It was the same dream she had on a semi-regular basis, where she imagined driving up to the hospital, getting out of the car and taking Chloe by the hand. But before they walked into the building, her little girl looked up at her and said, ‘Can we go home, Mummy?’ Grace then laughed, packed her back into the car and drove her home in time for tea and The Gruffalo.
Strangely, it wasn’t the dream itself that upset Grace; in fact quite the opposite: it was lovely to see Chloe again, to feel her hand in hers. It was waking up to the miserable reality that left her reeling and feeling physically sick.
Grace knew that the nightmare was a manifestation of the one obsessive thought that haunted her above all else. It was real and constant, the thought that had she acted differently, taken another decision, done… something, anything, Chloe might still be with them. She couldn’t bear the idea of apportioning blame and even at her most rock-bottom she knew that this would only make things worse. But it was very hard not to, impossible to fight the questions that dogged her. How had that infection got into her daughter’s body? Had someone given it to her? Was it her bug? Was it her fault? Did you catch sepsis from other people? Why hadn’t Mr Portland kept Chloe in hospital just in case? Was it Tom’s fault for letting her sleep? If he’d made Chloe stay awake, would she still be alive? And perhaps worst of all, there was the knowledge that while Chloe had been fighting sepsis, she and Tom had been drinking red wine and making love under the duvet. The memory made her retch.
Without Chloe, Grace felt a seismic shift in her place in the world. It confused her how something so shattering, so cataclysmic could be forgotten, but it was. At least once an hour and periodically through the night, in a break from grief, she would sit up straight and listen for Chloe, or wander the hallway in search of her and had even placed her hand to her mouth to call for her, wanting a hug and to feel her daughter’s skin against her own. When her mind caught up with the reality that this was futile, so she would hurt anew. She tried to learn the fact that she no longer needed to focus her energy, finances and planning on what would be best for her daughter, pondering her daughter’s future long and short term. There was no longer a future for her daughter. But this information simply would not sink in. It was too horrible to contemplate, the fact that her little life had just ended. Stopped.
It was a time of nothingness. Nothing mattered, nothing made her happy, nothing could soothe her sadness, and when she tried to picture her own future, all she could see was nothing. Grace remembered when she had a never-ending to-do list that churned inside her mind: big things and small things that filled up every second of thinking time, pointless tasks and worries that jolted her from sleep in the early hours. She used to wish it would stop, wanted a clear head. Now she knew that to be preoccupied in this way was a luxury. How she would welcome it. Now there was nothing; she was blank, like a computer that was wiped. Nothing.
When she wasn’t crying, she was raging, furious at everything and everybody. A man from the church had come round one day, knocked on her door, offered his condolences and asked if she’d be interested in a visit from the vicar, or would she like a chat with the grief counsellor at the church. Grace had shivered in abhorrence and looked him squarely in the eye as he glanced past her at the mountain of used coffee cups and the growing pile of dirty laundry swamping the kitchen. ‘So, this visit from your vicar or chat with your counsellor,’ she’d said, ‘will it bring my Chloe back?’
He had smiled uncomfortably, shifting awkwardly on the spot. ‘Well, no, dear.’
‘Well you can piss off then.’ With that she’d closed the door. She doubted he would bother her again, but at least he wouldn’t be leaving disappointed: he now had not only the state of her house to discuss, but also her extreme rudeness, which would quickly be interpreted as the first stage of a total mental breakdown. And maybe he’d be right. Who cared?
She began to question why they’d chosen to have Chloe’s funeral in a church, paying lip-service to the fairy story, inadvertently supporting the myth. It’s all bollocks, she thought furiously. All of it. She found it impossible to recall much of that day, as though her mind had closed off the most painful bits, but she remembered the unnatural quiet in the church, despite all those people crammed in there, shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed. Dignified. Grace snarled. How come there’d been so many people? Nothing else to do on a sunny morning? Were they that desperate for something to talk about? She could imagine the trite, banal comments – ‘heart-breaking, it was’… ‘such a tiny coffin’… ‘didn’t the mother look terrible’ – and it made her sick. What did they know?
She couldn’t even bear to speak to her family, couldn’t listen to their tears and words of remorse, couldn’t cope with seeing her parents so fractured, her mum fighting to keep her emotions in check, her dad broken. She simply couldn’t cope. Her mobile phone was permanently off and the landline went straight to answerphone, collecting the many messages that continued to flood in.
Untangling herself from her sheet and trying to shake the nightmare out of her head, Grace stumbled downstairs and into the kitchen. She would make some tea. The habit of tea-making, the simple, welcome ritual, punctuated the miserable hours of nothingness. It was almost a welcome diversion, to potter to the kitchen, fill the kettle. She would gather her dressing gown around her and pad down the stairs. Time for tea. It gave her a break, something to do and provided a small element of structure to the never-ending island of grief on which she aimlessly floated.
As she approached the kettle, she was suddenly aware of Tom sitting at the kitchen table.
‘Cup of tea?’ Her voice was a cracked whisper, hoarse from too many tears and lack of use.
Tom laughed dryly and held up a bottle of brandy, which he tilted from side to side. He unscrewed the lid and poured a large tumbler. Judging by the slump of his posture, it wasn’t his first. Instinctively, Grace abandoned the kettle and replaced her mug on the shelf before taking a glass from the cupboard. She sat down opposite him, pouring herself a measure to match his. Why the hell not?
‘Can’t sleep?’ His voice too was an unfamiliar growl; his greasy hair fell forward on his brow.
‘Sleep?’ She gave a wry laugh as she rubbed her eyelids. ‘No.’ The sleeping pills knocked them out and were good for erasing the pointless hours, but neither of them felt rested or restored afterwards. That sort of sleep was a distant memory.
Grace took a slug of the brandy and winced, hating the taste. But the warmth that spread down her throat and through her chest was far from unpleasant. She followed the first with another two large gulps; it became surprisingly more pleasant with each swig. Very soon she noticed the familiar thickening of her tongue, the slight haze to her vision and the slackness about her mouth. Alcohol had always been able to have its wicked way with Grace quickly and without too much complaint. Tom used to joke that it made her a cheap date; that didn’t seem quite so funny now.
‘I keep thinking I can hear her…’ He held his wife’s gaze.
She stared right back, knowing that they had to talk about her, but really not wanting to.
He took her silence as a cue to continue. ‘You know how in the night she used to call out “Daddy, I need a drink” or “I can’t find my blanky”, anything just so we would go in and see her.’
Grace smiled and could hear that little voice clearly inside her head.
‘It used to be a real pain in the arse, didn’t it? When we were really tired and warm in bed and didn’t want to get up, and I’d nudge you or you’d jab me, as though it was the other one’s turn.’ He paused. ‘I would give anything, Grace, anything to get up for her now. I swear I wouldn’t need any more sleep ever, if I could just get up and find her in her room all warm and crumpled and sleepy, sitting up, waiting for a hug or a drink, as if this whole thing was just some horrible nightmare.’
Grace nodded. It was the same for her.
‘Occasionally I get distracted, confused, and I think, God, I can’t wa
it for this to be over and we can all get back to normal. I can’t wait to see Chloe and we can put all this behind us. But then it’s like a fog lifts and I realise that we are never going to get back to normal, I am not going to see her, and this is real…’ He buried his face in his hands.
She reached forward across the table and put her hand on his arm. ‘It’ll all be okay.’ She muttered, flatly, drawing on the words that rolled around inside her head, words that others offered, words that felt hollow.
‘How, Grace? How is this going to work? I can’t sleep and actually I don’t want to sleep because I can’t cope with the nightmares and yet I don’t want to be awake, so what am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed to be? How am I supposed to be? I keep thinking that tomorrow might be better, but then I realise days have passed and nothing’s changed. I keep thinking about seriously trying to join her.’
He looked up, waiting for his wife’s reaction, for her reassuring response that that would be foolish, futile, that he shouldn’t be so stupid. For her to beg him not to leave her alone because she needed him. But she gave none and said nothing.
‘But I don’t want to leave you.’ Tom drummed his fingers on the tabletop and took a slug of his drink. ‘I have to believe that this will get better. I have to.’
Grace shivered, unable to take responsibility for his well-being.
Tom didn’t seem to notice. ‘You’re so remote and closed in and I can’t make anything right. I feel like I’m in a really dark place and I don’t know how I’m going to climb out. I don’t know if I can climb out. I’m so scared. So, so scared. I feel like I need some help. I need your help, Grace. You’re the only person that knows what this feels like. Please…’
She didn’t know how to begin either, and the brandy did nothing to aid her lucidity or sympathy. She tried to think of what to say. Exhausted by the exertion, she said, ‘Why don’t you go and stay with your parents for a bit?’
Tom laughed, a slow, derisory, wheezing chuckle. ‘My parents? Is that the best you can do? That’s priceless. You are kidding, right?’ He slapped the table. ‘I’ve spent my whole life trying to avoid my parents and you think when I am at my lowest, when I need support, I should go and stay with them? Jesus, Grace, you just don’t get it, do you? I have worked hard to build a family that is nothing like the one I grew up in, and I had it all, I bloody had it all!’ He drew breath. ‘Did I tell you that they called a couple of days ago and my mother said firstly how much she had enjoyed the funeral! I kid you not. She said “enjoyed” – that was her word. She was talking about the canapés and some other complete bollocks, like she was talking about a birthday party. I couldn’t bear to listen and then she suggested that I meet up with Jack in London and go out for a jolly good dinner, by which she means get totally pissed and come back smiling with a stiff upper lip. I was just waiting for her to add “worse things happen at sea!” So thanks, but no, I don’t want to go and stay with my parents for a bit, even if it would make you feel more comfortable if I wasn’t here.’ He let the suggestion trail, hoping that she would deny it. ‘I’m afraid it’s just tough shit, Grace, because whether you like it or not, I live here too!’ He downed his drink and reached for the bottle.
‘That’s not what I’m saying. God, Tom, this isn’t all about you. I don’t want to see anyone – you or anyone else. I am constantly thinking of all the things I could have done or should have done and maybe she would still be here!’ She held his gaze and continued. ‘Did I give her that bug? Is it because of me? I’m worried we pushed for her to have the procedure. I should never have taken her to the consultant. I should have just kept my gob shut and kept giving her Calpol and sitting with her through the night when she had a sore throat.’ Her voice wavered.
‘Yeah, I think that too. Why did you insist on it? Why didn’t you listen to my concerns and not be so bloody pushy? Why did you do that stuff, Grace? It’s typical of you to make a decision and not rest until you’ve driven it through without stopping to think about whether it’s for the best or not. But it’s all a bit too late now, isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean, Tom?’ Her voice rose an octave in indignation. ‘We agreed it was the right thing to do – no more antibiotics, no more earache. We discussed it! Are you saying that it was my fault?’ She didn’t want to hear his response.
‘I’m not saying that, but where the fuck have you been for the last three years?’
‘What?’ Her voice was thin, squeaky. She sat up straight, as though this might aid her understanding.
‘Oh, come on, don’t look so shocked. I mean, since Chloe was born it’s all been about you and your bloody career. How’s Grace doing at work? Is she okay? Is she tired? How can we make Grace happy? Let’s all be quiet and let Grace have a nap. Let’s make her pasta, cups of tea, iron her shirts. Gracie the great provider! And as for another baby, forget it! Forget what I wanted or what was best for Chloe, it’s all about Grace, the wonderful, warm, maternal creature that she is – but she only wanted the one, what the fuck is that all about?’
‘What are you bringing that up for? What does that have to do with anything, Tom?’ she squeaked.
‘Because in my head it’s all connected, that’s why. Everything you didn’t do and everything you did. Why did you insist on her having it done? Why did you? What was wrong with her having the odd sore throat?’ He was crying now, crying hard.
‘That is so, so unfair, Tom! I didn’t insist, and it wasn’t the odd sore throat, it was every week. I thought she would suffer less and you agreed! We discussed it! You have no idea what I’ve been going through. You think you’re the only one suffering, but you’re not! I tried to keep her safe, but I couldn’t be with her twenty-four hours a day even if I wanted to; no one cou—’
He cut her short and was shouting now, shouting loudly, almost enjoying the release. ‘No, not no one, Grace, just not you. You were never with her twenty-four hours a day, that was my job. I was there for her while you were off having it all, the highflying career, the lunches with Jayney, the drinks in the city. Like anyone gives a shit about fucking pretty pictures that sell things – what you do isn’t valuable! What I did was important. It was me that looked after her, every day of her life! It was me she cried for, me that did everything for her.’ He thumped his chest. ‘Every day, Grace, that was what I did: I looked after Chloe. I was Chloe’s daddy. You just weren’t here for her ever.’
Grace felt as if she had been physically attacked. Each word was like a punch to her gut. ‘That is not true, Tom! I always wanted to be home with her, it was me that had to jump up to the alarm at five in the morning, me that had to slog it out on that shitty commute. Every day I worked myself to the point of exhaustion. And all I wanted to do was stay home and be her mum. You have no idea how many nights I cried because I wanted to be home with her—’
‘Oh, poor Grace, my heart is bleeding for you! I saw the way you used to shrug her off if she came near you with dirty fingers and you were wearing one of your expensive suits. You weren’t a proper mum, you were a fucking sham, a part-time mum just playing at it when it suited you, with that bloody phone never far from your hand, constantly working, checking in. You’ve been preoccupied since she was born, so don’t give me that crying-at-night bullshit, because you never offered to stay at home, you couldn’t wait to leave the confines of this house, you would never have stayed at home with her – you never did! Not Gracie – she needs to be the big career woman!’
Gracie stood from the table, scraping the chair against the floor, knowing she had to put some space between them. With trembling legs she staggered from the room, a whirling tornado of anguish, anger and hurt, stumbling up the stairs two at a time, bumping blindly into the walls. Her heart hammered inside her chest. Bitter words filled her mouth that she didn’t want to swallow, knowing that if she did the taste would never leave her. She turned on the stairs and raced back into the kitchen. It was her turn to shout.
‘Yes, you are right about tha
t, Tom, I did need to be the career woman. Not through any conscious choice, but because you are totally fucking useless. Another baby? Who are you kidding! How would you have coped? You had so much help with Chloe, how would you have managed with a baby as well? Oh, imagine the luxury of being married to someone who would let me stay at home for a bit and look after my child. Imagine that, a man who could actually support his kids! We wouldn’t have lasted five minutes if it had been up to you to provide for the family, or would you have just called Mummy and Daddy and got a hand-out like you’ve always done? God knows, you wouldn’t risk pursuing a career, in case, God forbid, you might actually fail! Christ, Tom, you’ve spent your whole life running away! Running away from your shitty, crazy, fucking whacko parents, and from work and responsibility. Rather than deal with anything, you can just have a laugh with the boys, meet Paz for a coffee and hide somewhere; you’re like some spineless creature, concealed away from the big bad world. You are nothing and you have achieved nothing – you’re a joke. How proud Chloe would have been to have the only dad in school that could bake a cake from scratch! You really are pathetic!’
Tom let out a loud guttural shriek as he jumped up and charged at her. Taking her chin into his palm, he drew back his other arm, his fingers balled into a fist. Grace closed her eyes and waited, almost wanting to feel the force against her face. They stood for seconds, locked in the grotesque pose as their breathing slowed, both trying to process the accusations and damaging slurs that had been hurled.
Tom slowly lowered his hands and wrapped them around his torso. With his head bowed, he cried. Grace matched him tear for tear, gulping and swallowing her distress as she skulked from the kitchen like a wretched thing, wanting to retreat to the space under the duvet where she could be alone. Both were experiencing a new level of shock. They had gone too far and they knew it.
Three-And-A-Half Heartbeats Page 9
