Fish?’ I flex my fingers in an effort to regain some circulation.

There’s a loud thud. My mother has knocked her Bible to the floor. Her mouth is twisted grotesquely in an effort to speak.

‘What is it?’ I say, leaning in so close that I can smell the orange juice on her breath. ‘Do you know who Diving Fish is? Do you think she might know what happened that night?’ I grip my mother’s arm. ‘Who is she?’

A primitive, almost animalistic howl comes from deep inside my mother’s throat. I think I can hear words forming.

‘Excuse me,’ calls the ward sister, rushing towards us. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘My mother’s trying to tell me something.’

‘This is really not—’

‘It’s about my son!’

‘Mrs Hardy, that’s enough!’

The nurse attempts to remove me from my mother’s bedside; but the old woman, still surprisingly strong, grabs my wrist and pulls me in close. Her words are garbled, muted, as if speaking to me from under water.

‘Michael’s … moving … home.’

‘Michael’s moving home?’ I repeat, bewildered. ‘What do you mean?’ My mother’s lips move, but no sound emerges. ‘What do