‘Start the car, Lexie. Hurry up, you need to save Bella. Go, go, go!’

Tears dripping down my face, I swung the car around the circular driveway and accelerated back up the track. I didn’t know what had happened to Marty, why he was on the property, but right now I didn’t care. Marty had killed our son.

And Tara and Josh had taken my Tinker Bell.

52 LEXIE

52

LEXIE

THE VIEW THROUGH THE WINDSCREEN WAS DISTORTED BY MY TEARS, I couldn’t see the edges of the track. Marty killed our son. Stopping the car completely, I rested my head on the steering wheel and sobbed. When Archie died, I’d been devastated—and relieved. For Archie’s sake. And for my own. I’d been so aware of his pain, but I hadn’t been able to soothe him like a mother should. Instead, I was constantly worrying I’d do the wrong thing and cause him more discomfort. After his death, my guilt about his pain turned into guilt about feeling relieved. With the counsellor, I spoke about my sadness for my son, my dismay that he would never grow up. She tried to discuss how a mother might have mixed emotions in a situation like mine, but I talked over her, refusing to acknowledge what she was saying. With Marty, I spoke about the deep love I had for Archie, the intense moments when I’d felt we communicated. I was sure Archie knew I was his mother, knew when it was me holding him and massaging him, and not the physio. After a while, Marty stopped talking about him altogether.

One colleague said, in that cruel, casual way people do when referring to the profoundly disabled: ‘I’m sure you’re upset but you must be relieved it’s all over.’

Perhaps she was trying to give me permission, but I was horrified. How could I feel such grief and relief at the same time?

I loved Archie more than I had ever loved anyone.

That first week in hospital, I’d willed him to survive. Knowing that he wouldn’t live a full life meant every moment with him was special, and I’d wanted as many of those moments as possible. I had expected a decade together at the very least, not mere months. And now, I missed him every day. His soft hair against my chest, his button nose, the rightness of his body cradled into mine, his gurgling noises, our closeness. Archie had made me pause and see what really mattered in this world.

Another friend told me how wonderful we were: ‘God only gives you what you can handle. You and Marty are special people.’

No. There was nothing special about us. We were Archie’s mum and dad. We coped. Until he died, and then we didn’t. Or did Marty stop coping before then and I hadn’t realised?