‘About the fact that you married me out of pity.’
‘Harry,’ I say, horrified. ‘That’s not all it was. We’d been together for a long time. We’ve built a decent life together. It wasn’t just pity …’
‘Maybe notjustpity – but pity was a part of it, and that’s never a good motive for a relationship, is it? And it’s even worse now I know how you felt about Alex. I wanted you to marry me, desperately. But it wasn’t the right thing, was it? For you definitely. You did the wrong thing, for all the right reasons. You weren’t in love with me then, and you’re not in love with me now. You kept Alex as a friend, when he should have been more – and you married me, when we should have just been friends.’
I don’t know how to respond to this. There is honesty, and there is brutality – and this is hovering between the two. It is searingly painful to hear.
‘Harry, I do love you. I always did. And it’s natural in a marriage, isn’t it, for that in-love feeling to diminish over time? The honeymoon period doesn’t last forever.’
‘Well, we didn’t have a honeymoon, did we? Literally or figuratively. I know you love me – and I love you, too. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever known. But you’re right – when I’m with Alison and the kids, I’m actively happy rather than passively content.’
Wow. He is really going for it now – and I am floundering in such a strange mix of emotions. Pain, and fear, and regret. Excitement, elation, relief. All of it. No wonder I’m confused. I have been with Harry – through some spectacular ups and downs – since I was a teenager. I’m not even sure who I am without him.
But is that any reason to stay with someone?
‘What are you saying?’ I ask, needing to hear the words.
‘I’m saying that we’ve done our best. We’ve tried. I don’t think either of us can try any more, Elena, do you? Maybe … maybe this is the end. If you want to give it another shot, I will – I swear I will. I owe you that much. But this is a lot to come back from, and I’m not sure it’s really what either of us wants …’
I wanted to hear the words but, when I do, they make me feel sad, even if I know he is right. Even if I know it is what is best for us both.
For years we have survived together, Harry and I. But surviving something doesn’t mean you are undamaged, or whole. Some of us carry breaks and tears that nobody can see, and I think my marriage is one of them.
I don’t want to survive any more. I don’t want to battle my way through the next few decades. I don’t want to have to try so hard to save something that I’m not even sure I want.
I don’t want Harry to have to give up Alison and her kids for me. I don’t want him to have to sacrifice a potentially happy relationship just because he feels like he should. I’ve been there, done that, and it is such a waste – of time, of emotion, of life. Of us.
‘I’ll always love you, Harry,’ I say quietly. ‘But I think you’re right.’
Chapter 30
Three months later
The closer we get, the harder it feels to breathe. I am in the back seat of a car that Em sent to collect me, and we are driving towards the place where I was buried alive. It is a place of trauma, and terror, and too many memories.
It is also, undeniably, beautiful. As the car pulls up to a newly-paved parking area, and I climb out, I feel the force of the late-afternoon sun pressing down on me. The minute I am outside the air conditioning, it is hot – very, very hot.
I can hear birdsong and insects, and smell the pine and juniper trees of the surrounding forest. It has rained recently, and the air is alive. The wildflowers around the hills have bloomed in riots of pink and purple and orange, the mountains and valleys are lush, green and ripe, despite the heat.
I am a long way from home, and it has taken all of my courage to get here.
After Harry and I had our heart-to-heart, I moved into my mum’s house. Back into my childhood bedroom. When I left the bungalow, when I left Harry, I expected to feel sad. Melancholy. Anxious.
I actually felt none of those things. I felt strong. I felt determined. I felt damn near euphoric. It was that new sense of strength, of self-belief, that got me to the airport. Got me on the plane. Got me here, despite all my fears. I am proud of myself, and I forgive myself the jolt of nerves as I look around. I may be strong – but I am not superhuman.
I have arrived alone, but see the coach that a group of the others chose to use, recreating another element of that night. I was not ready for that. Driving here at all was nerve-wracking enough, never mind doing it in another bus, thinking of Jorge.
As I walk across to the newly built plaza, my sandals kicking up clouds of still-familiar orange dust, I feel clogged with emotion. I am about to face so much. About to enter a world of unknowns. I stop, stand still. Turn my face up to the warmth of the sun and breathe it in, letting it calm me.
I am here. I made it. I will get through this, and all the challenges it presents.
The plaza is different, as I expected. There is no fountain, and the stone paving is new, and the homes around the edge of it are in various stages of development. Some are complete, and bear signs of life: fruit trees being cultivated outside them, curtains in the windows, open doors, music playing. Others are mid-construction, exposed, skin and bare bones.
It is different, but it still brings me back so vividly to that night, to everything that happened here. I pause and look on at the group of people who are gathering there, in that central spot. By the not-fountain in the almost-plaza.
I see Sofia the tour guide, her long hair gleaming in the sun. I see Shelley, who I’ve since spoken to on the phone and who found the strength to make it, and I see Janey, who I last spoke to in a hospital bed. The Frazer family – Em’s mum and brother – are there too. I spot others, local people, adults, children.
The children almost make me turn around and leave again. I know there are no forecasts of earthquakes for today. I have, of course, checked. But there wasn’t a forecast last time either …
