Chapter Fifteen

 

 

I COULDN’T HAVE PREDICTED HOW I would feel. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. Three weeks ago, we buried Gage. I felt numb throughout. The celebrant did a wonderful job of omitting everything that was wrong with our marriage, instead focusing on his “dedication and love” for us, his family. I arrived home to my kids and with Hetty’s help, we put them in bed and read bedtime stories and they fell asleep happy, healthy and oblivious. I, on the other hand, fell into some kind of depression and as soon as my body fell into bed, I knew I wouldn’t be leaving it anytime soon. I think Hetty knew it, too which is why she and Joe have moved in with us for the time being, taking the spare room for themselves and baby Elizabeth. They take the kids to school and feed them. Meanwhile I lie here in bed, day after day, weak and feeble and crushed by the weight of grief, despair and guilt. It all sits on me like a boulder, trying to cut off my air supply. The thought of going outside – doing anything – frightens me to the point where I’d rather stay bedridden. I can’t think about doing a single thing. Even the thought of making a cup of tea raises my blood pressure and the moment I think about facing the world, I get this tight sensation in my chest and it feels like a panic attack encroaching.

Hetty knocks on the door and I smell food. She enters without my permission. She sits me up in bed and feeds me toast, a banana, yoghurt and a cup of tea. I can’t tell what time of day it is but I’m guessing from the menu it’s morning.

“You need to wash,” she says.

“Why?” I respond, but only because she’s using that frustrated tone of voice I hate.

“Because you stink and it’s unpleasant. You haven’t washed in weeks.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do. You need to snap out of this.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve got everything you want.”

“You’ve never pitied yourself, this isn’t you.”

My blood starts to boil and I want her out. “Thanks for looking after the kids, but maybe you should go now.”

“No way,” she says, clearing away the pots she brought up here, then walking towards the exit. “I’ll run you a bath and you will get in it.”

“We’ll see,” I retaliate, curling up in bed again.

However, she’s back within ten minutes and has that determined look in her eye. She yanks open the curtains and demands, “Get up before I drag you up.”

The light of day pours through the windows and makes me wince. I’ve become more than sensitive to light since the funeral – I’d go as far as to say I abhor it.

“Where are the kids?” I ask, because with the door open, I can’t hear anything going on in the house downstairs, which must mean they’re out.

“Joe’s taken the babies for a walk. Emily’s back at school.”

“We didn’t discuss her going back to school yet.”

“We did, you just weren’t listening.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing.

“Don’t make this ugly, Liz. Just get up and get in the bath. I’ll be here with you.”

“No, I don’t want a bath.”

“You’ve got ten seconds before I carry you there, and don’t think I won’t, and don’t think I’m not strong enough to.”

The way she’s breathing, she sounds like a rhinoceros or something.

“I’m not going to put up with this shit, Liz. Not any longer.”

“You don’t know what this is like,” I growl. “You don’t know about grief.”

“Don’t tell me I don’t know.”

“You don’t.”

If she thinks the loss of her friend Mars is equivalent to my husband and the father of my kids dying, she’s sorely mistaken.

“You don’t remember what happened at the funeral, do you?”

“No,” I admit. “I don’t remember a thing.”

“Carol rang me. Apparently, you went mental on them, shouting at your own mum and dad. You’re losing it, Liz. If I wasn’t here, your kids would’ve been taken into care already, you know? Your own mother’s had enough of you and truth to tell, I’m not far off.”

The thought of my kids… in care… being taken away… makes me feel vicious and vile.

“Take me to the bath, then.”

She grabs me around the waist and takes me there even though my legs are weak and my willing is almost non-existent.

I undress out of my pyjamas and dunk myself beneath the freestanding tub in the family bathroom.

She sits on the toilet seat, head in her hands, despairing of me.

“I don’t know what you all want from me,” I begin, because that’s how I feel right now.

“What do you mean? What we want from you…”

“I don’t know what you want from me. What am I going to do now? I’m meant to be the one who does everything right and I’m not that person anymore.”

She sits there shaking her head, pulling at the roots of her hair with her fingers. “For fuck’s sake, Liz. I’d like it if you could just do the simple things right now, like wash yourself and get out of bed every day. If we can just tackle those things, I’ll be happy. I don’t care about you being perfect, nobody does.”

“I do,” I whisper, “it’s who I am, who I’ve always been.”

She stands and walks to the window, turning her back on me to stare at the view outside.

“It’s not who you are anymore, Liza. The naïve girl you once were, she’s gone. She’s dead with him. What’s left behind is different, but believe me, she will be better than what came before. You just have to ride this out and take it. It’ll hurt every day, but you have to take it and suck it up.”

“I’m not as strong as you.”

“No,” she says, almost spitting as she turns to me with tears in her eyes, “you’re not. Because you never had to survive what I did. But let me tell you, what you survive is what makes you stronger. And I’m sick of you mourning someone so unworthy.”

“YOU DON’T GET IT, HET! You don’t get it,” I scream, exasperated. “It’s not about him. Okay, it is, but it’s more about me! He’s taken everything from me. He’s taken parts of me to the grave with him. You don’t get it. You can’t see into my head, but I tried to be the best wife I could be and it still wasn’t enough.”

She snaps a few sheets of toilet paper off the roll and wipes her eyes. Then she turns to me and mutters, “I’m glad he’s dead. I’m glad. If this is the only way you’re ever going to realise where you’ve been going wrong, then so be it.” She ends her tirade, pausing to take a few deep breaths. Then she gesticulates with that unwavering, demanding tone of hers, “We’re going to focus right now on eating, on dressing, washing and walking those skinny legs of yours. That’s all we’re focusing on right now.”

“We’ll see.”

She stands behind me and begins untying my hair from the various bands I’ve had it pinned back with.

“Liza, it’s so long, my god!”

“Should I… cut it?” Even the thought of cutting it… makes me nauseous.

“No, I’m just… shocked.”

“Yes. It’s difficult to wash. I should wash it in the shower.”

“I think so.” She lets it hang behind the back of the bath and I sense it brush against the floor.

“I find it therapeutic brushing it. I think that’s why I’ve grown it so long.”

“I can brush it once it’s washed.”

“Thanks.”

A memory smacks me in the face… Sam… his hands in my hair… and the yearning, desirous look in his eyes as he told me he just wanted to touch me.

“What if it’s my fault, Het?” I hold a hand over my face, my tears coming thick and fast, suddenly and viciously – nothing new, but still as painful as ever.

“What? What could possibly be your fault?”

She kneels by the bath, tucking my hair behind my ears.

I level with her, catching my breath. “I’ve loved Sam all these years. I love him deeply and sexually and everything. I couldn’t love a single other person more. I denied myself… denied him… What if Gage always knew, deep down? What if that knowledge drove him to do this… to react? What if… I caused his death? By making him sad and desperate… I can’t help thinking all sorts.”

I cry my heart out, not really knowing where the tears are coming from, only that they hurt. I manage to get a hold of myself, then she smiles, taking my hand.

“Liz, I’ve got at least 50 IQ points on Gage and even I never guessed you were in love with someone else. I don’t even think you knew, either… not until recently. You can’t keep blaming yourself.”

“I think I can, though. The timing… it feels like I’m being punished for what I did.”

“No,” she whispers. “I think you and Sam finally got together because you knew your marriage was already over. I think Gage knew that too. He could’ve been a man about it and let you go, but instead he’s done this… he’s left you in the worst condition he could have ever left you in. He was selfish and reckless and he always knew you were too good for him. There is nothing you could have done to change him, he was who he was; he was trapping you, making you feel guilty for his own inadequacies. You have to believe me. I would never lie to you.”

“I know, I know you wouldn’t.”

She leans in and kisses my hair. Then she stands and passes me the soap.

“Now, wash those tears away. Joe will be back soon and I know Rupert will be desperate to hug his mother. He misses you.”

“Yes, okay. Okay. I need to do better.”

“Okay, then.”

 

 

IT’S MUCH LATER the same day, I’m standing in the doorway of Emily’s room just watching her sleep. Hetty and Joe have done such a good job of telling her “Mummy isn’t well,” that today when she saw me for the first time in a couple of weeks, she shrieked with uncontrollable tears, unable to process her emotions. I think she’s half been expecting to hear her mother is dead too. It’s as I watch her sleep that I realise the damage Gage has done.

It’s true, we were definitely too young when we got married, but what’s truer is that we were never truly compatible. That makes the breakdown of our marriage nobody’s fault. Yes, our marriage was failing just before he died, but having sat down and talked through everything with Joe and Hetty today, I finally realise that him dying in the way that he did was just pure bad luck – and nobody’s fault. I couldn’t have saved him even if I were in the house that night. I may not have heard him struggling to breathe because I am a notoriously deep sleeper. I may have slept in the spare room if he were snoring. He shouldn’t have drunk so much, but the truth is he’s always been a drinker and it could have happened before now. In reality, he’s probably lucky never to have had alcohol poisoning before. Maybe he did but his strong constitution coped with it somehow – and it was only now his body decided it could take no more. That’s the thing about the rugby lads – drinking is their culture and that’s all there is to it.

If anything, I’m reminded just how fragile life is. It can be taken away just like that. It really can. Gage was broad-shouldered, thick-set and good-looking. He was a stack of muscle in fact. I could never have shifted him up or down the stairs without some help. He didn’t have a small cock, but he never really made me come in all the time we were together/married. I was attracted to him and I really do think I loved him at one stage, but his constant reckless behaviour – such as bringing his drinking buddies into the family home – killed my love a little more, each time he disrespected the sanctity of our private space. He chose his social life over us, time after time, and I always knew where I stood with him. I was always second best. So were his kids. His choice, given the option to spend time with his family or have a night out with friends, was never questionable. Partying came first. The nights he was home were spent flaked on the sofa, eating his own weight in pasta or mixed grills, chewing my ear off about the stupid things his friends got up to. I guess I just always hoped he’d one day magically become the man I really wanted. I hoped to change him… eventually. It’s just that eventually never came. Probably never would.

The truth is, I was never in love with him. It’s sad, but true, and if I could go back in time, I would probably do quite a few things differently. However, having Emily and Rupert is probably the only thing I wouldn’t do differently. Therefore, I have to try to get past all the shit in my brain and focus on their health and wellbeing above everything else.

Once I’m convinced Emily is sound asleep, I pull her door almost closed and tiptoe down the stairs.

Hetty is in the kitchen reading a parenting book standing up. There’s a cup of tea on the sideboard behind her, steam swirling up into the air as she stands with the book positioned in one hand, her backside resting against the counter.

“It just boiled,” she remarks offhand, nose in her book.

“I’m fine.”

Joe’s playing away football tonight. It’s Tuesday. He won’t be back until late. She gets antsy whenever he’s not here, like he’s become her comfort blanket.

She puts her book down and instead picks up her cuppa. I’m resting my head on my hands, my elbows on the kitchen counter as I stare out at the back garden. It’s getting warmer and I should think about pruning everything ready for spring. I should think about turning the heating off and visiting the garden centre for new flowers to plant along the borders.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“Joe and I want to buy somewhere new to live. My poky little house won’t do now we have Betty and a dog.”

Their rescue staffy pup, I notice, is flat out in front of the gas fire in the living room. She never bothers anyone and if she barks, it’s only because she needs a wee outside.

“That sounds sensible.”

“I just… I was thinking… while we market it to sell, we could still stay here, with you. If you like? You have all this room here…”

Five bedrooms to be exact, yes. This detached property is now bought and paid for with Gage’s life insurance. I always thought a home was the thing I wanted most out of life, but bricks and mortar haven’t turned out to be quite the home I was after.

“We do have plenty of room,” I agree.

“I admit, I also want to use the sale of my house to put more money into the business. I don’t know if I ever told you, but when my friend died that time, I gave all my money away to charity out of grief… guilt… I don’t know. I could’ve used that, but I wasn’t thinking, so I gave it away. I know Joe has money he would give me in a heartbeat, but I want to do this my own way. You understand?”

“Hetty, my goodness. You did that?” Her generosity almost brings me to tears.

She shrugs it off. “I just needed to do something. It was probably selfish really.”

“No,” I admonish, shaking my head, “not at all. You have a good heart.”

“So… we can stay?”

“You don’t even have to ask. You know I love having you here. You’ve helped me so much, maybe now it’s my turn to help you.”

She turns her face away, masking her emotion. “Thanks, sis.”

While she goes back to her parenting book, I remain standing where I am, staring out at nature. My mind’s eye travels back a few years and I fondly remember being a teenager, sharing a classroom with Hetty. Everyone was scared shitless of her. She wasn’t only taller than most people, she was more fearless too. I was an awkward teenager, constantly trying to hide my chest beneath baggy clothes, my shoulders always slumped. I also hated my frizzy hair (this was before decent straighteners came on the market for an affordable price). I didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin yet, but it always seemed like Hetty couldn’t give a shit what anyone thought. That was before I got to know her better. Once I became teacher’s pet, she was consigned to second best and I vividly remember the day Hetty pushed me up against a wall outside our classroom. Her demeanour and stance screamed I was in danger, but there were tiny flashes in her eyes of sadness and despair – and I read what was behind that menacing persona. She never hurt me beyond a bit of pushing and shoving, not really. I don’t think she could have ever laid a hand on me, not only because she wasn’t really a violent person, but also because I never took my eyes off her. I held her gaze so that she knew I wasn’t really scared of her. I could see beyond the façade and she knew it. She liked to threaten me, oh she did – warning me she’d put chewing gum in my hair, or steal my uniform during PE – if I didn’t shut my mouth during English class. Jules Jones (Jules Simonovich then) was the best teacher in the school and everyone knew it, but there were other reasons why Hetty so craved Jules’ attention – and I guessed why. Jules and Hetty shared some unspoken similarity – an orphaning of sorts. Hetty always saw something in Jules she could relate to and she was just desperate to find someone to talk to – someone who would ask the questions nobody else wanted to ask.

By fluke, it was eventually Warrick Jones who asked Hetty what was really going on. I’d tried many times, but my asking only made Hetty angrier – so angry that she once smashed her fist against a brick wall and caused several cuts to her own knuckles. While I feel like Hetty and Jules are somewhat soul sisters, I know I have a lot in common with Warrick. I never knew what I really was until one day, Hetty told me. She said, “You’re one of those rare personalities… an empath.” I stared at her incredulously, disbelieving, and yet her words have never left me. I may be an empath, but because of her abused upbringing, Hetty judges people astutely on a literal level.

Since she labelled me an empath, whenever I have come across empaths in literature or in real life, I see something I can relate to – and as the years pass, my empathic abilities seem more and more evident. I feel that Warrick is an empath too and I suspect we share this horrible burden of finding it impossible to shut off your mind to the pain of the world. It becomes our pain, too. We adopt it. I feel like, maybe, for years I adopted whatever pain Gage was carrying around. Maybe that made it impossible for me to see clearly. Maybe I am finally seeing clearly now he’s absent, and perhaps I’ve had a recent overload of my own thoughts rather than just his. I feel reluctant to throw myself into something new, and yet I cannot stop thinking about Sam. He’s probably going out of his mind. I haven’t responded to any of his texts or emails lately and I’ve been such a bad friend.

But then as I look up and see Hetty again, I remember I’m not that bad a friend. Once it all came out about the cigarette burns and everything, she needed somewhere to stay and I begged my mother to give Hetty a chance. Hetty was uncharacteristically quiet and shy when my parents first fostered her, but I’ll never forget the day my mother baked Hetty a birthday cake. Hetty went upstairs and wept after she realised we’d prepared a little tea party for her. When she came back down and cut into her own cake, I saw her hand trembling as she held the knife, she was so overwhelmed. It took a lot of hard work to get Hetty to trust us, but she softened and settled in. She’s the most intelligent woman I’ve ever known and also the funniest and most tragic, but I love her. I saved one soul at least, right? I can’t say I was totally unselfish, though. I’d spent much of my childhood alone in a flat while my mother and father fried fish downstairs. I’d buried myself in books. I’d hidden. I wanted Hetty in my life because I’d yet to meet anyone like her and I finally had a friend with a sensibility matching mine. Hetty and I bounce off one another because we’re different in many ways, but somehow we share the same passions.

I leave Hetty where she’s still standing in the kitchen, pulling my phone out of my robe pocket. Switching it on, I discover I have twenty per cent battery left, so maybe just enough.

I take the couch in the living room and press call.

“Hi… hey… Liza?” he asks.

“It’s me.”

There’s a pause. It makes me nervous. Then he says, “I’m so glad you’ve called.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… yep.” There’s an edge to his tone, and I realise what it is… worry.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I’ve not been good. I wanted to call. I’m sorry.” I realise as I lift my hand, it’s shaking. I’m shivering.

“No, it’s okay. I understand. It hasn’t been easy, but I understand.”

“Thank you.”

There’s another painful silence, then he asks, “Do you want to meet up?”

Bile rises in my throat at just the thought of going outside. I clear my throat and suggest, “Why don’t you pop round?”

“What, now?”

“No… I mean… maybe. I don’t know. Tomorrow? Or… maybe… yeah. Now?”

Today, I had a wash for the first time in weeks, so perhaps I should learn to walk again before I can run, but maybe that doesn’t really matter. Maybe I just need to check he’s alive, in the flesh… and maybe he needs the same.

“I’m grabbing my keys,” he says, a tone of urgency in his voice.

“Okay… err… yeah.”

“See you in about twenty minutes?”

“Okay.”

He hangs up.

I guess that’s that.