After the call I sit in silence, the empty house a shell around me. The police will be here in about an hour, they said. There is nothing for me to do but wait.
I miss him. It’s funny how the brain works, isn’t it? I miss him so much I ache.
It hurts and I don’t really understand it. I don’t understand what happened. I suppose you can never really know a person, can you?
When did it change? Did it change the day he lost his job? Or was it always like this?
It’s impossible to know if we were a good thing that we broke somehow or a bad thing that eventually became exposed. But either way, if I could just go back now to the way we were, I would. I would, without a moment’s hesitation. If I could just lie in his arms one last time, I could live with an illusion the rest of my life. If I could, I would.
I don’t know why I reach for the phone. It’s not part of the plan. I just want to speak to him. One last time. And it can’t possibly hurt. I dial Mark’s mobile number and for an instant when it connects, my breath catches in my throat and I think he’s answered, that he’s alive after all, and everything that happened before was just some kind of trick. He’ll explain everything and he’ll be on his way home to me and I’ll get to hold him in my arms again. But of course it’s not him, he’s not alive, it wasn’t a trick, and he’s not coming home to me—it’s just his voicemail message. His deep assured voice, my favorite sound in all the world. And when the tone sounds at the end of it I can hardly speak.
“Mark?” My voice comes out cracked and thick. “I miss you so much. I wish you would just come home. Please come home, Mark. Please, please, please. I don’t know why this happened, why you went away from me. But I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I wasn’t good to you, if I didn’t do the right things…say the right things. I’m sorry. But I love you more than you will ever, ever know. And I always will.” I put down the phone and cry in my empty house.
I made a lot of bargains with a God I don’t believe in last night in bed. I would give back all of the money for how it was before. Everything back the way it was.
Before the police arrive I pore through our photo albums. We put them together last Christmas after the engagement. For our future kids: Mum and Dad when they were young.
So many memories. His face in the firelight, blurred Christmas lights behind him. The smell of smoke. Mulled wine. Pine. My fingers running across his thick sweater. His hair on my cheek. The scent of him, close. His weight. His kisses. His love.
Wasn’t it real? Any of it? It felt real. It felt so real.
They were the best days of my life. Each day with him.
In my heart I believe it was real. He was scared of failing. He was flawed. I know. I’m flawed too. I wish I could have saved him. I wish I could have saved us. He lost his job. That’s all that happened, really. But I know what that means to some men. People died after the financial crash. Some jumped and some took pills or alcohol. Mark survived. He survived eight years longer than some of his friends.
He knew he couldn’t go back to what he did before and he didn’t want to start over. He didn’t want to be less than he had been. He was terrified, I see that now, of going backward, going back home to East Riding, back to the bottom, back to where he started. And fear is corrosive.
I wish I had seen it. I wish I could have fixed it.
But it’s done. He’s gone. And I am alone. I don’t think I’ll try again. I don’t think I could. I’ll love Mark until my dying day. Whether we were real or not, I loved him.
Fuck, I miss him.
When the police arrive I’m a mess.