The Secrets We Left Behind

by Susan Elliot Wright

  ‘I mean, I want to do things for him, to look after him properly and stuff, but I don’t seem to be able to do anything without messing it up somehow. I can’t even feed him for more than a couple of minutes because it hurts so much. And – and I don’t think he really likes me, anyway.’ She sighed a shaky post-tears sigh. ‘I know it sounds bonkers, but I keep thinking it’s because he knows.’ She wiped her eyes with another sheet of kitchen paper and then twisted it between her fingers as she talked without looking up. ‘He’s all right with Marcus. The minute Marcus picks him up, he stops crying, and when he baths him or changes his nappy, he doesn’t cry at all, but when I do it, he screams. He just senses that Marcus is his real daddy and I’m not his—’

  ‘You are. You’re his real mummy – don’t even consider thinking anything different! Listen,’ I said gently. ‘You need to trust yourself a bit more. I know it’s easy to say and not so easy to do, but try not to worry so much.’ I had a sudden flash memory of watching her with him a couple of weeks ago, her jaw set tightly as she washed and dried him, then fastened him into a new nappy, quickly, efficiently, and silently. Why the hell hadn’t I spotted it then? ‘Hannah, sweetheart, I think there’s a good chance that you have proper postnatal depression. I think we should get you to a doctor.’

  She looked up at me and her eyes started to fill. ‘But what if they take him away? Marcus adores him; he’d never forgive me.’

  ‘Darling, nobody is going to take him away, but you need some help now. You’re not well and it’s not your fault. ‘

  She began to cry again. ‘I’ve wanted a baby almost since I was old enough to have one.’

  ‘I was the same.’

  ‘But I feel like . . . like I’ve cheated, or something; like I’m not really supposed to have him. If you’re not meant to be a mother, I mean, if nature decides you’re not, then how can—’

  ‘Being a mother isn’t just about being biologically connected, you know; nor is being a father. Look at your dad; he couldn’t be any more your father if he had the same genes, could he?’

  She nodded. ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘And your – I’m not going to say “real” – father, well, he couldn’t have been much less of one, could he?’ I heard myself and I knew what I was doing, but seeing Hannah’s distress only made me more angry that Scott thought he could just turn up and cause havoc without any thought of the consequences. ‘It’s about what you do, how much you care. You’re bound to make mistakes – we all do. But we can only do what we think is the best thing at the time.’

  She didn’t say anything, and my words seemed to ring in the air as though they were hanging around to taunt me. Who the hell was I to talk about being a good mother? I summoned up the professional voice again, because in this I was justified: I was a good family support worker.

  ‘Hannah, trust me. You will be able to love him properly, I promise, and it’ll almost certainly start happening as soon as you stop worrying about it not happening. But you need to get some help first. Let me talk to Marcus. I can come to the doctor with you if you’d like me to, and I can come and stay for as long as you need me.’

  She mopped at her eyes again. ‘I bet this didn’t happen to you, did it? I mean, you’ve always said you loved me the moment I was born.’

  ‘Yes, I did. But that doesn’t mean . . . Well, it certainly doesn’t mean I did everything right.’

  ‘What sort of things did you do wrong, then?’ She sniffed. ‘I’ve never even asked you about feeding and stuff . Did you breastfeed? I bet you didn’t feel desperate to give it up.’ She shook her head. ‘Do you know what? I went and bought a steriliser unit and bottles from Mothercare the other day, but I felt so guilty for even considering it that I just chucked them in the back of the cupboard and didn’t even tell Marcus.’

  ‘Oh darling, not everyone can breastfeed for long. Some women aren’t able to do it at all. It’s nothing to feel guilty about. And you’ve given him a good start, anyway.’

  ‘So how long did you breastfeed for?’

  At that moment, we heard Marcus’s key in the door, swiftly followed by the sound of Toby crying. Marcus jiggled him as he brought him into the kitchen. ‘Hey, look, buster! Grandma’s here. There you go, Grandma.’ I took him automatically. ‘Hello, my little pickle,’ I murmured, enjoying the welcome weight in my arms but suddenly aware that I could help more by sacrificing that simple pleasure. ‘I could hold you all day, but I think your mummy needs a cuddle now.’ Hannah hesitated for a second, then took him.

  ‘Why, what’s up?’ Marcus asked, concern flooding his face.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Hannah said, perhaps more sharply than she needed to. Then she looked down at Toby and burst into tears.

  *

  I was still on the phone to Duncan when Marcus came back downstairs. He looked weary. She’s asleep, he mouthed. Good, I mouthed back, then turned to the phone again. ‘Marcus says she’s asleep, so there’s not really much point in you coming over right now. I’ll call again when I’ve spoken to Marcus. Speak to you in a bit.’ I put the handset back in its cradle.

  ‘Duncan says to give her his love.’

  Marcus nodded, ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. ‘I didn’t notice how bad it was getting. She’s been a bit weepy, but I honestly didn’t realise it was serious. I should have seen it earlier. ’

  ‘I keep telling myself the same thing.’

  ‘Yes, but I live with her. There’s no excuse.’ He walked over to the crib where Toby was sleeping and looked down at him, then turned to me. ‘All this stuff about her not feeling like his mum – I had no idea she felt like that. I thought that the fact he grew inside her, that she gave birth to him . . . I don’t know.’ He ran his hand through his hair again. ‘I thought that would do it, you know?’

  I nodded. ‘You can’t predict these things, though. You just can’t know how you’re going to feel in advance.’

  He sighed. ‘She’s agreed to see the doctor, at least.’

  ‘Well, that’s something. If I’m right, if she does have postnatal depression, things may look very different once she’s being treated.’

  ‘What, like antidepressants, you mean? I’m not sure I want her taking happy pills.’

  ‘Marcus, you listen to me. Antidepressants are not “happy pills”! And you should know better, for goodness’ sake.’ I didn’t often tell my son-in-law off, but this fear of antidepressants made me so angry. ‘I’ve seen enough depression, postnatal and otherwise, to know that it takes more than a Cheer up and pull yourself together to recover,’ I told him. ‘She may need some counselling as well – you both might – but I think the doctor is going to recognise that she needs help now, and that may well mean getting her on a course of medication as soon as possible.’ I thought fleetingly of my mother and her fits of despair; I wondered whether things would have been different if she’d been prescribed antidepressants when she needed them. Marcus nodded and mumbled, ‘I suppose you’re right.’ ‘Marcus,’ I said gently. ‘It’s a difficult time for you both, and it may take a few weeks before things improve; I think it might be an idea if I were to come and stay again, at least for a few days. Duncan’s offered to do the same – he said to just let him know what he can do that’ll be the most helpful. We can both take time off work, so we can sit with Hannah, take Toby out, cook, shop – whatever’s needed.’

  And to my surprise, he looked grateful. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I appreciate that.’

  *

  I was just leaving the house to pop home and pick up some clothes when my phone beeped a text. Need to talk urgently. S. The flash of anger I felt was sudden and intense. How dare he intrude at a time like this? I stabbed out my reply: Can’t talk now. Hannah not well. Will be in touch soon. And I pressed Send. It was true that he had the upper hand, but I felt so angry right now that I wasn’t going to jump the moment he said jump.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Just as Hannah’s GP had said, the medication t
ook ten to fourteen days to kick in, but now it appeared to be making a huge difference and things were starting to get back to normal. I sighed as I reached for my phone; I had to admit, Scott was being fairly patient but I knew I couldn’t put off going to see him for much longer. I’d had two more texts from him, but I’d explained that Hannah was ill and promised to contact him as soon as I could. Hannah slightly better, I typed now. I can come tomorrow. I pressed Send. He rarely went out any more, so I was sure he’d say yes. I was going to tell him that he couldn’t say anything to Hannah, not yet, at least. If I could get him to understand just how ill she’d been and how fragile she still was, surely he’d realise how much telling the truth would hurt her? Thinking about it all stirred up my anger again. Quite apart from the postnatal depression, she only gave birth a couple of months ago, for Christ’s sake. How could he be considering this, just to try and absolve himself of guilt? It was selfish, pure and simple.

  The GP had been supportive and sympathetic, thank goodness. PND was far from uncommon for mums in Hannah’s situation, she said, and the sooner she started treatment, the better. She also referred her for urgent counselling and recommended a couple of support groups. I was impressed – the NHS didn’t always run that smoothly. The only hiccup was that when the GP said she didn’t recommend breastfeeding while taking antidepressants – she made a point of putting it that way round, Marcus told me – Hannah said she wouldn’t take them. She was worried that it was ‘another failure’ on her part; how could she be a proper mother if she couldn’t even feed Toby from her own body, was how she put it. But the GP, a young woman about the same age as Hannah, eventually managed to reassure her. In some cases, she said, bottle feeding was definitely the better choice for mum and baby.

  My colleagues at the Project were very understanding about me taking more time off to look after Hannah, but they were pleased to see me back at work. Duncan, Marcus and I had taken time off on a rota basis to make sure there was someone with Hannah constantly, even if it was just so we could hold the baby while she went to the loo. It was important that she didn’t feel responsible for him for every single second of every day. With this in mind, Marcus had reduced his working hours for the foreseeable future. Marcus had impressed us over the last couple of weeks. We’d always liked him, but he could sometimes be a bit too laid-back and we’d never been quite sure he’d be able to take care of Hannah properly. But he’d really stepped up to the plate this time, and he seemed suddenly much more aware of the magnitude of being a parent, something that Hannah, even though she struggled with it, had appeared to be aware of immediately. What was mildly annoying, I thought as I checked my phone again, was that it seemed that it took a crisis to make men see that you couldn’t just play at being a father. Although that probably wasn’t fair; it wasn’t Marcus who’d made me angry, it was Scott. I felt a fresh surge of bitterness at the way he was behaving. Well, the way he’d been behaving up until now, anyway.

  It was unusual for Scott not to reply immediately, and when his text came through an hour later, it was a bit of a shock. Yes, I could go and see him tomorrow, but he wasn’t at home – he was ‘spending some time’ in a hospice. He gave the address. Hospices were for what they called ‘end-of-life care’, weren’t they? I remembered him saying they’d give him ‘serious drugs’ so there wouldn’t be too much pain at the end. This must mean that the end was near. I felt a bit shaky as I filled the kettle for tea. I wasn’t sure why – it had been clear from the moment I saw him that he wasn’t lying about his illness, but the thought that his death might be imminent. . .

  I poured boiling water into the mug with the milk, but realised I’d forgotten the tea bag. My hands were trembling and my stomach felt sore, as though it was flooded with acid. I was still angry with him for turning up like this after all these years, for meddling and upsetting things; but on the other hand, I couldn’t help but feel ashamed of myself – how could anyone be angry with a dying man? Worse still was the other thought that had begun to creep in, the even more shameful one; when Scott died, it would be over. I wouldn’t have to worry any more. I disgusted myself; I’d almost loved him once, and now I was hoping for his death.

  Later, when Duncan came home, I told him about the text. ‘So, it looks like he might not have long left.’

  Duncan looked down at his lap. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I can’t pretend it wouldn’t be something of a relief.’

  ‘Really? But I thought you thought—’

  ‘I thought you should tell Hannah about him, that’s all – I still think so. But that doesn’t mean I relish the fact that he’s turned up. I don’t want that joker turning our lives upside down any more than you do.’ He took a mouthful of the coffee I’d just poured. ‘But look, this makes it all the more important that we tell Hannah.’

  I spoke carefully, aware that he was likely to find what I was saying unpalatable. ‘Thing is, if he dies soon . . . well, we won’t need to tell her at all, will we?’

  He didn’t look as shocked as I expected, but he flicked his head in irritation. ‘Of course we will. We can’t pretend this never happened, and after all, he is her flesh and blood. She might decide she wants to find out more about him, especially since he finally bothered to come looking for her.’ He said the last bit with disdain.

  ‘I don’t understand how you can be so pissed off with him and yet still want to do the right thing.’

  ‘I keep telling you, I want to do the right thing for Hannah, not for him. No matter how lousy a father he’s been, and however much we wish he’d never turned up, he is her father and he did turn up, and it’s her right to know that. And now, if he’s at death’s door – and I can’t say I’m sorry if he is, to be honest – then it’s all the more reason to tell her. Imagine if she looked him up later and found out he died here in Sheffield? Then if she found out that we knew about it, how’s she going to feel about us not telling her?’

  ‘All right, I see your point. But think about it. She’s not seen him since she was a baby; she’s never shown the slightest interest in him or desire to find out anything about him – or anything more than I’ve already told her, anyway.’ I had a sudden memory of New Year’s Eve, when she asked me if she looked like her father. ‘And anyway, she’s not strong enough to deal with something like this yet.’

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, that is a worry. But she’ll want to know more about her roots at some point, especially now she’s had her own baby. We’ll just have to be careful how we tell her. Perhaps we should speak to Marcus first?’

  ‘No, she’d hate that.’ I sighed. ‘Duncan, she’s been through so much. What with the early menopause, then the IVF. And you know she’s still struggling to come to terms with the fact that they had to use a donor.’

  Duncan nodded. ‘I know. Poor Han.’

  ‘I know the treatment seems to be working, but I still don’t think we should dump this on her, not when she’s in such a fragile state.’

  Duncan loved Hannah; he wouldn’t want to risk making her ill again, I was sure. He was looking at me intently and I could see him turning it over, weighing it up. He folded his arms and looked down at his feet while tapping his thumb rapidly on his upper arm as he thought about it. ‘You’re right,’ he said, looking out into the shadowy garden. ‘I suppose there’s no point in risking setting her back again.’ He sighed deeply then stood up, put his hands in his pockets and walked over to the window. ‘But I’m still uncomfortable about keeping something like this from her.’

  *

  My stomach was doing somersaults as I walked into the hospice. I’d never been inside one before, and I expected it to be like a hospital, only, I don’t know, more so. I thought I’d find Scott in bed, attached to various tubes and wires, drugged up to the eyeballs and clinging to life by a thread. I felt hot and breathless as I followed the nurse. What would I say to him? Would he even be conscious? And if he wasn’t. . . could this actually mean that it was over, that I didn’t have to worry any more?
The nurse led me along a corridor where the walls were painted a cheery yellow and hung with modern framed prints of brightly coloured flowers. ‘I’ll just check for you,’ the nurse said as we came out into a carpeted area with sofas and coffee tables and the nurses’ station in the corner. ‘Visitor for Scott Matthews,’ she said to the nurse behind the desk. ‘Is he still in the smoking room?’

  Apparently he was. She must have noticed the look on my face. ‘Patients and visitors are permitted to smoke in the designated areas. Would you like to join him in the smoking room today, or shall I ask him to move into another day room?’

  ‘No, don’t move him. I don’t smoke any more, but it doesn’t really bother me.’

  ‘Here we are, then.’ I could smell the cigarettes even before she opened the door to a large, light room with armchairs dotted around and a table in the corner where three people were playing cards. There was quite a fug of cigarette smoke hanging in the air and it was only when he turned round that I realised that one of the card players was Scott. He nodded at me, excused himself from the game, then stood, with the help of his stick, and walked slowly to a group of chairs at the other end of the room, gesturing for me to join him.

  ‘You look . . .’ I paused. ‘Not well, exactly, but . . .’

  ‘Not as bad as you expected?’ His voice was weak and he was skeletally thin, but the darkness around his eyes wasn’t quite as bad as it had been the last time I saw him. I nodded.

  ‘Morphine is a truly wonderful thing.’

  ‘But I thought a hospice was—’

  ‘So did I before I was ill. But you can come in for short stays as well. It’s respite care, really – some decent pain relief and a break from having to look after yourself, or for whoever else is looking after you. I’m only in for a couple of weeks while Brenda’s away.’