The dinner-lady-policewoman explained that although Amy had drunk a glass or two of wine, it almost certainly hadn’t put her over the limit. There would be a post-mortem to confirm it and check that there were no other substances or health issues that could have impaired her driving. There would also be forensic tests of the car and the scene of the accident, but in cases like this, she said, the post-mortem usually revealed the whole story.
I sat listening to her with my head in my hands and bile rising in my throat. The room was closing in on me and I desperately needed some air. I excused myself and stepped into the hallway. Lucas was sitting on the floor outside the kitchen door, his knees tucked up to his chest. He’d clearly been listening in on the conversation.
I led him outside and we sat side by side on the front doorstep. I pulled him in close, watching my tears dripping onto the top of his head.
‘They said a post-mortem. That means they’re going to cut Mummy up into pieces!’
‘It doesn’t. They just have to do some more tests, like they would if me or you went to a doctor. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you imagine.’ I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince – Lucas or myself. ‘And anyway, your dad didn’t want you to hear that. He’s trying to protect you and make this as easy as possible.’
‘I just want Mummy to be here!’ he wailed.
‘I know, my love, I do too.’
I led him back into the living room, where Auntie Sue was sitting in the armchair with a cup of tea and Betsy was asleep curled into Hannah on the sofa. Hannah glanced up with red-rimmed eyes, her arm draped protectively around her little sister, and offered a weak smile before going back to her phone. There was no sign of Mum.
‘Where is she?’
Auntie Sue pinched the bridge of her nose.
‘Your mother’s at home. I told you, she’s dealing with this the only way she can.’
‘Maybe she could put down the burning sage and provide some actual comfort to her grandchildren, don’t you think?’
‘Give her time. You know how hard this is for her.’
It would take something stronger than tea to get me through this. I texted Adam:
Do me a favour pls: buy a bottle of the best vodka you can find (supermarket on Main Street) and fill up my hip flask. It should be in the inside pocket of my hold-all.
Adam replied: I would totally judge you under normal circumstances but giving you a pass for now. Coming up ASAP xo
I ran a fingertip over the engraved initials on my silver hip flask: E. M.
It was my father’s, a gift from my grandparents when he’d qualified as a doctor. He’d taken it everywhere with him, from beach walks to family weddings. He would insist there wasn’t any occasion a nip of good whisky couldn’t improve.
Thinking of him made me smile, and I wondered what he would be doing now if he were still with us. He was always the strong one, and had been the centre of the universe for me, Amy and Mum. I still missed him every day and I would have given my annual bonus just to have another hour with him. It wasn’t fair that Amy’s kids would now have to live with the same pain that we did.
It took half a hip flask of Grey Goose to get me through lunch. As I was clearing away the half-eaten plates of microwave macaroni cheese, the front door opened. I assumed it was Mum until a woman walked into the kitchen. It took me a second to recognise Rachel, Amy’s best friend. I had a vague recollection that she worked with Amy at the hospital. We had only met once before, at the pub on Christmas eve. Was that three years ago? Or four? She had been a redhead the last time I saw her, and now had light brown hair.
‘Auntie Rachel!’ Betsy jumped up, wrapping her arms around her.
In fact, all three kids leapt on her, showing far more enthusiasm and affection than they had for me when I’d arrived yesterday. Betsy and Lucas started wailing again.
‘Auntie’ Rachel held her arms out to hug me.
‘Oh my god, Izzy, what are we going to do?’ She sobbed on to my shoulder and I gingerly patted her back.
Rachel put me down and swooped down onto Mike, kissing the top of his head.
A tall man in blue mechanic’s overalls followed her into the kitchen carrying two large plastic bags, shuffling and mumbling hellos. He flashed a shy smile at me, and his eyes filled with tears.
The bags were full of home-cooked meals that Rachel had made and boxed up in Tupperware, which she instructed the tall man – her husband, Phil – to load into the freezer in the garage. My heart surged in appreciation.
She took over the washing up, looking pitifully at the remnants of our lunch. She had been in touch with the school to get time off for the kids, if they wanted it, and had asked the vicar to come over the following day to explain how to organise a funeral. Rachel had thought of everything, it seemed, and was a reassuring presence – even I felt calmer.
I tried to fight the thought, but reluctantly had to admit to myself that she was much better at this than me. By the time she and Phil left, Rachel had tidied the kitchen and set out meals for the next three days. Most crucially, the kids were no longer crying.
