The Man I Thought You Were

by Leah Mercer

  ‘All right.’ My father stares down at me, but I don’t meet his eyes. ‘Well, I’ll be back to check on you tomorrow. Call if you need anything. Do you have your phone with you?’

  The phone. Oh God, Margo’s phone. I close my eyes as the memories scurry through my brain: leaving the shop with the carrier bag in my hand, then the blackness swamping me. Where is that bag now? I sweep my eyes around the tiny confines of the bay, but there’s nothing.

  ‘Have you seen a carrier bag anywhere?’ I ask, my heart beating fast. I can’t have lost that phone. I can’t. It was my very last link to Margo, to the people in her life – to someone who might know where Grace is.

  My father’s brow furrows. ‘A carrier bag? No, I haven’t seen anything.’

  My heart plummets. Shit. Without the phone, I have nothing. I strain to recall the names in her contact list, my eyes widening when I remember seeing my father’s number.

  ‘Dad.’ My gaze locks on to his. ‘Margo had your number on her phone. Did you . . . were you two in touch before she died?’ I know it’s highly unlikely, but I might as well ask. I’ve got nothing else to go on.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, and surprise judders through me. ‘We were.’ An expression I can’t decipher crosses his face, and then he clears his throat. ‘She wanted me to help her with the baby.’

  My jaw drops and I cast about for something to say, but nothing emerges. My mind races as I try to process his words. He knew Margo had a baby? Why didn’t he say anything to me? And did he help – or did he deny Margo that, too? Is that why she overdosed?

  ‘I spoke with her that last night – the night before she died,’ he continues. ‘She rang me up and told me everything: about the baby and how the child had been taken away.’ He pauses, swallowing hard. ‘And she asked me to help . . . not to get her baby back, but to make sure Grace ended up with a good family – a family that would love her and take care of her the way she couldn’t. She didn’t want me to tell you she’d called – she didn’t want you to feel guilty that you couldn’t help. Of course, I said I’d do whatever she needed me to. I’d no idea she was planning to take her own life. I thought it was a good thing she was looking to the future – I thought she was starting to reclaim her life again. And I was so pleased that I could finally help.’

  I stare at my father, the resentment inside me shifting slightly as his words sink in. So he did help . . . finally. At least in the very end he didn’t turn Margo away. It might not make up for abandoning us, but it’s something.

  ‘I was stunned she’d gone through all of that – that you’d gone through all of that with her. Her pregnancy, the relapse, social services . . . Christ.’ My father shakes his head. ‘Stunned – and so sorry I wasn’t there. I told her that, too, but she said it didn’t matter. That she had “the best brother ever”, and that you’d done everything you could, and more. She loved you so much.’

  I blink, my eyes stinging with unshed tears as a tiny bit of relief works its way through the cloak of self-loathing I’ve worn since her death. Because even though I let my sister down – even though I couldn’t help with Grace – somehow she still believed in me. She still saw me as her big brother, not the useless failure I’d thought I was.

  ‘Do you know where Grace is?’ I can barely bring myself to say the words.

  My father nods. ‘I do.’

  ‘Where?’ The word bursts out of me, my heart beating fast. I’m more awake and alert than I’ve been in days.

  He smiles. ‘I adopted her, Mark. Grace is at home.’

  My mouth opens and closes as I try to grasp on to his words. My father adopted her? Grace has been living with him all this time?

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’ I ask him when I’m finally able to speak.

  ‘I tried,’ he replies, then he sighs. ‘That time . . . that time after Margo died . . . well, it wasn’t easy, was it?’ I shake my head, both of us knowing that’s an understatement. I can barely even remember the days afterwards.

  ‘In the first few days, I rang up and got in touch with the council – Margo had given me the name and number of her social worker. I hadn’t thought of taking the baby myself. Jude and I had only just married and I wasn’t sure I could thrust a new baby on her. I was just going to make sure, if I could, that the couple who adopted the child were people I would have chosen. The social worker showed me a few profiles, and they seemed . . . okay. I’m sure the council vetted everyone, but something about letting this baby go to strangers didn’t sit well with me. Maybe the social worker saw that – I don’t know. But she asked me if I’d ever thought about adopting the baby.’ He shifts in the chair, the plastic creaking beneath him.

  ‘I went home, my mind spinning. I’d already raised two children – and made so many mistakes.’ He grimaces. ‘I wasn’t sure I was ready to take on another responsibility like that, to pour all my love, emotion, everything into raising another child.’

  ‘So what made you change your mind?’ I ask.

  ‘Jude did.’ My father smiles. ‘When I explained what was happening and that I just wasn’t sure I was ready to throw myself into parenthood again – that I wasn’t sure I’d ever recover from the mistakes I’d made the first time around – she told me that no matter what happened in the past, trying to shield yourself from any future hurt and pain by cutting off love is just damaging to yourself . . . and those around you. So you might as well take that risk, because life will happen, whether you want it to or not.’

  He’s silent for a minute, and his words expand to fill the room before settling on my chest, pressing down on the very heart of me. Is that what I’ve done? Have I cut off Anna to save myself the pain of having to watch her suffer as I fade away? I shake my head, remembering yet again the woman sobbing in the bay next to me. No, whatever I’ve done, I’ve done it for her. When she reads my letter she’ll understand that.

  ‘And so I told the social worker I’d adopt Grace,’ my father continues. ‘It took a while for all the checks and the paperwork to go through, but finally she was mine. I tried to tell you – I don’t know how many times I called, how many emails I sent – but you’d made it clear you wanted to move on.’

  I nod, regret seeping through me. I did want to move on. I tried so desperately hard that I didn’t even tell my wife, the person closest to me. Fleetingly I wonder what Anna would have said if I had told her? Would she have been horrified at how I’d failed my sister? Or would she have come to Margo’s grave with me, holding my hand and maybe helping me heal?

  But Jude is right: if I’d only talked to my father – if I’d only let a tiny slice of my past in – I wouldn’t have missed out on all these years of Grace growing up. I wouldn’t have tried so hard, maybe, to block out that terrible time. I would have known that even if I’d failed my sister, her daughter was safe . . . and that Margo still believed in me.

  And maybe . . . maybe I could have forgiven my father. Because even if he was too late to step in and save Margo, he stepped in to save Grace. A huge chunk of the bitterness I’d been holding on to ever since Margo showed up at my door falls away.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you. I . . . I couldn’t.’ How do I explain that rekindling our connection would have felt like betraying my sister? Not to mention my anger at how he left me to deal with her illness all alone.

  But my father nods as if he understands. ‘I’m sorry, too. If I could go back, I’d do things so differently. But you can’t, can you? You can only affect what’s happening now.’ He gazes down at me, his face softer than I’ve ever seen it. ‘I’ve lost one child already – and I lost you for way too long. Now that I’ve found you . . .’ His eyes fill with tears, and he looks away and coughs. ‘I can understand if you don’t want to come stay with us when you get out of hospital,’ he says, turning back again. ‘But come and visit, all right? Meet everyone. Meet Grace.’

  I nod slowly, thoughts flying through my head. Our family made mistakes – tragic
ones with tragic consequences. But time and life, like Jude said, has eroded and reshaped it into something else – something that saved Grace. I don’t know how long I have left, but maybe I can become a part of the fabric of this new family while I’m still able.

  ‘Actually . . . if the offer is still open, I’d love to stay,’ I say. ‘On one condition.’ I swallow. ‘I don’t want to talk about Anna. I can’t.’ That chapter of my life is closed and it needs to stay that way. One way or another I’ve damaged her enough.

  My father sighs and shakes his head, but he doesn’t argue. ‘All right,’ he says simply, grasping my arm. And this time I don’t want to move away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Anna

  In the days that follow, I make a start at re-entering the world . . . a world without my husband. I visit the doctor, who tells me all is fine with the baby – there’s been no more bleeding, thank goodness – but that I should avoid any stress wherever possible. I go back to the university, happy to have something to anchor me and structure my days, despite the endless piles of marking. And I move into Sophie’s spare bedroom again, throwing myself into their family in an attempt to fill the gap left by Asher.

  I can’t, of course, and these weeks before Christmas are the worst time possible to highlight someone’s absence. No matter how cheerful Sophie pretends to be, I can see that she’s hurting. From the pinched look in her eyes as we put up the Christmas decorations together to the creak of the floorboards I hear at 2 a.m., I know it’s not easy. I’m beyond happy to be out of the flat I shared with Mark – away from the memories of all our Christmases there. I haven’t been back since the night I smashed things up, but Sophie went over to tidy things and pack away our favourite possessions. One day, when I’m ready, I’ll fill our place – my place – with my own treasures.

  ‘I wish I didn’t still care,’ Sophie says to me one night, gulping her drink. ‘I was the one who told him to leave, after all. Granted, I didn’t know about his affair, but . . .’

  ‘I know,’ I say, plopping down into what is now my seat at the kitchen table. ‘But you were together for years. You can’t just forget all that.’ As soon as the words leave my mouth though, I begin to doubt them. Can you forget all that? Mark seems to have done so . . . if those years ever meant anything to him in the first place. Sometimes I wonder if I simply imagined our happy times together, my blinkers firmly in place. How could I not see the man who lay beneath the loving exterior? How could I just carry on so happy and secure in something that didn’t exist?

  I sip my sparkling water and remember one Christmas when I’d really wanted to go to Lapland. I’d stacked up the brochures, researched hotels and bought the tour books. But Mark, well . . . he hadn’t wanted to spend the money, and of course I didn’t push. On Christmas morning I’d padded out from the bedroom, rubbing my eyes. It was still dark and it felt like the middle of the night. Then I wondered if I was dreaming – candles glowed on every surface and the whole place was covered in white . . . creating a winter wonderland within our very own flat.

  I’d laughed as I spun around the room, landing in Mark’s arms with a giggle. He couldn’t give me Lapland, he’d said, but wasn’t this much better? And even though his creation was glorious – despite the fact that we were picking ‘snow’ off the floor for the next six months – actually, I would have preferred Lapland. At the time, though, I’d shoved down that thought, grinning as he hugged me tightly.

  Looking back, the glow of that memory feels like it’s laced with black. I loved our warm, cosy Christmases; I loved us . . . or, at least, the ‘us’ I thought we were. But now that he’s gone I can finally let myself see that there were things about my husband I was happy to let lie, being too scared to delve into whatever darkness might have lain dormant there. All those times he disappeared into himself, shutting off me and the world. The way we always stayed in, whether just for dinner or to avoid a bigger trip, like to Lapland. How I never drove, how over the top his protectiveness of me was and how he never wanted to talk about anything that upset me – or him.

  I always told myself I never minded any of it, but I wonder now what would have happened if I had tried to push Mark – push us – from our comfort zone. Would he have cracked, showing the terrible side I’d glimpsed since he left? Or could we have adjusted? Did we only last so long in such harmony because we were both unwilling to face any negativity?

  I guess we’ll never know.

  Sadness pushes down on me and I shove away these thoughts, telling myself to focus on the future. This time next year I’ll have a five-month-old baby by my side cooing and trying to reach its chubby fists up to grab the tinsel. My life will be changed beyond imagining, although Sophie is doing her best to tell me way more than I wanted to know.

  That child will be my world, and everything else – all the horror and pain of the past few months – will fade away . . . along with those ten years Mark and I spent together, I guess.

  Maybe love is easier to forget when it never really existed in the first place.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Mark

  After all this time I’ve found Grace – the baby I abandoned, the baby who haunted my thoughts for years. I held off seeing her while I was in hospital, not wanting our first conversation to take place amidst the chaos here. But finally, after completing my second round of chemo, the doctors released me, sending me home with strict instructions to rest. And I can rest now just knowing that my niece is all right . . . that she’s lived these past thirteen years in such a loving family (surrounded by brothers and a sister I still can’t believe exist!). I’ll never forgive myself for what happened with Margo, but at least Grace is okay. No matter how much time I have left – whether it’s two months or ten, it won’t be clear until I have that scan – I’ll know that much.

  After paying my bill and retrieving my things from the B & B (thank goodness my stuff was still there; I probably have the cleaner to thank for neatly packing them and storing them away) my father and I began the journey to his home in Berkhamsted. I was so full of nerves I could barely speak. Dad told me Grace knew only that her mother had been ill and had died of disease, but I feared that somehow she’d see that I’d failed Margo – that I’d ignored her cries to be reunited with her child. Despite the cold of the day I was a sweaty mess by the time the car pulled up to a large house that sparkled with white Christmas lights.

  ‘Welcome to the jungle,’ my father said, nodding towards the children whose noses were rammed up against the glass. ‘I have to run this gauntlet every time I come back from somewhere.’ He shook his head, but even in the dim light I could see his eyes shining.

  We climbed from the car, leaving the boxes in the boot, then walked slowly up the driveway towards the house. Despite it looming over us, something about the structure made it seem welcoming and cosy – a true home. My heart lurched as I thought of my place with Anna and all the things I’d left behind.

  My dad opened the door and instantly a wall of children knocked him sideways, wrapping their limbs around him. I stood back silently, keeping an eye out for Grace. It was so strange to see my father with a family – with a young family. For years I’d pictured him living the privileged life of a wealthy, retired doctor, complete with a trophy wife. It’s hard to reconcile that image with this man who tied himself down with even more responsibility . . . especially after I was so sure he’d dodged the burden of caring for Margo.

  ‘This is Mark,’ my father said, after he’d managed to extricate himself from the hurricane of hugs. ‘Come and say hello.’

  Instantly the children morphed from wild to shy, clinging to his legs.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, squatting down until I was eye level with them. ‘Is it okay if I stay here for a bit?’

  They all nodded, eyes wide.

  ‘This is Peter.’ My father put a hand on the tallest one’s sandy head. ‘He’s ten. And then Oliver, who’s seven. And finally, this is Isla. She’s three.’ He
raised his eyebrows. ‘Not exactly planned,’ he says in a low voice. ‘But then, what in life is?’ He glanced around him. ‘Where’s Grace?’ he asked. ‘Peter, have you seen Grace?’

  ‘I’m here,’ came a voice from behind us, and we all swung around. Standing in front of me was a teen who was almost the spitting image of her mother at that age: same ginger hair, same freckled skin. It was like Margo’s ghost had joined us, and a shiver went up my spine.

  I stood there, frozen, as my mind transported me backwards in time: Margo running beside me, a cheeky grin on her face as she chatted away. The moment she really did beat me on a training run and I had to feign an injury to stop the endless teasing. Her glowing face when she crossed the finish line in first place during a school cross-country meet, then ran straight to me and gave me a huge, sweaty hug. Suddenly, a swathe of happy memories washed over me, as if by finally meeting Grace I’d lifted the veil of darkness that had blocked me from seeing them.

  ‘Hi.’ I tried to smile, but my muscles wouldn’t obey. ‘I’m Mark.’

  ‘I know.’ Grace grinned, and this time I did smile back. Her smile was like Margo’s, too, the same wonky grin that her mother hated. But while Margo was all sparky energy – at least before the disease had her in its grip – I could already tell that there was something much calmer about her daughter. My niece.

  When Grace narrated the family photos for me later that evening, I flinched as she cheerily pointed to a framed picture of Margo, readying myself for tears, blame, something. Instead Grace just moved on to tell me about the surrounding snapshots of her with her brothers and sister. I watched her happy face and felt something shift inside. Losing her mother wasn’t a tragedy for her – she was too young to even remember her. And while I will always feel guilty that I didn’t do more to help her return to Margo, Grace has a wonderful life – a life I’m grateful to be a part of.