Never Leaves Me

by C J Morrow

  ‘No. Never.’ I search my brain. Did he? No? I’d remember if he’d told me we were paying someone over a thousand a month. ‘No,’ I repeat.

  ‘That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘Yes.’ I turn back to the screen and start hunting through the transactions. The payments go back months and months. I find the button that allows me to look at previous years’ statements. I go back to last year, the year before, five years before, seven years before. ‘I can’t go back any further,’ I murmur.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’ve gone back years and the payments are there every month, they’ve gone up over the years, but they never fail. Look, seven years ago it was eight-hundred-and-forty, a year later it was eight-hundred-and-ninety. What does it mean?’

  ‘Loan repayment?’ Stephen says.

  ‘No,’ we chorus. We both know it’s not.

  ‘He’s paying for something? What’s his mother’s name again?’

  ‘Caroline, as you full well know.’

  ‘Carly – Caroline. It could be her. That’s quite feasible. Perhaps he pays her rent for her, or something.’

  ‘Mmm. Maybe.’ I’m not convinced, surely if she’s a sheltered housing warden her rent would be included in her salary, or at least, very low. ‘I’ll have to ask her, but I’ll have to choose my time. I don’t think it’s now. Do you?’

  ‘No. I don’t remember seeing a Carly on his phone. Do you?’

  ‘No. I’ll have a look later.’ Robin’s phone is still in my bedroom at Sally’s, along with Mads’s, both stuffed in the same plastic bag. ‘That reminds me, I need to go upstairs and get another handbag, Mum’s put the one I had the day of the funeral somewhere, so I’ve been using my pockets to carry stuff around. Not ideal.’

  He laughs and shrugs. ‘Do it all the time, Etty.’

  ‘Yeah, well…’ I manage a smile before turning my attention back to the computer. ‘I’ve had enough of this. There’s enough in the joint account for me not to worry about the mortgage and bills. My salary is still being paid while I’m off sick. Thank God.’ I close the online-banking down and stand up. I’ve stiffened up and I need to use the desk to haul myself straight. ‘I need to let Robin’s school know about the funeral, in case they miss the notice in the paper.’

  ‘I can do that. If it helps. I’ll shut this down too while you go upstairs.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I turn to leave, then look back as Stephen sits down in Robin’s chair, at Robin’s desk, using Robin’s computer. So wrong.

  Stephen looks up and sees me staring. Our eyes meet briefly before he looks away. Can he read my mind?

  ‘Etty, about your mortgage…’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Don’t you have insurance to pay it off?’

  ‘My God, yes. We do. I’ll have to sort that out.’

  Upstairs looks just as it should. Our bedroom is neat and tidy, the bed made before we left for Mads’s funeral. The décor is minimalist: beige walls, dark wood bed with integrated bedside tables and lamps, beige and brown bedding. A wall of dark wardrobes, flat and with no handles – they just touch open – is the only other furniture. Everything is hidden inside, my make-up, my shoes, my clothes, my handbags, even our full-length mirror. Robin’s clothes and shoes. Robin’s life. I ping the doors open and survey myself in the mirror. I’m thin. Too thin. I’m pale, even with make-up on. I’m almost bald in places although my short hair suits my face shape. I force myself to smile.

  At least I’m alive.

  I run my finger along the windowsill, a thin layer of dust has settled in our absence. Robin would not like that.

  The room is bland. It has no personality. It is beige. Even the carpet. The stain is tiny; a dot smaller than a thumbnail. Hot chocolate. Faint from scrubbing. We had a rule about drinks in bed, and food. Or rather Robin made a rule and I broke it. Only on that one occasion. When was it? The memory comes back, vivid, sharp, painful, but my poor brain struggles to place it exactly. I think it is recently.

  I was cold and tired; I went to bed first. I took hot chocolate and lay in bed enjoying it. I felt warm and cosy.

  I didn’t even notice the drip until Robin came in and caught me with the cup to my lips.

  ‘What are you doing? You know we don’t have food or drink in the bedroom.’

  ‘I know, but I was cold. Anyway, I’ve finished it now.’ I turned to put the cup on my bedside table.

  His eyes followed my action, his hands followed the cup. He snatched it up.

  ‘I’ll take it downstairs,’ he snapped. ‘What’s that? You’ve dripped it on the carpet. For God’s sake, Juliette. This is why we have rules about this sort of thing. You’ve ruined the damn carpet. I can’t afford to be replacing carpets because of your sloppiness.’

  ‘Hardly shows,’ I said, glancing down at it. I was stung; he still behaved as though he owned everything, paid for everything – even after all these years together.

  ‘Clean it up while I get rid of this.’ He held the cup as though it were something rancid. He was still muttering about rules and slovenliness as he stomped down the stairs.

  I didn’t want to get out of bed. I was warm. I was comfortable. I dragged myself out, found a pack of wet wipes among my make-up, rubbed at the offending stain. I was still at it when he came back.

  ‘That’s not good enough,’ he barked. ‘Here.’ He thrust a bowl of water and a brush at me. ‘Then you can mop it up with this.’ He threw a kitchen roll at me; it bounced off my back.

  On my knees I cleaned and dabbed, then took the bowl and brush downstairs.

  He was sitting up in bed when I came back; his mouth set in a grim line of annoyance. I was cold and miserable. Inside I seethed. I didn’t sleep well.

  He started the row up again the next morning when he saw that I had dumped the bowl and brush in the kitchen sink.

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ I shouted, shocked at my own defiance. ‘You get yourself to work. I’m going now.’ I stormed off, spent the day incensed and aggrieved. I didn’t go home after work; I went to Mum and Dad’s. Sally was there, with Stephen.

  I stayed at Mum’s that night, sleeping on the sofa. When I went home the next day, a Saturday, with a hangover, neither Robin nor I mentioned our row or my absence. We silently colluded in our pretence that nothing had happened.

  I slump onto our bed. There are so many things to do. I need to make a proper list. Stephen’s right about the insurance, but, now I’m forced to think about it, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. When we moved into this house we made wills, I need to find them, then there’s probate, credit cards, Robin’s phone, God knows what else. I hear myself sigh. It’s all too much.

  And, there’s the funeral to get through yet.

  ‘Etty.’ Stephen appears in the doorway, his voice is soft and sympathetic, as though he has heard everything going on in my head. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I get up; it’s an effort. ‘So much to do.’

  ‘I’ll help. Whatever I can do, just ask.’

  ‘I know. Thank you.’ I stop and look at him, his kind, pleasant face looks wrong in this room. ‘In case I haven’t said it before, I don’t know how I’d get through this without you.’

  ‘Come on, Etty. Find this handbag you were talking about and let’s go.’

  I eat with Mum and Dad that evening, just the three of us. I tell them about the Carly payments and watch as Mum tries her best not to let the judgement show on her face.

  ‘Say it, Mum.’ I almost laugh.

  ‘Nothing,’ she says, getting up and starting to clear our plates from the table.

  ‘Say what’s on your mind. Go on. I don’t mind.’

  Mum shakes her head and keeps her lips firmly shut; I can see it’s an effort.

  ‘I’ll say it,’ Dad says. ‘It’s maintenance for an ex-wife.’

  There it is, the elephant in the room, the words that neither Stephen nor I dared to say.

  ‘Or a child.’ Mum finally breaks her sile
nce.

  ‘I told you Robin couldn’t have children. He was sterile.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Mum brings pudding to the table. ‘Only yogurts, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I still think ex-wife,’ Dad is adamant.

  ‘Well, whatever it is, no, was, it will be stopping soon.’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes. I can. I will. After the funeral.’ If it’s urgent or important, someone will contact me, then I’ll get to the bottom of it. I will stop further payments. I make a mental note to add it to the list I’ve begun in a notebook Sally has given me.

  ‘When’s your next appointment with the psychiatrist?’ Mum tactfully changes the subject.

  ‘Tomorrow. Afternoon.’

  ‘Do you need a lift?’

  ‘No. Stephen is going to take me.’

  ‘He’s a good lad,’ Dad says, inspecting the yogurts Mum has brought to the table then pushing them away. They’re all rhubarb, Mum and I pounce on them. ‘I haven’t had one of these for years.’ I lick the inside of the lid in anticipation of the pot contents; I don’t want to waste a drop. ‘Robin hated yogurts.’

  Neither of my parents comment. They’re right, I see it now. Just because Robin didn’t like them doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t have had yogurts. I feel my throat tightening. I will not cry. It’s a stupid thing to get upset about. Anyway, I can do what I like now.

  ‘Mum,’ I say, resolving that the future is the only place I should focus on, ‘what did you say you did with my handbag?’

  Mum gives me a quizzical look. ‘Oh, that one,’ she says, realisation dawning. ‘It’s upstairs, I’ll get it shortly.’

  The bag is a small, black shoulder bag. I remember now how I’d snatched it from my wardrobe after Robin and I had had the black coat argument. I had intended to use my usual, dark brown bag. I remember hastily stuffing the essentials into the black one as we left.

  Mum lays in on the table in front of me; inside my purse, my phone – the battery flat – a pack of tissues and my keys. The light-grey lining is streaked with blood; probably the reason why she has kept it hidden for so long.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, pulling the keys out. I now realise that I’ve been using Robin’s keys to get into our house. Obvious really, his bunch contains the key to his study. Though that was already unlocked by Mum or Dad – my excuse for not noticing.

  ‘Amazing this survived the accident and the fire.’ I close the bag. I am going to throw it away when I’ve emptied it.

  ‘You were wearing it when Stephen pulled you out.’

  ‘Oh.’ I must have jumped into the car in a hurry if I was still wearing my bag; I usually take it off, it’s uncomfortable beneath the seat belt. ‘What about Robin’s keys? Weren’t they in the ignition?’

  ‘Police gave them to us.’ Dad shrugs.

  ‘But the car went up in flames, didn’t it?’

  ‘Y-e-s,’ Dad says, his voice sounding cautious. ‘Don’t know. Obviously, they retrieved them in one piece.’

  I take the bag and its contents back to Sally’s.

  ‘I’m off to bed,’ I say as I pop my head through the lounge door. Stephen and Sally are going through Sally’s iPad together; they look so cosy, mother and son, their heads together.

  ‘Sleep tight,’ Sally says, smiling.

  Stephen waves and smiles too.

  They both turn back to the iPad and start giggling.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Just YouTube. Nothing really. Just silly.’

  ‘It’s a puppy in a dress and it’s dancing. Really silly and really funny. Come and have a look.’ Sally rewinds the video for me and waits for me to come in close enough before she presses play.

  It is silly and it is funny but I hardly manage a laugh.

  ‘I said it was silly,’ Sally says, evidently feeling the need to justify herself. ‘But Stephen’s just fixed my iPad so I’m catching up on silliness.’ She looks up to the ceiling, excusing herself. ‘He’s good with computers. He’s even fixed my old laptop, though only so he can use it himself. Do you want to see another video? I can probably find a better one.’

  ‘No thanks, I’m really tired. Night.’ I can’t bear the prospect of more dancing dogs.

  Once in my room – Stephen’s room – I put my phone on to charge and decant the remainder of the contents into my other handbag. I look around for a bin to stuff the black handbag in, but there isn’t one so I wedge it into the drawer Stephen has cleared for me. I’ll do it tomorrow.

  Then I pick Robin’s phone up out of the drawer. A quick glance through his contacts confirms that there is no Carly present. I stall over Caroline, his mother’s number, and stop myself from ringing her. Now is not the time.

  I pick up Mads’s phone. It’s still charged, and has been waiting in the drawer. I check again that there’s nothing from Robin, not hidden with a fake name or code; I’m pleased and relieved to find there isn’t, or at least nothing that I can see. There’s a string of messages between Mads and Chloe, her friend, or bully – if Robin is to be believed. Except it wasn’t Robin saying those things, it was me, my subconscious.

  I flick through the messages feeling like a voyeur; the last one from Chloe particularly poignant.

  Chloe: Mads, reply to me. I’m going to do that thing if you don’t. xx

  I saw this message before but it didn’t resonate with me then like it does now. I check the time and date; Mads would never reply, she was already dead by then.

  My own message to Chloe asking her to contact me has not been answered.

  I flick further back, it’s the usual school girl thing, talking about some boy they like, don’t like. A pair of shoes they both want. There’s no sign of bullying, no sign of animosity. The messages are frequent and friendly.

  One catches my eye.

  Mads: Hope you’re keeping my thing safe. xx

  Chloe replies, assuring that she is. Could the thing referred to in both messages be the letter?

  But I am beginning to wonder if this mythical letter really exists? Was it from Mads? The only mention of it was from my work. It’s too late to ring them now. I drop a quick email to my assistant asking if she knows anything about it. It may be pointless but it’s worth a try. All I know about the letter is that it was handwritten and had For your eyes only on the envelope. That’s why Mum and Dad are convinced it is from Mads.

  I remember the first time she heard that phrase, she was about eight. I’d popped round one rainy Sunday afternoon, on my own as usual, to spend some time with Mum, Dad and Mads while Robin was marking books. We were watching a Sunday afternoon film on TV, the old Bond movie, For Your Eyes Only. Mads had loved the theme song, sang it for weeks afterwards and she loved the sentiment, used it repeatedly. Every Christmas and birthday card had it printed on the envelope, she’d done that for years, she’d been twelve before she grew out of it.

  Was the letter from her? Or was it just a clever piece of junk mail? Why send it to me at work? Why send a letter at all, when she could message or email me? Something light and flimsy, like a gossamer-winged moth, flutters across my subconscious, an elusive memory perhaps. But it’s gone before I can catch it, before I can make sense of it. Damn my useless memory.

  I look through Mads’s Facebook feed. I catch my breath when I see the dozens of RIP messages from her friends. I can’t bear to do it now but I know I must shut down all her social media accounts; fortunately, they are all logged in on her phone. I grab my notebook and add it to my to do list.

  I put the phones away and get ready for bed.

  I sleep in the next morning. It’s eleven by the time I’ve showered and dressed. Breakfast awaits me in Sally’s kitchen and I help myself to cereal and toast. There’s a note from Stephen; he’s running errands with Sally this morning but he’ll be back in time to take me for my appointment this afternoon.

  I use the time I’m alone to start on the list: I cancel Robin’s credit cards, his phone contract. I can’t do the complicated
items like mortgage and insurance until I go back to the house to find the paperwork. And I need his death certificate, there must be a death certificate, who registered it? I add this to my ever-growing list.

  An email pings into my inbox; it’s from my assistant at work. Yes, she remembers the letter, she forwarded it to me immediately. She’s so sorry it’s gone astray. Yes, it had For your eyes only, on the envelope. It was handwritten. She gives me a date which is four days after Mads died.

  I know little more than I did before, except that it was sent after Mads died. It’s all I can think about during my home physiotherapy session. I’ve improved so much that I don’t need another visit for a week.

  Chloe. She must have sent that letter.

  I find her number on Mads’s phone and ring her. I’ll leave a voicemail if she doesn’t answer; it’s the middle of the day and she’s probably at school anyway. But the call is neither answered nor goes to voicemail; the number is unobtainable.

  Stephen sits with me in the waiting room as I wait for my appointment to see Dr Bev. I survey the other patients, again wondering if they are all as bonkers, or more so, than I am? I check myself, I shouldn’t be so judgemental. But the man who is quietly talking to himself suddenly lets out a loud howl, and I think, despite my apparent haunting, that I’m getting better.

  I’m only twenty minutes past my appointment time when I sit down in front of Dr Bev. She looks tired. I feel sorry for her and before I know what I’m saying I’m asking after her health before she asks after mine. We both laugh and I see a sweet side to her, she suddenly looks much younger than I thought she was.

  We chat, or that what it feels like, chatting with a new friend. We talk about Robin, we talk about the accident and Mads and Stephen. She empathises in all the right places.

  ‘I hope you’re giving yourself some space and some rest,’ she says.

  ‘Well, you know.’ I half shrug and smile. ‘Funerals and stuff.’

  ‘It can all wait. All that sorting things out, it won’t bring him back. Allow yourself time to grieve for your husband, and your sister.’

  Grieve. I think about that in the car on the way out of the hospital. The overriding feeling I have is one of numbness. I haven’t allowed myself to grieve, not for Robin anyway. And, probably not for Mads; I had two weeks between her death and my accident. Although I have vague memories of cryfests during that time, even I know that’s not enough. Poor Mum and Dad, they can’t have had much time either. As for grieving for Robin, I now realise I haven’t allowed myself to do that; I was leaving him anyway so I have no right to grieve. He was probably an adulterer. Was he messing about with Mads? There are so many reasons not to grieve, so many unanswered questions.