I nod, uncertain.
‘Honestly? At this age, much to most parents’ dismay, the babies usually don’t even notice you’re missing.’
‘Okay.’ I should probably be relieved, but wonder if that’s the same for Ellie. Did he notice she had gone? Does he now?
‘Let me know when it suits to have the first session.’
‘Um, Friday?’
‘Perfect.’
She reaches for the door, giving me my getaway. Which is good, because this is the longest I’ve held it together in public and I don’t know how much more strength I have in me.
‘Thanks for your time,’ I croak, glad she turns away as I leave and the floodgates of pain reopen. Six weeks since Ellie died. Oli is eight weeks old. Is he too young for nursery? Is it too soon for me? I strap him into the car seat. ‘Sorry, little man. But we have no choice. Let’s hope your mummy would forgive me.’
Nine
Rachel
‘Come on in, let me take your bag. I’ve made up a peg for Oli so we’ll hang his things on there. Are there nappies in there?’
‘Erm, yes.’ He hovers by the door before handing me the bag, perhaps deciding he’s not going to run away.
‘We tend to put nappies into named trays too, so we only ever use the ones you bring in for him.’ I stack the new pack of Huggies into Oli’s tray. ‘We provide wipes, though, unless you need a particular kind used for him?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t think so.’
‘That’s fine, some people just prefer an eco-version, or sensitive ones, that’s all.’
Ed looks around, somehow uneasy in our surroundings. Has he changed his mind since choosing us so quickly, so certainly? Is he having second thoughts about it all? I can’t imagine how he’s feeling. He looks giant-like in a room full of tiny people. He moves clumsily out of the way as a pair of ten-month-old boys crawl off to make their mischief. ‘They’re a pair…’ I nod. ‘If I ever lose sight of them, you can be sure they’re emptying nappies and wipes from the low-level trays round here,’ I say. ‘So young, yet so cheeky!’
Phoebe crawls after the boys, talking to them as she tries to scoop them both up and occupy them with some shape sorters.
‘Do you want to sit down?’ I signal for Ed to head over to the sensory area, usually a good place to do the first introduction session. ‘Pop Oli down and see how he gets on.’
Ed does as suggested, cross-legged before Oli. I leave them both for a moment, sorting a few jobs while watching him. He is wholly focused on Oli, his hand resting on his son’s tiny chest as he rocks him gently side to side, talking to him. Sometimes he breaks into a smile, just a gentle one, inspired by something about his boy. Sometimes he sighs, a heavy sigh from the depths of his boots, but quietly… perhaps so I don’t hear it. Sometimes he seems to drift off, gazing at nothing, zoned out. After a while, I head back and sit down beside them, propping myself up against the wall. I pull Maisie onto my lap so that I can use her to avoid eye contact, for Ed’s sake more than my own.
‘How do you feel about going back to work?’
He sighs one of those heavy sighs again. ‘Oh, I can’t wait. I’ve really missed being in an office where taking the piss out of each other is a prerequisite. I think this emotional precipice upon which I teeter is the perfect place to handle jokes, usually at other peoples’ wives’ expense.’
‘Eurgh, sounds…’
‘Like a school playground full of testosterone-fuelled idiot boys?’ He raises his eyebrows in question. ‘Yeah, that’s pretty much it,’ he says, flatly.
‘Jeez, what do you do?’
‘I’m in recruitment. IT specialists. A job that’s perfect if you like drinking, money and banter. A job that is not so suited to a man mourning his wife, I fear.’
‘No.’
He rubs at his face, leaning back against the wall. ‘In truth, I’d rather not go back at all, but I need the money. And Ellie…’ His confidence falters. ‘My wife… well, she’d be bloody furious if she thought I was lounging around feeling sorry for myself.’ His smile is sad, resolute almost. ‘And I need to pay for my increased wine intake somehow.’ I look up at him. ‘That last bit was a joke,’ he adds. ‘I quickly realised that drinking was not good when you had to get up with the baby.’
‘Inconvenient,’ I joke, which, pleasingly, makes him laugh a little. ‘Well, I reckon Oli will be just fine, looking at him now.’ Oli is flat out, legs bent like a frog and arms above his head in total submission. ‘Is he always this chilled out?’
Ed nods. ‘Pretty much. He would cry a lot, after the accident, but I don’t know if that was anything to do with his mum not being there, or just the fact that I was crap at recognising the sign for hungry, nappy change or comfort.’
‘Ah, yes, apparently some of them have a different cry for each thing they need. I’m not convinced, though. It’s always been a process of elimination for me. Maybe mothers can tell the difference, but I certainly can’t!’
Ed stares down at Oli.
‘Sorry, that was… insensitive.’
‘Don’t worry. I’d rather someone said the occasional thoughtless thing than didn’t talk to me at all. You lose a wife, you lose normal conversation. Everyone wants to know how you are, how you’re feeling… if they talk to you at all. The ones who turn away are probably the worst. You know they’re doing it because they’ve got nothing to say. That’s going to be the hardest thing about going back to work. The pitying looks and the phone calls to people who probably think I’ve just been on an elongated paternity leave.’’
‘How very self-indulgent of you!’
‘Got to get your holidays in where you can, eh? How else can I keep on top of my box sets?’
He smiles briefly and, for a moment, I can see what he might have looked like before all this happened. Handsome. Strong. Confident, not arrogant, I think. He has the kind of hands you’d want to be held by. Arms that could wrap you up and make life okay. I realise he’s staring at me and that I should probably stop analysing him. Though not before wondering if this tragedy has aged him; if the crease marks around his eyes were there before; if laughter was the cause, or if those, and the darkness beneath his eyes, are all new.
‘How old were you, when your mum...’ he asks suddenly.
‘Twelve.’ I reach behind me for some tissue to wipe Maisie’s nose, stuffing it in my pocket when I’m done.
‘What’s it like?’ he asks, looking down at Oli.
I think for a moment. ‘As awful as what you’re going through, but for different reasons I guess. What can I say?’
‘I wonder how Oli will cope.’
I sigh. ‘Well, for the most part, I imagine, he’ll cope fine. Because, sadly, or maybe in some respects fortuitously – I don’t know – he won’t know any different. And that’s awful, isn’t it, but he will grow up understanding this as his normal.’ Ed drops his head and I realise I’ve got a short space of time before this conversation unravels him. ‘There’ll be other stuff he’ll find hard, I imagine. When kids have their mums on hand and he doesn’t, but you’ll work through it. Together. Look’ – I put my hand on his, then wish I hadn’t been quite so forward and pretend that I’ve got an itch to get my stupid wandering hand back – ‘Oli will be okay, ultimately. As will you, eventually. Because survival kicks in. I’m not saying you’ll get over it. I’d never suggest that. Just that you’ll find a way to get up every day. You’ll do what you need to do to live.’ I stagger up, shifting Maisie onto my hip. ‘Right, I’m going to leave you to it. Wake Oli, if you want to; show him a few other bits in the room, if you like. I’ll check the diary to work out when you can come in to drop him off. And I promise,’ I say to his startled look, ‘he’ll be okay!’
Ed nods, gets up and takes Oli over to the book corner. I get a text from Mo with another job suggestion, but shove it into my pocket this time. After this two-minute chat I realise I’m needed here, just for a while. Maybe this situation will help me, too. And you know, ch
ildcare’s not all bad… not really.
Ten
Ed
Rachel was right about the trial session being more for me than for Oli. After my first session, staying with him, seeing her move around the room and tend to the children, I thought I was okay with dropping him off and sitting outside. But I was useless, my foot tapping on the floor of their office mezzanine like I’d had too much coffee, or speed, or perhaps both. She’d popped out of the room to assure me he was fine and, in truth, when I went back in after time was thankfully up, he seemed it. I picked him up, I tickled the spot on his shoulders that always gets a smile, and he wriggled like I knew he would, then let out a giggle. For the first time in his short life, he actually laughed. My nerves and fear and tension disintegrated as I heard what memory says was a belly laugh, but probably wasn’t really. Belly or no, it made me laugh too! It made me realise that I’d not laughed in weeks, and so alien yet delicious was the moment that I tickled him again, until both he and I were laughing together… and it was the best, the brightest moment I’d had in ages. And then Rachel joined in with the laughter and the best moment, in that very second, soared up there to become one of the worst. I was sharing it with someone who wasn’t Ellie. That very fact packed a punch that pushed me silent.
Rachel said she understood. She said that my tears were understandable, that it was okay to cry, as she passed me a tissue then left me to collect my thoughts. But I felt an idiot. Not because men shouldn’t cry, nothing stupid like that… it was just that the weight of my grief caught me by surprise. I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t at home, on my own, where I could embrace the pain more completely. It was in such contrast to the love I was feeling for Oli, and it suffocated the feeling of being happy.
But it was the proof I needed that Oli was going to be okay. And that is why I went back this morning, to drop him off before my first official day at work. Rachel and I stood nervously opposite each other for a second, before she took control and lifted him from my arms, unhooking his bag from my shoulder. ‘Go on,’ she instructed, ‘he’ll be fine.’ And I wanted to ask her if I would be too.
But how could she know, how could anyone? And even if she had answered, it wouldn’t have changed the fact that after a total of ten weeks off work – two for Oli, followed by the eight I’ve taken to try to find some sense in this new life – I am now sat here at my desk, just wondering how soon I can leave to pick Oli up and then retreat to the safety of our home.
‘How’re you doing, mate?’ Colleague and friend, Greg, shifts my in-tray to create space for him to perch on my desk, a steaming mug of tea in his hand. I stare at my screen, numb. ‘You getting on okay?’
‘If staring into oblivion, clock-watching till home time is okay, then, yes, sure, I’m good. Great. Never fucking better.’
‘Stupid question then?’ he asks, knowing full well the answer. ‘Look, the first day back was never going to be good.’ He puts his hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze of support. ‘But it’s almost over and tomorrow’s another day, and then Wednesday. You’ll get there, just—’
‘Take my time. Be kind to myself. Go gently at first.’
‘Well, that sounds a bit more new-age-hippy than I was thinking, but essentially, yes, I guess so!’ I give him a look that suggests I’ve heard it all before. ‘Alright, fair enough. Supportive friend probably isn’t the most natural position for me, but I’m trying my best.’ He grins at me, kindly, and I’m grateful he’s big enough to ignore my mood. ‘You didn’t have to come back yet, you know.’
‘It was this or mother-and-baby groups. I don’t know the words to nursery rhymes, never mind the actions.’
‘There are actions to nursery rhymes?’
‘So Ellie said.’ It’s the first time I’ve mentioned her name in the office and there’s a brief lull in the usual hum of work noise around our open-plan space. Or maybe I just imagine it. ‘Besides, I’ve got contractors leaving right, left and centre. Clients who want them replacing without realising that process takes time, even if I didn’t hate the idea of picking the phone up and talking to people about possible jobs. Honestly? I don’t think I have the energy or interest to build it back up from scratch, but I need the money.’
Greg nods.
‘Basically’ – I lower my voice, tired of it all – ‘I don’t care. I hate this place, I hate this job, and I hate my life.’ Greg stares at me until I relent. ‘Maybe I did come back too soon.’
‘We all thought you’d take longer.’
‘We all did, did we? Good to know. Did we have any suggestions on how long? Does the grief recovery period change depending on who it is and under what circumstances?’
Greg shifts awkwardly. ‘Sorry, mate. I’m making a hash of this, aren’t I?’
I groan. Because as much as I can’t cope with this job, I’m fast realising I also can’t cope with people understanding my mood swings… forgiving them. Sympathy breeds the need to run away.
Greg catches sight of the framed photo on my desk. An hour-old Oli with his mum. It was the first thing I did when I got in this morning: I put this photo in place of the one of Ellie and me on our wedding day, which I couldn’t look at, so placed in the drawer beside me. He lifts it up to take a closer look as he sips at his drink and I know that steam from his mug is teasing the polished silver frame. I stop myself taking it from him.
We fall silent. My leg twitches beneath the desk so I reach down to try and hold it firm, turning my attention back to my desk to perform an end-of-news-bulletin paper shuffle. Maybe now he’ll leave me be.
‘And, erm… how’s your brother?’
I flip around to look at Greg. I can just about cope with Ellie’s name being mentioned, but I’ve put thoughts of Simon to the back of my mind for weeks now. I can’t face thinking about him; I can’t explore my feelings about him. Mum has kept trying, in phone calls and visits. Telling me he’s devastated. That he’s not coping. I asked if that meant he was drinking and she fumbled her answer, which was all I needed to know. Her response, plus Lisa’s accusation: it all means that talking to him is currently a no go.
‘Ed?’ Greg tries to catch my eye.
If Simon had been drinking when he drove Ellie home… That’s all I keep thinking.
‘Ed?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know how he is. We haven’t really spoken. Look, Greg, thanks for the chat, but I’m busy, I need to… to do a few things before I head off to collect Oli.’ I turn my back and pick up the phone as if about to make a call, though I’ve no idea who to.
Greg slides off the edge of my desk. ‘Sorry if I got this wrong, mate. I’m crap in a crisis, but if you can put up with me saying stupid shit, I’m here if you need anything. Anything at all.’
‘Cheers, I appreciate it.’ I nod, picking through paperwork for an imaginary number. Greg walks away and I put the phone back in the holder as a text message comes through to my phone. I open it without looking at the sender.
Ed, I’m sorry. For everything. I never meant this to happen. I wish it had been me.
My brain fogs with the words, with confusion. A message I’m unprepared for. A method of reaching out that I can’t quite believe. I read it again. And again. Is this it? Out of the blue? Weeks of no contact? Weeks of Mum telling me we need to talk and all I get is a text? My wife dies in his car and this is the best my brother can do? So he can put a pint glass to his lips and obliterate the memories, but he can’t find the strength to do anything other than text message an apology?
I pick my office phone up again, furiously punching Simon’s mobile number into it, waiting for it to connect. I tap my desk, I shift in my seat. My heart is racing. I’m angry. I’m full of rage. I’m incan-fucking-descent.
The phone connects, rings three times, then goes dead.
I dial again, pulling myself up tight to my desk in an effort to keep me still, to contain myself. The line is quiet as it tries to connect until, eventually, a generic voice invites me to leave a message af
ter the tone. I slam the phone down. Simon might think there are words to placate this situation, but I fucking don’t.
Eleven
Ed
From the office, propelled by the anger, hurt and confusion that permeate every bone in my body, I got here in no time. I launched myself out of the car and up the path to the house, knocking furiously for someone to come to the door. I knocked so hard that my knuckles still hurt some twenty minutes later. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say or do when he opened the door. Part of me could feel my fingers fizz with the desire to hit, to cause him pain, but clearly no one is at home.
I return to the car to wait. While I was driving here, part of my heart had begun to feel different. Thoughts of us as kids together had flashed into my mind: the mud pies we’d make, then paste up an old metal washing line; squishing tiny red spiders on the stone wall outside our house; the grazed knees when we were learning to ride our bikes. He was my childhood partner in crime, the one who always got me into trouble, but who I always forgave, because that was my job as Simon’s big brother. Take the flack then rise above it, pinch him when no one is looking, then play on.
With these memories came a brief softness in my heart, but ultimately the desires of my fist took over the second I saw their front door. How broken must he be to think he can avoid me for so long, avoid this conversation, then simply text an apology? That’s not the Simon I grew up with. He might have got me into trouble in the past, but it was mischief not naughtiness. He was kind, really. He was thoughtful. He was the sort of person who’d tell you he was proud if you did something good, who’d volunteer to help out with jobs around the house. Sometimes I’d tease him for it, call him a square, or a suck up. But, actually, I admired him. He’d see things that needed doing before anyone else noticed.
The Lost Wife: An uplifting page-turner about grief, love and friendship Page 4
