Chapter 7: The House With Two Empty Bedrooms
The first thing Arthur did after bringing Thomas home was open Emily's bedroom.
He hadn't entered that room properly in nearly twenty-eight years.
The curtains were still pale yellow. A small wooden rocking horse stood beside the wardrobe. There were children's books on the shelves, their pages yellowing with age.
And on the bed lay a knitted blanket Margaret had made shortly before Emily died.
Thomas stood in the doorway.
For several seconds, neither man spoke.
Then Thomas whispered, "You kept everything.""
Arthur nodded.
"Your mother couldn't bear to change it.""
Thomas walked slowly toward the bed.
He picked up a little stuffed rabbit.
One ear was missing.
"I gave her this.""
Arthur looked surprised.
"You remember?""
"Of course I remember. She used to steal it from my bedroom.""
Arthur smiled.
"She stole everything from your bedroom.""
Thomas laughed.
It was a small laugh, but it was the first time I'd heard either of them laugh since the courtroom.
Then Thomas noticed something on the bedside table.
A birthday card.
It was dated October 31, 2019.
The message inside was written in Margaret's handwriting.
My darling Emily,
Another birthday without you. Daddy still makes sure your cupboard is full. Your brother is somewhere in this world, and I pray one day he finds his way home.
Thomas sat down on the edge of the bed.
"She knew I was alive.""
Arthur shook his head.
"She hoped.""
Thomas pressed the card against his chest.
"She was waiting for me.""
Arthur lowered himself into the chair beside him.
"Every day.""
I stood in the doorway, trying not to intrude.
Then Thomas said something that made me turn.
"Where did Mum keep the letters?""
Arthur looked at him.
"What letters?""
"The ones I sent.""
Arthur frowned.
"You never sent any.""
Thomas looked confused.
"I sent three.""
Arthur shook his head.
"No, son. We never received anything.""
Thomas reached into his jacket.
He pulled out a photograph of an old envelope.
The address was Arthur's.
The handwriting was Thomas's.
The postmark was from 2007.
Arthur took the photograph.
His hands began trembling.
"Who was supposed to deliver these?""
"My uncle.""
Arthur looked up.
Thomas's eyes filled.
"He told me he'd posted them. He said you returned them.""
Arthur stared at the envelope.
For twenty-one years, he had believed his son had chosen to disappear.
For twenty-one years, Thomas had believed his parents wanted nothing to do with him.
And now, sitting in a bedroom that had remained untouched for decades, they were discovering that the silence between them had been built by someone else.
Arthur stood.
"Come downstairs.""
Thomas looked at him.
"Why?""
"Because there's something I need to show you.""
We followed him into the kitchen.
He opened the cupboard beside the refrigerator.
The cupboard with the ninety tins of cat food.
Thomas stared.
"Good Lord.""
Arthur began removing the tins.
One by one.
He placed them on the table.
Behind them was a small wooden box.
Arthur had hidden it at the back.
He opened it.
Inside were dozens of envelopes.
All addressed to Thomas.
Some were dated twenty years earlier.
Some ten.
Some only a few months old.
Thomas picked one up.
His name was written in Margaret's handwriting.
He looked at Arthur.
"What are these?""
Arthur's voice became very quiet.
"Your mother wrote to you.""
Thomas opened the first envelope.
Inside was a letter.
My darling Thomas,
I don't know where you are, but I hope you're warm. I hope someone makes you a proper cup of tea when you're tired. Your father still checks the front door every evening. He says he's only checking the lock, but I know he's waiting for you.
Thomas covered his mouth.
He opened another.
It's Emily's birthday today. Your father bought her a card. He says perhaps you would have bought one too.
Another.
We miss you.
Another.
Please come home.
Thomas sank into a chair.
He was crying so hard that his shoulders shook.
Arthur sat beside him.
"I thought you didn't want us.""
Thomas looked at him.
"I thought you didn't want me.""
Arthur reached across the table.
"I wanted you every day.""
They held hands.
And I left them alone.
But the following morning, the situation became much more complicated.
Thomas had spent the night in the spare bedroom.
At breakfast, he couldn't remember where he was.
He looked at the kitchen, the photographs, and the old clock.
Then he turned toward Arthur.
"Where's Mum?""
Arthur froze.
I was standing beside the kettle.
"Thomas, love...""
He looked confused.
"She was supposed to make breakfast.""
Arthur slowly stood.
"Your mum's not here, son.""
Thomas frowned.
"Why?""
Arthur took his hand.
"She's gone.""
Thomas stared at him.
Then his face crumpled.
"Oh.""
He looked down at his plate.
"I'm sorry.""
Arthur sat beside him.
"Don't apologise.""
Thomas nodded.
But ten minutes later, he asked the same question again.
And Arthur gave him the same answer.
The nurse from Willowbrook had warned us this might happen.
Thomas's illness was affecting his memory and his ability to recognise familiar surroundings.
Some days, he would remember everything.
Other days, he would forget where he was.
And sometimes, he would forget his mother had died.
Arthur handled it better than I expected.
He kept the old photographs on the table.
He labelled the kitchen cupboards.
He wrote simple notes and placed them beside the kettle.
But there was one thing he couldn't control.
Thomas occasionally wandered.
One afternoon, I found him standing outside the front gate.
He was wearing only a cardigan.
"Thomas?""
He turned.
"I'm looking for my sister.""
My heart tightened.
"Emily?""
He nodded.
"She's supposed to be at the hospital.""
I walked toward him.
"She's not at the hospital, love.""
He looked frightened.
"Then where is she?""
Arthur appeared behind me.
He didn't rush.
He didn't raise his voice.
He simply put an arm around his son's shoulders.
"Come inside, son.""
Thomas looked at him.
"Have you seen her?""
Arthur swallowed.
"Yes.""
"Where?""
Arthur pointed toward the house.
"She's in here.""
He touched Thomas's chest.
"She's in here with all of us.""
Thomas began crying.
Arthur held him until he calmed down.
That evening, I found Arthur sitting alone at the kitchen table.
His shopping list lay in front of him.
Soup.
Bread.
Batteries.
Hand cream.
Washing powder.
Teabags.
Cat food.
Light bulbs.
Birthday card.
He had crossed off every item.
At the bottom was his familiar word.
PAID.
But beneath it, he'd written something new.
THOMAS IS HOME.
I smiled.
"That's a good thing to write down.""
Arthur looked at me.
"Yes.""
Then he tapped his temple.
"I don't want to forget this.""
He folded the paper carefully.
But before he could put it away, his telephone rang.
It was Daniel, the manager of Willowbrook.
Arthur answered.
"Hello?""
I watched his expression change.
He listened for several seconds.
Then he looked at me.
"What is it?"" I mouthed.
He slowly lowered the phone.
Daniel had told him that a solicitor had contacted the care home.
Someone was asking questions about Thomas's inheritance.
And apparently, there was a document Thomas had signed before his accident.
A document that gave his uncle control over everything he owned.
Arthur looked toward the stairs.
May you like
Then he whispered:
"That man is still trying to take my son away.""
