You, Me and Other People

by Fionnuala Kearney

‘Were you happy?’

  ‘Yes, very … I was probably only three – aren’t most children happy at three? Anyway, that was then. She stopped singing.’ I am only realizing this. I scrabble around in my head trying to remember when. Was I three, six, eight, fifteen? I can’t remember. I look across at Tom. ‘Will this take much longer?’

  ‘That’s up to you, Adam.’

  ‘I think I’ve had enough for today. I’m rather tired.’

  He stands, waits for me to do the same and, with an open arm and hand, leads me to the door. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. Ten o’clock.’

  I nod and pass through into the hallway. The place reminds me of a hunting lodge. Though there are no stuffed animals or trophy heads of stalked deer hanging on the walls, the copious wood panelling and dated tartan décor gives it the feel of somewhere the gentry would have visited during hunting season. For now, it’s a building that houses people on the edge. People who are struggling for whatever reason and, looking around, there seem to be quite a few of us.

  I head outside. My hands, stuffed low in my pockets to keep warm, are trembling slightly. I tell myself it’s the cold. Get a good walk in, then back to my room for a bit. Minutes later, at the end of the gardens just before the copse of pine begins, I find a low-lying wall of uneven stone. I balance myself on it a moment. All around me, the ground is frozen. Tree roots burst forth, rupturing the soil and its icy cap, determined to break through. I stare at them, realize that – now I’m here – my memories will do the same. They will demand to be seen and heard, bursting through whatever fragile wall I’ve built around them. Things I’ve buried for years. Things I’ve never felt the need to acknowledge. Things I’ve kept from the people I love.

  I look back at the building where this will all happen, hear the loud gong that must mean lunch. I think briefly of home, of the home I once had. Beth will soon be moving. She told me yesterday – on only the third day that the house had been on the market – that we’d had an asking-price offer, with a short-term, same-day exchange and completion. I told her to take it and move on with her life. Of course I hadn’t really expected her to agree. Some part of me still believes that Beth will walk in here, past Tom’s panelled office, and declare her undying love for me. She will tell me that, despite my flaws, maybe even because of them, she truly loves me.

  I walk towards the gong, hope that I will sit, have lunch, then go to my room afterwards. I hope that I can ignore the temptation to walk straight through the building to my car waiting on the other side.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  There is so much to do that I feel quite nauseous thinking about it. I’ve asked Josh not to contemplate calling me for a fortnight and anyone who’s around has been roped in to help in some way. The packers are booked for this day next week; before that, I have to clear the house of things that are not coming with me, or going into store for Adam. I have made sets of labels. ‘Rubbish’ will go straight into one of two skips already on the driveway; ‘Adam’ will get boxed up and put into store for him; ‘Donate’ will be boxed for charity and ‘Tawny’ will be moved to my new home.

  Tawny Avenue, though only four streets away, could not be more different to where I live now. It’s a short, narrow street of Victorian semi-detached houses, all originally built as workers’ cottages. When I first saw it, just before Christmas, I fell in love with it, and luckily it’s empty, the owners wanting a quick sale. It has two double bedrooms, a small third, which will be fine as a studio room, plus it’s only one of two (being at one end) of the thirteen cottages that has a garage to one side.

  I’m excited about the move. I’m nervous about the move. I’m terrified, because I’m packing the house and Adam’s not involved. His email told me just to take whatever I want, to put aside enough furniture and things for him in a two-bedroom flat and to do whatever I want with the rest. I hate it. I’d almost prefer him to fight. To argue with me.

  Though visitors are discouraged, I’m going to see him. I need to see he’s strong in this process, because the one thing that I’ve always been able to rely on is his strength. Even when he’s being a prick, I swear he’s a strong one.

  In the midst of all this, I’ve been commissioned by the LA film producers to give them a third song, which I have yet to write. And Karen has thrown a blind date into the mix. Months of research by her on some ‘Date a Friend’ website has resulted in Glenn, her choice for me, and the man I’m meeting blind at eight o’clock. I’ve tried desperately to get out of it, but Karen is on a mission, so I try not to think of it all and head upstairs with my roll of parcel tape and labels.

  I’m in my working space in the loft making up more of the flat brown boxes. Ten of them face me, their bottoms taped, making them as secure as possible. Around me there are stacks of boxes already full. Knowing it has to be done, I head into the storage corner of the loft that I’ve not entered since we moved in. Adam keeps all the Christmas stuff from bygone years in there, but for the Christmas just gone, I rebelled and bought new decorations and tree lights rather than enter the unknown. God only knows what I’m going to find.

  Thankfully, the light works in there. Little more than a crawl space, I get in on my hands and knees, leave the door open for more light, then sit with my back against the inside wall. I shudder at a spider’s web next to me then pull things towards me, make piles, and quickly come to the conclusion that most of it is junk. I save the old Christmas decorations, boxing them up for Adam. I save all of the old photo albums, boxing them for storage in my garage. Someday, we will both have to go through them … I pull an old wicker basket towards me and behind it sits a trunk I don’t recognize. The basket contains more photo albums. Rather than repack them, I seal the basket with lots of gaffer tape, stick a storage label on it and push it through the door back into the loft.

  Pulling the trunk towards me, I’m tempted not to even open it, but just to label it storage. Already, the task of packing this house up is so daunting that I cannot contemplate going out tonight. Karen will kill me. She has both warned and begged me not to bow out. My blind date and my twenty years’ worth of crap to pack – these are the thoughts in my head when I open the lid of the trunk.

  There are packages inside. Presents, lots of them, all wrapped up, some with Christmas paper, some with birthday paper. There’s an old, round cake tin I recognize from years ago. Inside that are lots of what look like greeting cards, all addressed to Noah. My mouth drops open as I realize what this is. I count them out. There are nineteen, almost two for each year of his life. Birthday and Christmas. I pull open the paper on a newer-looking one. Two DVDs – Madagascar 3 and Brave … I’m tempted to rip every gift open, but something stops me.

  Next to the cards in the tin is a bunch of photos, all held together with an elastic band. They’re all taken from a distance. They are in date order. The first says on the back, ‘2007 – Noah on the Heath’. It shows a shot of Kiera sitting on a park bench, a small boy sitting beside her. She is feeding him pieces from a peeled banana. The last, dated almost a year ago, a shot of Noah getting into a car outside an impressive-looking house, would have been taken just before Adam left me. Now I know he was doing a Lord Lichfield on his son as well as having an affair. These things aside, what I can’t get over is how like Adam the child was.

  I’m suddenly cold. I tell myself it’s because sitting in a cupboard in an attic is cold, but it’s more than that. It’s shock. Seeing his face, his smile. It makes him more real; and even I, who would have resented him alive, can’t quite believe that he’s dead. That lovely face, just like Adam’s, his hair, just like Adam’s … And he’s just not here any more. No more gifts, no more photographs, no more memories. I can’t cry any more, so I pack everything back into the trunk, label it ‘Adam’ on the side and sit there until my fingers are numb.

  I should be angry. It’s confirmation of his ‘other life’. Though I believe him when he says he didn’t actually ‘live’ this other life, there must have been a pa
rt of him that wanted to. A part of him that wished he had a parallel universe where Noah and he lived side by side. All those photos. Here in our house, less than twenty feet from where I work every day. He knew I’d never go in there – I haven’t since we moved in. I should be angry. I wonder if the child had lived … Then I stop myself. We were over before I learned about Noah. I cup my hands and blow into them, rub my hands together.

  I’m just about to close it, seal it all up, when I spot another envelope stuck in the lid. It’s been Sellotaped in. It’s different to the others; I can tell straight away that it’s older, and curiosity gets the better of me. I remove it. The envelope is practically falling apart and pulling it from its secure holding hasn’t helped.

  I take a breath, pat my chest, sense immediately what this is. Signed by Adam’s father, this is the actual letter he left for Adam. I read it twice, then twice more; even though it confirms everything Adam recently told me, seeing it scribed in his father’s hand makes it more real, more tragic. A sound escapes me, a baying cry … No words come. Just pure emotion. And then, as if I’m in fear of being watched or discovered, I carefully fold it back in its ageing cover and tape it back into place.

  I push the trunk out into the loft, drag myself out after it and tape everywhere that it’s possible to tape. Heaving myself back against the wall, I’m exhausted. I stare at it, feel the essence of the little boy that was. I pull my phone from my pocket, punch some numbers and speak to my mother. I tell her I love her. I tell her that – because of recent events – I feel her loss of Simon more. I understand how it must have hurt her and how much she still misses him. I talk about Dad and I talk about Adam. She listens, tells me she loves me, then tells me no one should have to lose a child – not even Adam.

  After hanging up, I head to the shower. I need to wash all the dust off me. I need to wash this overwhelming feeling of sorrow down the plughole. No one has come out of this feeling anything other than sad. Kiera, whom I think of sometimes, must be devastated. I know Adam is, Meg too. Though she went to the funeral, she has avoided speaking about it since. For her, it seems to be an episode she’d rather forget. For me, I know discovering the truth sealed the fate of our marriage.

  So I’m sad, and a trunkful of Adam only makes me feel worse. It can’t have been easy for my cheating bastard of a husband to want to see a child and not be able to; to buy him gifts and never give them, and instead to fill a box and hide it in an attic. Nor can it have been easy for him to find, read, dissect and decide how to act on that letter all those years ago.

  In the shower, the tears come. Why could he just not have told me the truth? He did try and explain, but the question just loiters in my mind. When we met, why not just tell me? And Ben, what about Ben and …? I hold my face up to the almost scalding water, wash away the tears. I’m surprised that I am never quite spent and there are always more. I’m also surprised that I have a new understanding of how complex my errant husband is. I am not surprised when the first thing I do after the shower is text Karen to say that I’m sorry but I’m no way near ready for a blind date.

  Chapter Forty

  If there’s a staffroom here, I’m sure that Tom goes in there after our sessions, heaves a sigh of relief and makes himself a stiff drink. I myself am always beat afterwards. Ten days in, ten sessions at an hour each, group therapy in the afternoon; quite frankly I’m bored hearing my own voice. I’m bored talking about me. I’m not interesting enough to fill all those hours, all those pages that Tom has crammed with facts. There are surely more injured people in this place, other people that really need this level of discussion.

  I’ve just explained this to Tom, or tried to, at least. Now I can hear him defend, in his gentle tone, my story, tell me that it is in fact a very interesting one. I’m underselling it, apparently. Young man discovers both his parents dead, realizes his mother first committed suicide and his father followed. Perhaps, Tom wonders, I’ve been harbouring feelings about my mother’s role in their demise.

  I exhale loudly. I really am not going to get out of this place until I say it. I’m not going to be able to leave until Tom has a blockbuster notebook.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’

  He nods. Tell me something new; his eyes speak without flinching.

  ‘I loved my mother, I really did, but I didn’t like her much. She was hard on us and she didn’t treat my dad very well. He did his best.’

  ‘How was that, your dad doing his best?’

  ‘Anything she wanted, she got. He dealt with all of her mood swings.’ I shrug. ‘As well as anyone could have. He worked like a Trojan, tried to encourage her, but it was never enough. She just wasn’t a very happy person …’ I’ve discovered that thinking, talking about my mother makes me want to close up and shrivel, rather than open up like I’m trying to. ‘Do you mind if we talk about something else?’

  He thinks a moment. ‘Tell me, after they died – was there anyone else, anyone to help?’

  I scratch my head. This guy is like a Rottweiler – sinks his teeth in and doesn’t let go. I’m sure we’ve been over this … I glance around the room for any means of escape, guess that those French doors to the grounds are probably locked, so I submit.

  ‘There was a lot of stuff to deal with. The police and the insurance company, just immediately afterwards, but it was clear that we were alone, that I was alone with Ben.’

  ‘No relatives?’

  ‘No. Both my parents were only children. My mother’s parents had died when she was young, I never knew how, and my father’s father had died the previous year. His mother was in a local old people’s home and died the year after him. Then I had to try and finish my degree, get Ben into uni, run two jobs to pay the rent, all the while—’

  ‘Looking out for him.’ Tom supplies the end of my sentence.

  ‘Yes. I did what I had to do, but I wanted to do it too. Ben and I were close, are close. We only had each other back then. Thankfully, I met Beth the following year and things got easier for me. She just made everything better, always has.’

  ‘Yet you betrayed her.’

  Ouch, goddamned ouch. Just call me ‘Judas’ now. I take a deep breath. ‘Yes.’ I have a sudden, awful, anxious feeling that maybe I’ll never get out of here. If I open the Pandora’s box that is my parents; if I dwell on why I did what I did to Beth, it could just mean endless talking and no answers …

  ‘Have we nearly finished? My wife is coming in to see me at eleven.’ I need to get out of this office, just to know that I can.

  Tom is giving me a very strange look and I’m choosing not to analyse it. That’s his job, after all.

  Beth is sipping tea from a proper teacup, which for some reason I find comical.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ she asks. We are sitting in one of the communal living room areas.

  ‘You. And your pinkie finger.’

  She laughs. ‘Well, it’s quite a posh place, isn’t it?’

  ‘Should be fucking posh with what it’s costing.’

  ‘Adam Hall. Language.’ She mocks me in the same tone, using the same words, as I have for years with her. ‘You’ve developed quite the trashy mouth.’

  ‘I’d never before realized the liberating feeling of a good swear.’

  She nods, smiling. ‘On a serious note, how’s it been?’

  I shrug. ‘It’s okay. I sit every morning and talk to Tom about my feelings. Some of the time, I imagine dressing him in more trendy clothes. He really has the most appalling dress sense. He is one big beige vision.’

  ‘You’re re-dressing your therapist?’ She smiles.

  ‘Yes. He needs the help. Then, in the afternoon, there’s group therapy, which I don’t always go to. In between I eat and read.’

  ‘So, what have you learned about yourself?’

  ‘That I’m a selfish bastard, though not quite as selfish as my mother, who chose to take her own life, probably knowing that my father would follow, leaving me and Ben on our own …’
/>   ‘Big stuff.’ She stares at the carpet under her feet, something with a fleur-de-lis pattern and a plush pile. ‘But you’re talking, really talking?’

  I laugh out loud. ‘There’s not a lot else to do in here, Beth.’

  ‘I know but, well … sometimes, it’s easier to hide.’

  ‘No hiding places here – believe me, I’ve looked.’

  She shifts from cheek to cheek in her chair and I can tell she’s not exactly comfortable in my current surroundings. ‘I’m still struggling with why you never told me.’

  My head twitches, left to right. It’s almost a shudder. ‘I couldn’t. I thought about it many times, but once I’d started the lie, it was just easier to keep it up.’

  ‘But why lie in the beginning?’

  ‘You’d have left.’ My voice is louder than I intend, my tone matter-of-fact.

  She’s shaking her head.

  ‘It’s what I believed, Beth. Right or wrong, I thought you’d hear what weird stock I came from and take off … Besides, I was in survival mode.’

  ‘I’d never have judged you OR your parents. And Ben? Don’t you think that—?’

  ‘Please … Not now, Beth.’

  She hesitates, looks as if she’s about to say something, then changes her mind. I’m relieved. Frankly, this is sounding too much like what goes on in Tom’s office.

  ‘Enough about that.’ I clap my hands together lightly. ‘How’s Meg? I’ve been worried about her.’

  ‘She seems better now.’ She hesitates again. ‘Time heals. She’s back amongst her friends now, got to concentrate on her final year. She’ll be okay.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘The movie is being shot at the moment. I was going to go over and see the scene where the song will be used being filmed but, to be honest, with everything that’s happened … And the house move.’

  I don’t argue.

  Beth looks over my shoulder. ‘Don’t look now, but I think that must be your beige therapist heading in our direction?’