Missing Pieces – Laura Pearson

The coffin was too small. Too small to contain what it did, which was not only Phoebe’s body, but a large part of Linda, too. At the funeral parlour, a man touched Linda’s arm and asked, gently, whether she wanted to see Phoebe, and even as she was nodding her head, she knew that it was a mistake. ‘Are you sure?’ Tom asked. Linda knew that this was a decision she couldn’t unmake. Knew, instinctively, that she was wrong. She would wish, later, that she hadn’t seen their daughter like that, because no matter how peaceful she looked, she was still gone. Knew that the memory of her lying there, surrounded by silk and dressed too immaculately, would interfere with the memories she held of Phoebe laughing and running. Alive. And still, she nodded her head and followed the man down the corridor towards a lifetime of regret. Linda looked back, once, at Tom and Esme. They were standing hand in hand, quite still, dark heads bowed. Esme’s fringe needed cutting, and it was covering her eyebrows and, when she looked down at the thick carpet, her eyes too. This is my family, Linda thought. This is what’s left of my family.

And then she looked down at her swollen belly, touched it as her baby flipped over like a fish, felt nothing. When they reached the room, the man told her to take as long as she needed. He opened the door for her and then disappeared down the corridor like a ghost. And Linda approached the coffin slowly, looked in at the girl who couldn’t possibly be Phoebe. Who was too small, and still, and quiet, to be Phoebe. And Linda felt like getting inside it, curling up with her daughter and going to sleep. But the coffin was too small. L 13TH AUGUST 1985 29 DAYS AFTER inda set her hands on her rounded stomach, interlaced her fingers. Tom was beside her in the sparse, white waiting room, and neither of them reached for a magazine, and neither of them spoke. The receptionist was eating her lunch, and the smell of her egg sandwiches made Linda feel sick.

She unlaced her fingers and gripped the sides of her chair, willing the waves of nausea to pass. She’d given birth to both of her daughters in this hospital, had sat in this room waiting for numerous scans, and she’d always found it cold. That day, though, it seemed stuffy. She thought about standing and opening a window. She lifted her thick hair from the back of her neck, rooted in her bag for a band to tie it up. When her name was called, Linda stood. Tom held out a hand for her to take, but she didn’t reach for it, and he let it drop, followed her down the corridor. When they opened the door, the doctor stood and offered them a kind smile. ‘I’m Dr Thomas,’ he said. ‘You were here when Phoebe was born,’ Linda said.

‘I remember.’ He smiled again, but didn’t confirm or deny it. He saw hundreds of babies being delivered, Linda told herself. He wouldn’t remember hers. She sat down on an uncomfortable blue plastic chair and crossed her legs. She couldn’t look at Dr Thomas, and she couldn’t look at Tom, and so she set her eyes on the abstract painting that hung on the wall to the left of Dr Thomas’s head. Every time she blinked, she kept her eyes closed for a fraction too long, trying to ignore the strong smell of ammonia that hung in the air. ‘I heard about your daughter. I’m so sorry.’ Linda wanted to ask why he didn’t say Phoebe’s name.

‘Thank you,’ Tom said. ‘It’s been very hard.’ Since Phoebe’s death, almost everything anyone said seemed ridiculous to Linda. She wanted to shake Tom, to punish him somehow for reducing their pain like that. ‘Of course,’ Dr Thomas said. ‘That’s why we wanted you to come in today and have another scan. The stress of something like this can be very tough on a baby. We just wanted to have a look and check that everything’s all right. Try not to worry, though, I’m sure it will be. Now, Linda, would you like to get up on the bed?’ Linda did as she was told.

As she pulled her legs up, the paper that was covering the bed tore a little, and it sounded loud in the quietness of the room. Six weeks ago, they’d come here for her twenty-week scan. Esme and Phoebe were being looked after by Maud, their next-door neighbour. Tom had closed his travel bookshop and they’d driven to the hospital, and Linda had felt a clutch of excitement in her throat, like she had on the day they’d run away from their families, when Esme was growing inside her. On the way to the appointment, Tom had turned the radio up loud and they’d sung along, the car windows open and the breeze whipping Linda’s dark hair against her face. It was hard to reconcile that memory with the question that wouldn’t go away. The question that had come to Linda, formed and ready to be spoken, a few nights before. That was rising up in her throat, like bile. ‘Dr Thomas?’ He turned to her, and she met his eyes for the first time. ‘Yes, Linda?’ ‘Is it too late to have an abortion?’ Linda heard Tom’s intake of breath and saw the flash of shock that Dr Thomas tried to hide.

She wouldn’t back down, or retract the words. How could she? How could she be expected to have this new child, and love it, when her love for Phoebe had brought her to this? When she could barely take care of her remaining daughter, barely look Esme in the eye? Dr Thomas cleared his throat and the sound brought Linda back into that room, and she glanced at Tom. He was looking at her like he didn’t quite recognise her. Squinting slightly, as though trying to work out whether he’d seen her somewhere before. ‘It is too late,’ Dr Thomas said. ‘But if you don’t think you can care for this baby, there are options we can discuss.’ ‘Adoption?’ Linda asked. She considered this, briefly. Going through the labour, feeling the baby emerge from her like a miracle, and then handing it over. Would she hold it first? Would she be told the sex, be given a chance to think about a name? No, she decided.

That option wasn’t for her. But before she could speak, Tom spoke for both of them. ‘No,’ he said, his voice soft but firm. ‘We’re having this baby, and we’re keeping it.’ ‘Let’s get this done,’ Dr Thomas said. ‘And then we can talk some more.’ He smeared the cold jelly on Linda’s stomach and she almost laughed at the tickling shock of it. She waited to be told what she knew, that the baby was fine. She was aware that Tom was worried that her grief, her refusal to eat properly, and her inability to sleep, had caused the baby harm. But she could feel it moving, turning and probing.

And more than that, this baby was a part of her, and she felt sure that she would know instantly if there were anything wrong. Just as she had known, that night, that something had happened to Phoebe. And so, when the image appeared on the screen and Dr Thomas said the heartbeat was strong, Linda wasn’t surprised. But she saw Tom, saw his hand fly to his mouth in pure relief, saw the love in his eyes that was ready and waiting. It was simpler, somehow, for him. Despite what Dr Thomas said about it being too late, she knew there were ways to rid yourself of a baby. Ways that women had relied on for centuries. Painful and dangerous ways, but possible. But she wouldn’t do it, because of Tom. She closed her eyes briefly, tried to imagine herself as the mother of a newborn again.

Tried to imagine them being a family of four again. But it didn’t feel right, when Phoebe wasn’t one of them. ‘Well,’ said Dr Thomas, ‘everything looks fine here. Come and take a seat at my desk again, when you’re ready.’ He wiped the fluid from Linda’s belly and she pulled her clothes back into position, pushed herself up and off the bed. Tom waited until she was ready. When she stood, he placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her the few steps back to the waiting chair. Linda anticipated a lecture, a talking to about how she would get through this. How other women had. You don’t know, she wanted to scream.

She wanted to open the door and let her voice bounce and echo along the empty white corridor. None of you knows. ‘I’d like you both to think about having some counselling,’ Dr Thomas said. ‘It won’t change anything,’ Linda said. ‘Not the situation, no. But I really think it might help you to come to terms with things. To accept what’s happened, and start to move on. I’m not asking you to make a decision today. Just think about it.’ Linda took the leaflets he was holding out to her, and stood, ready to leave.

When she was at the door, she felt Tom’s breath on her neck, and she was sorry, for a moment, that they were leaving together. That they would have to suffer the car journey home, and then the evening, and the days and weeks to come in that too-empty house, with the words she’d spoken hanging there in the air, like a threat. Tom didn’t speak until he was behind the wheel with his seatbelt on. He reversed neatly out of the parking space, and Linda watched him, waiting for the accusations and the blame. He was handsome, this man she’d chosen. His profile was strong. They were both still young, him thirty and her twenty-eight, and yet small flecks of grey were starting to show in Tom’s neat, dark hair. Once, he’d mentioned colouring it, and she said that she liked it as it was, and Esme commented that he looked like he’d been caught in a tiny snowstorm, and he left it. Tom must have felt her eyes on him then, and he glanced at her. It was his eyes that she’d noticed first.

Green in some lights, grey in others. Kind, open. There was kindness in them still, she saw, even though she expected to be met with disgust. When Tom did speak, it wasn’t what she expected at all. ‘I do understand,’ he said, his voice calm. ‘I lost her too. Just—’ His voice cracked, and Linda watched his face, saw the tears welling. ‘—Just try not to shut me out.’ ‘I’ll try,’ Linda said, because she wanted to offer him something other than hurt. THAT NİGHT, after Tom fell asleep, Linda lay awake beside him, listening to the occasional sounds of people and cars on the street outside.

Sometimes, even before Phoebe’s death, Linda woke up wondering how she’d ended up here, in an unassuming semi on a residential road in Southampton, so far from home. The night before she’d left Bolton with Tom, they had sat in his car with a map of England spread out on their laps. Linda’s eyes were drawn to the edges, to the places beside the sea, and she’d pointed at Southampton, smiling. She had known almost nothing about the place. Her grandparents had holidayed there once. It was where the Titanic had sailed from. Linda had pictured a crumbling sort of house by the sea. Fish and chips, walking along the beach, her hair salty, being lulled to sleep by lapping waves. And when they had arrived, and it was nothing like she imagined, she hadn’t cared much, because it was still a fresh start, a new life. But almost a decade had passed, now, and that freshness had long since faded.

Linda was aware of the sound of her breathing. She watched the clock crawl through half an hour, and when it got to one o’clock, she sat up carefully, trying not to wake Tom. She took her white cotton dressing gown from the hook behind the door and left the room, looking back once to check that he hadn’t been disturbed. He was lying on his side, his breathing deep and slow, his mouth open. She didn’t turn the light on in the kitchen. After almost eight years in this house and two babies, she knew her way around in darkness. The kitchen had always been her favourite room. When they had come to look at the house, weary with unsuccessful viewings and the knowledge that they couldn’t afford the kind of place she would choose, Linda had gone to the kitchen first. She’d looked around, at the drawings on the fridge that were held in place by colourful magnets, at the old pine table in the corner still messy with breakfast crumbs. The walls were painted a bright yellow and the cabinets were a pale wood, chipped and marked in places.

It was the kind of room where a family gathers at the beginning and end of each day. And she’d known, then, that it didn’t matter that the bathroom was small and the garden was a bit wild. This was the house where she would have her family. For a while, Linda stood at the window, watching the stillness of the dark garden. It was mid-August, late summer, and although she was hot with the weight of her pregnancy, she wasn’t ready for the season to change. Because when that summer had begun, she’d still had Phoebe. And it still seemed impossible that she was gone for good. Linda opened the narrow cupboard in the corner of the room, stared at its contents. And then she took out the bottle of vodka and unscrewed the cap. She did it quickly, as though afraid of being caught.

The bottle was three-quarters full, and she calculated that it had probably been there since the previous Christmas, when they’d had a party for some friends and neighbours. That night, she’d taken the drinks Tom had handed her, and she remembered feeling light-headed, feeling that the room was spinning slowly, as girls in bright dresses darted in and out of the small groups that had formed. She remembered catching sight of Phoebe, and dropping to her knees, catching her youngest daughter’s wrists and kissing her forehead. Phoebe had wriggled from her grip, dashed off after her sister and the other older girls, and Linda had poured herself another drink. Now, alone in the dark while Esme and Tom slept upstairs, Linda longed for the edges to blur a little, to take a break from the heaviness of her thoughts, and alcohol was the only way she knew. She lifted the bottle to her lips, tipped it, gulped. The baby inside her kicked, a quiet protest. And Linda tipped the bottle again, swallowed, and put it back in the cupboard. She sat down at the kitchen table, waiting for something to change, for some of the darkness to lift. T 23RD AUGUST 1985 39 DAYS AFTER om couldn’t sleep.

There was a kernel of rage deep in his chest and he was terrified of what it might grow to become. He turned in bed, from his back to his side, faced his sleeping wife. There was a tiny part of him that wanted to hold his pillow over her face. The same part that had wanted to hit her when she suggested aborting their child. Wasn’t it enough that they’d lost Phoebe? It pained him that, for the next three months, he had no choice but to rely on Linda to keep their baby safe. Linda, whose voice hadn’t shaken when she asked about aborting it. Tom lay still, silently fighting against images of Linda throwing herself down the stairs or stuffing pills into her mouth. Keeping his eyes open was safer. And so it was that, some nights, he lay awake beside her, watching her stomach for movement. That night, Tom gave up on sleep a little after four o’clock.

He padded softly down the stairs, intending to try to lose himself in his book for an hour or two. But as he approached the lounge, he saw through the glass door that Esme was in the room. She was wearing her pyjamas, but she didn’t have that sleep-crumpled look he always noticed when he woke her in the morning, and her unruly, dark hair was brushed and pulled into a slightly lopsided plait. He wondered how long she’d been up, sitting quietly in the lounge with the TV turned off and no books or toys to amuse her. As he entered the room, Esme looked up with a slightly fearful expression, as though she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. And Tom saw, then, what she was holding in her hand, running through her fingers. Beebee. It was a tatty piece of pink cloth, the size of a hanky. Phoebe had carried it everywhere with her, for as long as he could remember. She’d named it after the way she said her own name, when she was just learning to speak, her eyes full of concentration as she tried to make her slack mouth fit around difficult sounds.

Linda had wanted to put it in the coffin beside Phoebe, and on the morning of the funeral, they had searched for it. The three of them, ransacking the house, upending drawers and moving furniture to look behind. It had felt good, in a way, to be doing something together, to have a common goal. But then, when he couldn’t put it off any longer, Tom had insisted that they leave without it. Ventured the opinion that it didn’t really matter, not in the way that their late arrival would matter. And Linda had looked at him with pure venom in her eyes – when he closed his eyes, he could still picture that look – and brushed past him out of the door, to the waiting car. ‘Hey, Es,’ he said. ‘Where did you find Beebee?’ Tom reached out to take it from her, and she snatched it away, her expression unreadable. Tom wanted it, then. He remembered how Phoebe had slept with it beside her head on the pillow, how she had sucked at it, twisted it between her chubby fingers.

Every few weeks, Linda had stolen it away to wash it, and Tom had tried everything he could think of to distract her from the fact of its absence. He’d staged elaborate plays with her teddy bears, fed her forbidden treats, invented games that involved all of her senses. Still, she’d always noticed, always complained and whined for it. And when it had been returned to her, fresh and clean, she’d always insisted that it was different. Suddenly, it was clear to Tom that Esme had had it all along. That it was never lost. That she had hidden it, somewhere in that house, to keep something of her sister. He was shocked by her deviousness, softened by her compassion. ‘How long have you been awake, Es?’ She shrugged. ‘A while.

’ ‘And what have you been doing?’ Tom was careful to keep his tone light. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel like she was in trouble and being interrogated. And yet, he had to ask, because it troubled him to think of her like this, awake and alone in the unforgiving night. ‘Just thinking, really.’ ‘About Phoebe?’ She flinched at the mention of Phoebe’s name, and Tom realised that they rarely referred to her, despite the fact that she was at the heart of everything they did or said. Esme shrugged again. For a minute or two, they sat together in silence. Facing one another on the shaggy green rug, their legs crossed, his eyes searching out hers, her eyes avoiding his. Tom was astonished by his daughter whenever he took the time to really look at her. She had Linda’s wide-set, chocolate-brown eyes, just as Phoebe had, and Linda’s slight build, but he could see himself in her facial expressions, in her movements and gestures.

And he was constantly amazed that he’d had a hand in creating this sweet and complicated person, that she existed independently from him and Linda, her brain packed with thoughts and opinions that she could choose to share, or hide. ‘Where is she, now?’ Esme’s voice was soft and Tom had to move his head a little closer to her to hear. He felt his throat swell with tears and he wanted to reach for Esme’s small hand, close it up in his and hold it there. ‘She’s nowhere, Es. She’s gone.’ Tom didn’t believe in any kind of God, in heaven or hell. And he didn’t believe in telling his daughter lies. It was something he’d argued about with Linda. She was a nonbeliever too, but she questioned whether there was any harm in telling Esme a nice story about Phoebe looking down on them, watching over them. And Tom said that it was important to him that they were honest.

But just then, when he saw the lost look in Esme’s eyes, he wondered whether it was the right decision. ‘And Mum?’ ‘Mum? Mum’s upstairs in bed, Es.’ Esme met his eyes, and there was a weight and solemnness in her gaze that didn’t belong there. ‘I know, but will she be okay?’ Tom didn’t know how to answer that. Some days, he caught a glimpse of the old Linda, in the quick reddening of her cheeks when she was a little too warm or in the way she bent to pull on her shoe. He tried to focus on those moments, to believe that they were a sign of things to come. ‘I hope so,’ he said. Esme nodded solemnly, and Tom realised that he needed to give her something more than that. ‘You know Beebee?’ Tom said, gently taking it from Esme’s hand and holding it up in front of them. ‘Do you know where it came from?’ Esme shook her head, and Tom saw the beginnings of a smile starting behind her eyes.

‘Well, do you remember the Emperor I told you and Phoebe about? The one who paid a lot of money for a new suit, and was too embarrassed to say that he couldn’t see it, after it was made?’ ‘He walked all over the town with no clothes on,’ Esme said. ‘He did. And when he got home afterwards, his wife told him he was very silly and gave him some new pyjamas to put on. She’d bought them for him because it was his birthday two weeks later, but she decided to give them to him early because of the mixup with the new suit. Anyway, those pyjamas were pink with little grey elephants on them. And the Emperor liked them so much that he wore them every night for four years. He used to wash them first thing in the morning and hang them outside to dry so that he was never without them. ‘But at the end of the four years, the elephants had almost faded away and the seams were starting to come undone, and the Emperor was very sad. So when it was nearly his birthday again, his wife went to the same shop and they had one pair of the pink elephant pyjamas left, so she bought them for him, and she put the old pyjamas in one of the spare bedrooms and forgot all about them. She was getting a bit old by then, and she’d only gone in the room to water the plants and hadn’t meant to leave the pyjamas there at all.

‘Anyway, about a year later, you, me, Phoebe, and Mum went to the Emperor’s house for a sleepover…’ ‘We didn’t!’ Esme squealed. Tom put a finger to his lips. ‘Shhh, Mum’s asleep. We did, Es, you must be getting forgetful, like the Emperor’s wife. I don’t know how you could have forgotten – we had a big tea party and lots of walnut cake. Anyway, Phoebe couldn’t get to sleep that night, because it was her first sleepover and she was missing her own bed. Mum and I tried singing songs to her and telling her stories, but nothing worked.’ ‘What was I doing?’ Esme asked. ‘You were snoring, like this.’ Tom flung himself on to one side and lay with his legs curled and his hands beneath his head, and began to snore loudly.

Esme laughed, then, and it was such a relief to hear that sound, to see her face like that, unburdened and open. ‘Anyway, eventually your mum found the old pyjamas on top of a chest of drawers and she gave them to Phoebe to hold, and Phoebe fell asleep that very second and didn’t wake up until morning. The next day, we asked the Emperor’s wife where she got the pink pyjamas from, so that we could buy some for Phoebe to hold when she couldn’t sleep, and she said that they used to belong to the Emperor but they were very old and we could have them. ‘And from then on, Phoebe took those pyjamas to bed with her every night, and she never had problems getting to sleep again. But because they were so old, they started falling apart and we had to keep throwing bits of them away, until this was the only piece left.’ Esme held Beebee close to her eyes. ‘I can’t see any elephants,’ she said. ‘No, you can’t now, I expect. They were almost gone when we first got those pyjamas, and that was a long time ago, now.’ While he’d been talking, Tom noticed Esme’s eyes getting heavier and heavier, and when he asked her if she wanted to go back to bed, she nodded.

He lifted her, Beebee still clutched in her fingers, and carried her up the stairs. By the time he laid her down and covered her with her duvet, she was asleep. STANDİNG ON THE LANDİNG, Tom considered going back to bed himself, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep again that night. Instead, he headed back downstairs, made himself a cup of tea and took it into the lounge, where he pulled a photo album from the bookshelf. Packed tight with memories, the album was heavy. It was the weight, Tom thought then, of his marriage. Linda had given it to him as a present on his last birthday. The start of May, hot sunshine. Linda sat by his side on an old blanket in the garden as he leafed through the pages, and Esme and Phoebe abandoned their skipping game and crowded in, prodding disbelievingly at pictures of themselves. Linda was pregnant, but they hadn’t told the girls yet.

Now, just three months later, he was going through it again, alone in the darkness, and the memories seemed to claw at him, taunting. First, a picture of him and Linda in the early weeks of their relationship, standing in Linda’s back garden. Her mother must have taken the picture, Tom thought. But when he tried to picture her behind the camera, he couldn’t. It was slightly out of focus, and Linda’s waist-length dark hair was blowing in the wind, hiding the left side of her face. Tom’s arm was wrapped awkwardly around Linda’s waist, and he was looking at her, rather than at the camera, his eyes full of wonder. Next, Tom standing in front of their house on the day they moved in. He remembered Linda taking this one, remembered her making faces and waving from the pavement, trying to make him smile. He looked stunned, slightly shaken, as if he couldn’t believe the house behind him was theirs. Tom lifted the album a little closer to his face, looked intently at the house.

An ordinary, red-brick semi, built five years before they bought it in the late-seventies. Tom was twenty-two years old, about to become a father, a new homeowner. And yet the weight of all that responsibility wasn’t showing on his face. He looked proud, disbelieving, happy. His travel bookshop: Read the World. Linda had chosen the name, and she was in the photograph, pointing at the sign with one hand and holding the hand of a chubby, twoyear-old Esme with the other. It was a compromise of sorts, the shop. He’d always had itchy feet and longed to see the world, but he had a wife and a family, so he’d settled for renting a dusty unit and filling it with maps and books about the exotic places he’d probably never see. Tom flicked forward a few pages, searching for his favourite photo of Esme. There she was, lying in his arms, days old.

Her eyes wide and her hair thick and so dark it shone. The fingers of her right hand were curled around his thumb, and she was looking up at him, trusting. The backdrop to the photo was the room Tom was sitting in. The same green and white wallpaper, the same battered floral sofa they’d picked up at a house clearance sale and carried home, stopping a couple of times to sit on it, and rest. Tom looked around him. In the years since that picture was taken, little had changed. A couple of new pictures on the walls, a dark stain on the carpet from a spilled glass of cherryade, the addition of the grass-green sofa cushions that Linda made. And yet, the room in the picture looked more like a home, somehow. A few pages later, and there was Phoebe. In one photo, she was sitting in her highchair in the kitchen, brown mush covering her face and hands.

She was crying, her face red, but beaming through the tears. Tom remembered taking that one. Remembered sitting patiently while Linda fed her, waiting for the right moment. Remembered holding up Beebee to encourage that glowing smile. There were very few photos of the four of them: him or Linda always behind the camera, the pictures showing the other of them flanked by the two girls. But there was one. They were in the garden, and Tom could hear Linda calling across the fence to Maud, asking if she could nip round to take a photo. Phoebe and Esme were wearing matching red dresses, their dark hair pulled into identical pigtails. Tom and Linda were kneeling behind them, Linda’s arms circling Tom’s waist. Esme was sitting cross-legged and Phoebe had her chubby legs out in front of her.

In Esme’s hand, a daisy chain. At the moment the image was snapped, she looked at her sister, passed the daisy chain to her. Their eyes met. Tom and Linda were looking at the camera, smiling and relaxed. But Esme and Phoebe were looking at each other. Serious, calm. A girl offering a gift of flowers to her sister. Saying it’s yours, because you’re mine. Tom closed the book, carefully slotted it back into place on the bookshelf. He reached for his tea but it had gone cold, and he winced as he swallowed a mouthful.

It was light outside, he noticed. At some point while he’d forgotten himself among those memories, the sun had come up. He went through to the kitchen, poured the tea into the sink, and looked out of the window. In the garden, two blackbirds were fighting over a worm, one tugging it from the ground, the other hopping and pecking at it. He’d made it through another night, somehow got to this place, where he was ready to start another day without Phoebe. On a sudden impulse, Tom took his keys from the basket on the windowsill and left the house. He drove into town, to his shop, and parked in front of it, looked at it for a couple of minutes through the passenger window. It was still early morning and none of the shops on the street were open yet. When he felt ready, Tom left the car and let himself in. He’d missed this place.

Just the gentle, musty smell of it was comforting. But it was a mess: teetering piles of unsorted second-hand books strewn here and there, unsightly gaps on the shelves, a fine layer of dust on everything. Tom sat down on his stool behind the counter, opened the till to check that it was empty. It was. But when he walked through to the back room, he found it strewn with order slips and delivery receipts.

.

PDF | Download

PDF | Read

Buy me a coffee (;

Subscribe
Notify of
0 Comments
Inline Feedbacks
View all comments

PDF Kitap İndir | Pdf Libros Gratis

Forum.Pictures © 2018 | Descargar Libros Gratis | Kitap İndir |
0
Would love your thoughts, please comment.x
()
x