How far would you go to track down the person who killed your child?
Two years after her three-year-old daughter is killed in an unsolved hit-and-run, Tessa Clifton is caught up in a devastating car accident that leaves her neighbour’s husband in a coma. Trapped in the same hospital Tessa relates the series of events that led her to find the person who killed her daughter. What remains unclear however, is how they both ended up in the same accident and who else was involved.
How far would you go to track down the person who killed your child?
Two years after her three-year-old daughter is killed in an unsolved hit-and-run, Tessa Clifton is caught up in a devastating car accident that leaves her neighbour’s husband in a coma. Trapped in the same hospital Tessa relates the series of events that led her to find the person who killed her daughter. What remains unclear however, is how they both ended up in the same accident and who else was involved.
June 2019
Hello Joe. It's me, Tessa. Can you hear me?
Honestly, it's a relief to see you again. I wasn't sure I'd get another chance to talk to you. They kept saying you were going to die, which at the time seemed unthinkable—but now, seeing you laid out here like this, well, perhaps it would have been better if you had.
Selfishly though, I'm happy you're still here. If only barely. I just hope some small part of you is listening, so you can hear what I need to say.
You must know that I feel genuinely sick seeing you like this. We always got along, and while I suppose I should have known what to expect, I guess the reality is often very different from what we imagine. Whenever I've seen coma patients on television, they’ve looked somehow peaceful, as if they're in a deep sleep, but you look closer to death than sleep. So completely and utterly helpless. Machines beeping around you. It's enough to drive a person mad, the incessant blip, beep, blip, beep, blip, beep. Not that I suppose it bothers you.
You barely look like yourself. It's not just the coma—your face is swollen and jaundiced with bruising, your jaw wired shut. Leg jack-knifed up towards the ceiling, all metal pins and plaster. I heard them say you went through the windscreen, that you were thrown twenty feet along the road. They found you splayed across the central reservation. "LUCKY TO BE ALIVE," or so the newspaper headlines said. Is that what you think?
What remains beneath your fused eyes? Can you hear me? Or are you already dead to this world?
I'd like to be able to tell you more about your condition, but they won't give me details. I'm not family and, to be honest, I think some of the nurses find it odd I want to see you. The psychiatrist says it could be therapeutic though, and since there are so few visitors and so many hours to fill, they are willing to indulge me.
The nurse on duty, Sam, was a little more positive about your prospects than the doctors, and he encouraged me to talk to you. I guess he figured something is better than nothing. He says he’s seen worse. And hell, we all know the stories of coma patients who wake after years and have been there, treading water, just below the surface.
Ironically, I remember us discussing it once, over dessert and coffee at your place, prompted by a newspaper article on that man in America who woke up after twenty years in a coma. What was his name? Mark? Michael? Something ‘M,’ I think. We couldn't imagine how awful that would be. To come back after two decades had passed without you. Everything and everyone changed.
You said you would prefer to die than be locked in a body-shaped prison, and I'd have to agree. So, I truly hope your mind is silent. That you're not lying in there, raging to get out.
I’ve debated whether I should come and see you or not. I've had a lot of time to think over everything that has happened since our accident. My left leg was crushed so badly I couldn’t get out of bed unassisted until yesterday. I’ve been lying down the hallway, agonising over whether I should come and see you. After all, you’re in a coma, so what’s the point? Why not let you lie in peace? But I suppose I feel I owe it to you, and to myself as well, to come and talk to you—even if you can't see or hear me. There are some things I need, or at least want, to tell you. Some of which you already know, of course, but there is so much you can't possibly understand.
Since we are both now stuck in this place, this is my last chance to join the dots. To put our twisted fates to rest.
But where does one start? Every story has an infinite number of possible beginnings and endings. The decision lies in what details we choose to leave out.
In this case, though, I suppose it really begins with the birth of Amelia. She arrived on April 20th, 2014, late by eleven days. You probably remember. I was huge, willing her to arrive with every ounce of my being. Partly because I wanted to meet her, but also because I was tired of having no mastery over my own body. I have always been a control freak and being at the mercy of this tiny being inside me was tough to bear.
The obstetrician ended up scheduling an induction, but I went into labour two hours earlier than expected. Looking back, I see it as a sign of Amelia’s independence. Right from the word go, she was never one to conform to the dictates of anyone else, and at the time I imagined her saying, "You think I'm going to come on my due date just because you're feeling bloated, dear mother? Think again! I’ll come when I'm good and ready." And of course, she did!
It was a long wait, but when she did finally arrive, she was beautiful. People had told me of the moment when they first held their child, and I never really understood it until she was there —that mixture of supreme awe, relief, and love.
Steve and I took her home the next day, proudly presenting her to her new bedroom. Having waited so many years to get pregnant, I wanted everything to be perfect and we'd bought every contraption possible, from baby monitors to digital room thermometers. Of course, the absurdity was she didn't know one way or the other. We could have put her in a cardboard box and dressed her in cast-offs and she'd have been equally content. In honesty, it was all for us. After ten years of IVF, we knew she would be our only child and we wanted to do it right. It had to be perfect.
Not that it was all dimples and smiles. The first year of motherhood, it felt like my life was a handbag that had been tipped over, rummaged through, and haphazardly refilled with its former contents. Some things apparently lost forever. Things I had prioritised—work, eating out, theatre, travel—all fell to the wayside. I was consumed by the demands of my infant girl and hadn’t the time or energy for anything else.
Fortunately, it's my intense love for her that prevails in my memories now. Not the exhaustion or sacrifice.
Once I'd made it through the first six months, the fog started to clear. I felt like I was managing. The first night that Amelia slept for more than eight hours in one stretch I felt brand new. I could finally start to take pleasure in her waking hours, and not just spend all my time willing her to sleep.
Of course, now it breaks my heart to think I wasted any of those mundane moments, or that I wished away a single minute with her. Time to hold her. To love her. But we can't go back, can we Joe? You, more than anyone, know that.
Watching her grow up, during that first year, was like seeing a piece of art being painted. At first, she was just an outline on a blank canvas— the promise of something wondrous. Then, gradually, the details became clearer and the colours were filled in. Her first smile, trying to roll over, and then to crawl and walk. Normal steps taken by almost every child ever born, but astounding to me all the same. I reveled in her growing and learning— so simple and yet so amazing— and I imagined all the things she would become.
Over time, you come to learn that it's the little things that cement you together as parent and child. Knowing what makes your daughter laugh, what she likes to eat, when she’s tired— all the little idiosyncrasies that define them as individuals. And it's also the routines that we develop around them. Every single night before going to sleep, I would tiptoe into Amelia's room and check she was all right. Covered. Warm. There. I would whisper I loved her and kiss her cheek.
What strikes me most now, though, is not how much I remember about Amelia, but how much I've forgotten. Trying to pull up the memories you have of a person is as frustrating as flicking through old photos. There might be hundreds, or even thousands, of individual moments recorded and tucked away— of parties, of holidays, of important events— yet they are only snippets of what occurred. Fragments that remind you the event took place, but ultimately just that— fragments. And in the end, we only had three years with her.
Still, if I could preserve all those fragments, I would. At least then I'd know the memories would be safe, that they couldn't be lost or corrupted. Even in the course of the last two years, I feel I've somehow altered my memories of her, that in revisiting them too often, they've morphed into a reflection of what I want to remember, rather than what was real.
I could spend a lifetime trawling the past, but I need to keep going. I need to talk to you about what happened that night two years ago. Get this heavy weight
This engaging read had me hooked from the beginning and I felt compelled to read in one sitting. The words flowed seamlessly. I liked the authenticity of the dialogue, particularly from Jake, Jed and Amelia and the reference to Duplo, Octonauts and My little ponies. This made it relatable and current for the reader. I felt invested in the journey of the characters. It was very emotional in parts. As a mother, it is impossible to imagine how someone would react in that situation, but Jodi Bush captures the confusion, guilt and sadness so well. I could hear Tessa's repeated 'No' in my head, as she cries out in disbelief.
I felt the author explored grief in a sensitive way. It was helpful to see how each character coped, with Steve turning to alcohol, Tessa searching for answers, Jake hiding away, Judy and Lilly turning to each other. The way the doctor's relayed what had happened and the description of the procedure for viewing the body was very well written. I would advocate this book to anyone experiencing a similar traumatic experience.
The narrative alternated between Tessa and Lilly. Lilly's husband, Joe, is in a coma following a car accident and Tessa is relaying her story to him. She is also injured but the reader is left to deduce whether they were having an affair or if there was another reason they were caught up in the same crash.
We learn that 3 yr old Amelia tragically lost her life in a hit and run incident. The author does a great job of drip-feeding information, so I had suspicions about Lilly, Joe and Jake's involvement. The resolution was well tackled and the climactic end scene was well written.
I thoroughly enjoyed this read and will definitely look out for more work by this author. It would be a fantastic book club read, as it raises many questions about grief and the dilemma Jake's parent's faced when they had all the information.