“Rob,” she says firmly, leaning forward across the table, “we didn’t. We just didn’t. One day, I took a couple of things out because I couldn’t look at them anymore, and you started a huge argument with me and had it in your head that I was throwing things away. But I wasn’t, I just wasn’t. All those boxes and bags, they were mine. That was mine, the stuff I was taking to Lola’s. I still have all of Jack’s things, Rob. They’re in my attic in Gerrards Cross.”
I try to think back, to find a foothold somewhere, but I am slipping, losing my grip. She touches my arm across the table.
“Rob, I’m not saying this to hurt you or make you feel ashamed, but you were so drunk you couldn’t even remember your own name. You didn’t know what day it was. You couldn’t remember the reason you walked into a room half the time.”
I think Anna is about to cry. I can tell from the minute quiver of her cheek, the way she bites her lip, but she stops herself, steels herself.
“I hated seeing that. The man I loved, just destroying himself. I wanted to help you because I knew this wasn’t the real you, and I felt like I owed you...”
“Why on earth would you owe me?”
Anna looks at me, intently, as if this is something she has thought about and wanted to say for a long time. “Do you remember Jack’s Zoo? How you were the zookeeper and he was the boss, the zoo’s owner, and he would always tell you what to do.”
Jack’s Zoo. We played that game for hours in his bed, making enclosures for the animals among the pillows and duvet, lining up Tiger, Monkey, and Ellie Elephant. And Jack, as the boss, would tell me which animals to feed, and then he would go to each one, asking them if they had enough food and inspecting their bottoms to see if they were clean.
“Yeah, I do,” I say, smiling, and I remember the way Jack shouted “Zoo open!”, his bedroom blinds casting warming licks of sunshine onto the floor. “He was so funny. So particular about certain things. The zoo had to be on the bed except...”
“The lion’s cages,” Anna says, finishing my sentence.
“Yes, exactly. For some reason, with the lions he felt it was okay to move the zoo onto the floor. With the two pillows for their cages.”
Anna takes out a tissue from her bag and wipes her eyes. I still don’t understand why she is telling me all this. Why would she feel that she owed me?
“He was always so happy with that game,” I say, “he could play it for hours.”
“And do you remember bath time? After he was dry and he was in his pajamas, and then you would hide. And he would come and look for you, and then you would jump out and Jack just thought it was the funniest thing and wanted to do it again and again. You two could play for hours like that.”
Anna’s face drops, and she looks sullenly down at the table. “I know that was never my strong point,” she says. “I’ve never been particularly good at being silly. Even as a child, playing games, rolling around on the floor—it just doesn’t come naturally to me. And this, Rob, all this is why I felt I owed you, because you were so good at that. You made Jack’s life so wonderful. You made our home such a happy place for him, so alive with fun and laughter and joy—so much joy. God, all the games you invented—the dressing up, the rocket ships, the superhero stories, playing with your bloody helicopters in the back garden.
“Or when you played crocodiles with him and he was on the bed throwing pillows and teddies down at you on the floor. I tried it with him once and managed about ten minutes before my knees started to hurt, but you would keep going for hours. I just couldn’t do that, not in the same way. And I’m so ashamed of that and wish I wasn’t like that. But you, Rob—you made him smile hundreds of times every single day, every single minute. Jack just adored you, and you made his life so special, much more than I ever could have done. He was the happiest little boy right up until the end, and that was because of you, Rob, and I will never, ever forget that...”
Anna stops speaking and looks at me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to make you cry.”
I look down and realize that I am weeping, tears splashing onto my plate. Anna hands me one of her tissues from her handbag and gives me a moment to dry my eyes, to catch my breath.
“I still think about him every day,” she says. “Where he might be, what he might be doing if he was still here...”
“He’d probably be in his room, wouldn’t he?” I say. “Reading his books, or playing with his toys.”
Anna smiles sadly. “I feel guilty whenever I hear about these kids with terminal cancer going to Disneyland or meeting celebrities,” she says. “Or their parents organizing one of those flash-mob dances. I always think of Jack, sitting in his bedroom for his last few months, humming songs to himself.”
“But, as you said, he was happy,” I say. “I remember you saying in one of your messages how you were worried that you weren’t a good enough mom, that you didn’t care enough. Well, you know that’s absolutely rubbish. You were a wonderful mom to him, Anna. You really were. Do you remember the birthday party and the Spider-Man cake you were up half the night making? He loved it so much. He was so happy that day.”
“Yes, he did,” Anna says sadly. “He was.” She looks down at her empty plate. “Shall we get dessert?” she says,
