Clara stirred the milk into her tea and then stared at it for several minutes, watching the steam that rose slowly above the murky brown liquid. She couldn't remember what flavor she'd ordered, or what sat heavily in her stomach, but she could still see John's eyes staring into hers with that familiarity. Of course she blamed it on shared pain – a terrible side effect of losing loved ones was she often felt connected to those who had lost their own. There was something hidden in the corner of all of their eyes.
That thing they were missing and never stopped looking for.
That hope they wished would find its way back.
That understanding apology.
It was something she began to understand after her mother passed when she'd been a teenager. How different everyone looked to her in the weeks after and how she found herself looking for some normality in the eyes of those in a counseling group. She hated going, something her father insisted on – six months, they'd agreed – but she appreciated the fact that as annoying as it seemed at the time, at least those people there understood what it meant. They didn't just offer condolences and pretend to know what she was going through; they did.
That grief buried itself deep enough for her to get through school. It hid away over the years as she partied with friends and earned a degree and walked down an aisle. And she thought it had gone entirely by the time she was holding her own baby girl in her arms, looking around that hospital room, past her father, with the hopes that her husband had arrived. That was when it resurfaced. It was slow, a sadness she couldn't explain when she touched the button nose on a giggling infant or a frown when she watched the girl begin to crawl in odd tugs and falls of her tiny body.
That gaping wound in her heart brought her tears as her daughter slept, and unexpected mourning as Maddie grew, because her mother hadn't been there to see her. And it only worsened with his affairs. With the stench of perfume that wasn't her own, and the unexplained late night entrances, and the lingering scent of sex on his body once he'd fallen into bed beside her. It broke her heart entirely when he began to retaliate against her accusations, when he threatened to take her child, when he bruised her face as Maddie cried. When he nearly trampled the baby on his way to slam the door behind him as he sought solace in a pub.
Maybe he hadn't wanted children – except she'd made it plainly clear she wanted to be a mother; he'd agreed she'd make an excellent one. In fact, he'd been the one to take her packet of birth control and drop it in the bin with a kiss to her forehead and a greedy hand to her waist. Maybe he hadn't wanted her – Clara had 'let herself go' in the months after Maddie's birth, too consumed with struggling against post-partum depression to do anything more than breastfeed and nurture the little girl who grinned toothlessly back up at her. She became convinced if she just gave him the woman he wanted her to be, he would stop all of the foolishness.
It took her too long to understand it had nothing to do with her at all. Sometimes people just changed, or perhaps he hadn't changed at all. The idea had never occurred to her; that he'd somehow been this way before and the man she'd met and married had been a facade. People, she told her daughter one morning as she packed up their belongings, were sometimes terrible; and terrible men, she told the little girl with the unruly bob of dark hair and the big searching eyes, became daddies.
She promised herself she'd never say his name again when she retained full custody.
She promised herself she'd never say his name again after the restraining order.
She promised her daughter.
And she wondered how the world could simply go on turning.
Listening to the cars groaning just outside of the window at her right, and the occasional chime of a bicycle bell, Clara wondered how she'd ever lived her life without that pain of loss and disappointment. For a while she thought maybe she had. When it was just her and Maddie in her little flat, her father a few floors above her. Clara could remember easily all of the songs and laughter and games. She could easily see her daughter's glowing smile while they played and her grin as she slurped up spaghetti and her curious stare as they watched the tele. She could remember the calm she felt, cuddled into the bed with her, stroking her hair and humming a lullaby.
How had she ever been so carefree?
And how did others managed to find her way back?
How had Amy and Rory?
Looking to the way the top of the tea held onto three bubbles just beside the string hanging over the edge, she thought about those first months after the accident. Clara had been in the hospital for one and she'd seen the hollow look in that other woman's eyes every time she came to visit. Amy sat at her bedside for hours, numbed to the world and Rory stood at the window, searching out something in the sky Clara knew he never found. The first few days were wordless. They were filled with tears that ranged from silent to raging, and on several occasions Rory had thrown his hands up and exclaimed that he needed to take a walk. A walk after which his eyes would be bloodshot and his breath would smell faintly of alcohol neither woman spoke of, mostly because they wouldn't speak.
When the words finally did come, they were questions. They were quiet considerations and accusations Amy carefully hid behind simply statements. And she understood; Clara absolutely knew where her friend's suspicions came from. Did she know her ex-husband was in town? Did she know he was in the area? Had Clara talked to him about seeing Maddie? Didn't he have no right to see the girl? How long before the crash did they notice the car was following them? Hadn't she seen him in the park? Hadn't she noticed him in the pizza parlor?
Hadn't Clara been able to just know he was in the vicinity?
Some part of her hated herself for not knowing. After Amy left, after a quiet goodbye and a tight holding of her good hand, Clara would turn and she would sob. Her daughter was a floor above her, recovering, they told her. Her daughter, a floor above her, was hanging on for her life, and Clara was left alone each night to dwell on the notion that it was all her fault. Because she should have known he was around. She should have known he was there.
She should have done something about it.
Except she knew it wasn't the truth. She'd admitted to Rory one night, when he'd come back in for a pair of sunglasses Amy had left and found her there with her hands on her face, uncontrollably gasps sputtering from her dry lips. She'd apologized in a mess of words for not knowing and he'd held her for a moment, whispering quietly into her hair, "Clara, there's nothing you could have done."
She never knew if the man had gone downstairs to tell his wife, she never asked. Clara recovered enough to stand and take a lift to see her daughter and the girl's condition had eventually been upgraded to stable. Stable, they told her as she stood over her hospital bed, hand moving slowly over the girl's head, was an improvement. But they didn't know if she'd ever fully recover. She was moved out of intensive care and into the coma ward and she remained there after Clara had been discharged.
Her mobile buzzed and she looked down at it, momentarily confused before picking it up to see the message from her father – the question of what time she'd return home, because he was caught in a perpetual loop of fearing for her life every time she stepped out of that building. She tapped slowly and added a happy emoji and then dropped the mobile back onto the wooden table with a small clatter, eyes closing as she gripped the mug and then brought it up to her lips.
Apple, she thought, she'd picked apple because her daughter loved them. With a smile, she recalled the girl tossing a small one from hand to hand, glancing up at her as it sat in her right to declare, "Do you know what they say, mummy? An apple a day keeps the doctor away. Do you think that's true? I rather like my doctor, mummy."
"Good memory?" Amy asked, settling into the seat across from her with a simple sandwich on a white plate and her own mug of tea to sit beside it. She wore a refreshed smile – the smile of someone who slept through the night and drank a cup of coffee in the morning out of habit rather than necessity.
Clara managed to grin in return as she admitted, "Thinking about Maddie."
"Ah," Amy sighed, picking up one half of her sandwich, "Definitely a good memory then."
She watched her eat for a while, touching the edge of her mug with the tips of her fingers, remembering Saturdays in the past they'd spent with the girls in that same little shop. If she closed her eyes, she could see them both on either side of them, giggling and mocking adults with a lifting of their pinkies as they drank their own small cups of hot chocolate – both girls detested tea.
"I can see them too," Amy told her quietly, and she opened her eyes to see the woman staring at the empty space beside her. She laughed sadly and nodded to look back at Clara, "It's hard sometimes, to remember they won't just... be there."
Watching the frown that turned her lips, Clara understood – she still had that chance. One day Maddie might defy all odds and wake up and then it'd be just the three of them. It burned her heart to hope for that, knowing her friend would still have that empty place at her side. Her lower lip trembled at the thought and she felt Amy's hand wrap around hers, nodding to urge her to meet her gaze.
"I would rather Maddie be here with us, Clara – I miss my baby girl enough to want yours at your side."
The words were honest and came with a reddening of her bright eyes and Clara pinched her lips together, hand slipping away so she could wipe away at her tears, telling her quietly, "You read minds, you know."
"My crystal ball's stashed in the attic back home," Amy teased, sniffling and leaning back in her chair, taking a moment to watch the passerby's, not unlike Clara had been doing when she arrived.
They remained quiet, only the occasional bell of the front door to disturb their thoughts, and then Clara told her softly, "I went to see him, at the DeepDream Institute this morning."
Amy turned her head, a hand raising slightly as she finally smiled and asked, "And what?"
"He wasn't there," Clara lamented, "Already gone home for the weekend."
Lips dropping, Amy sighed, "I'm sorry, Clara."
"Nah," Clara sighed, "It was stupid."
"Thought you'd saunter right up to him and ask him out on a date?"
Her friend was laughing softly to herself, eyes searching Clara's as she shrugged and smirked. "Dunno, but I did meet another odd fellow."
"Place seems full of questionable men, Clara," and she tilted her head to add, "Haven't you had your fill?"
Heart falling, Clara straightened and her hands came together in her lap tightly, fingernails picking at edges of skin she'd picked at too much. She nodded slowly. "It was stupid, I know."
But Amy leaned forward, brows dropping as she hissed, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way, Clara," then she pulled her hands apart, "Tell me about the bloke, really, tell me."
She tried to smile, conjuring up the image of John's face vividly from just a few hours before, and she found herself wondering what he'd be up to then. Girls went for tea and to the shops – what did older single men do in their spare time to unwind from their jobs and their hectic lives? She presumed he was still single, hearing his words – "nothing to rush home to" – echoing in her mind.
"You're REALLY thinking about him," Amy taunted. Then she lifted her chin to ask, "Is he hot?"
Clara laughed, "He's grey."
"So," Amy scoffed, "Older man, not so bad, already been through his fair share of life – not looking for a fling, good settle-down potential."
"Amy!" Clara laughed as she let her jaw drop and her eyes widen, the amusement of the moment bending her friend towards her comically as Clara shifted back in her chair and shook her head. "He's..." she thought a moment before deciding on, "kind."
Nodding slowly, Amy pushed her bottom lip out, considering the word before asking, "But Clara, is he... hot?"
She threw a napkin at her that swooshed through the air in front of them before landing in a sad heap between their plates. On a groan, she rolled her eyes and stated firmly, "He's got a pleasant smile, and his hair's a bit fluffy, and he has sad eyes." She frowned, looking to the discarded napkin on the table. "There was something about him that was familiar," she took a breath before admitting, "His wife and child died a long time ago, I think it was just that shared grief."
The woman across from her stopped giggling slowly and she watched Clara, a move that turned Clara's attention back to the street outside. A man was buying flowers from a street vendor and a little boy kicked at a pigeon before his mother scolded him. On the other side of the table, Amy was wondering what Clara meant, because maybe Amy hadn't a clue; maybe Amy was better equip to tuck away that mourning for good.
"Maybe it's good you found him instead of the bow tie guy," Amy finally told her, waiting for her to turn back and meet her questioning stare. "Maybe if you'd found who you were looking for, it would have ended with you having a good shag, but otherwise nothing accomplished – and," she pointed, "Without a dream date watching over you." She nodded slowly, "Maybe it's good you found this guy instead."
Clara swallowed roughly, and then she narrowed her eyes and repeated, "A good shag?"
"Yes, it's about time you found one," Amy explained, "For moving on, remembering your libido," then she pointed again and asked quietly, "Clara, you've still got one of those, right? Didn't lose it in the accident?"
She threw another napkin that landed serendipitously next to the first.
"Come on," Amy called lightly, "When's the last time you let yourself get out and have fun."
Glancing around, Clara shrugged, "Sorry, I seem to recall us having a very particular conversation about the difference between your explanation of fun and my own."
"Oh," Amy sighed, "That's right – this coffee shop, it's your idea of fun."
"Whereas you'd fit right at home in some sort of Coachella event."
"Don't knock Coachella," Amy spat before grinning.
Shifting forward to take her mug, Clara nodded slowly in a sort of agreement, and then she explained, "I didn't go to DeepDream looking for a shag, Amy – I wanted," her right hand came up at her side, "Answers, I suppose."
"Ones you've gotten over and over again?" Amy retorted, "Ones that told you it hurts neither you nor Maddie to take time for yourself?" She pressed her lips together, Clara knew, examining her, before asking, "What did this odd fellow say?"
Clara stared at her tea.
"Same, didn't he," Amy prompted.
She met her accusing stare. Then turned away from it, "I still have nightmares, when I'm not half in control of what I'm dreaming."
"Nightmares?" Amy questioned.
Biting her lip, Clara slowly turned the mug in her hand for no real reason, telling her, "About the crash, always exaggerated, but I see the girls..." she trailed, eyes lifting to end, "I see him."
Her friend asked timidly, "Clara, have you considered going to see someone about this?"
Shaking her head vehemently, Clara argued, "I don't need some shrink in my head."
"But you'll let bow tie man in there."
She shrugged, "He's not really there to do that sort of thing."
"What's he do, when he's there?"
Nodding slowly, Clara stated plainly, "He just makes sure we're safe."
The other woman made an agreeable noise that Clara responded to with a tilting of her head and a raising of her brow, just waiting until Amy finally told her, "He can't be your boyfriend, Clara – he's practically made up."
"I did not make him up," Clara spat defensively.
"Whoa girl," Amy immediately responded, hands stretched out over the table. "What about this other guy, the odd fellow with the grey – maybe you could talk to him? He's a human. In the real world."
Gesturing at Amy, Clara told her, "You're a human, in the real world."
"But we," she shifted a palm between them, "Clara, you know there are some things we can't talk about." She frowned then, bowing her head a moment before looking to her and telling her, "I don't want to dredge all that up again. Rory and I are trying to move on, we're trying..." she trailed, head dropping again.
Clara watched her as she shifted back away from her and she looked over the reddening of her friend's cheeks and the way her lips pulled together and her hands fell atop her abdomen and she breathed, "You're trying to have another baby."
Her head slowly shifted up and down and Clara understood all Amy wanted was for Clara to be happy for her, to be encouraging... to be her friend. She didn't want Clara's memory of her daughter's death hanging over her like a dark cloud and for a moment Clara felt the burn of anger rising in her chest. She knew it colored her face and she clenched her jaw as she forced a smile.
How fortunate, she wanted to snap, that one could move on in such ways.
Instead, she managed, "Are you on prenatals yet? I've heard it's good for that sort of thing."