Beyond Angel Avenue

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  Tears fall. I can’t stop them. It doesn’t matter how much or how little he meant to me, he was still my dad. He died young, too, and from one of those diseases you would wish on nobody. Losing my mind has to be one of my worst fears.

  “Jules?”

  I hide my face in Warrick’s warm neck and groan my anguish, my teeth chattering, my eyes bruising as I try to fight my tears back. The babies cry too and Warrick just stands there, holding us all. He’s just there with me, like he’s always been.

  “I’ll put these down for a rest and then we’ll make some enquiries.”

  I nod feebly. On some kitchen paper, I wipe my nose and eyes as Warrick deposits the babies in their beds upstairs. I hear him running some more water to finally finish his shave and then he returns to the room in jeans and t-shirt. He walks me to the living room and on the sofa, I lie on top of him and cry silently. I do that for an hour, maybe more, before the children wake and Warrick makes some calls.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jules

  It’s five and a half years now since we met and the love I bear him grows more, every day. Even now, I still question why I went abroad for so long. Since I came back, and more importantly since we had the kids, it seems like we were never really apart at all. He’s the other part of me and I’m the other part of him and we’re not even two people now, we’re one being, one soul, one heart.

  I love him so much, I die every day I’m with him because I am so scared I am going to lose him one day. I’m terrified. Some might call me a control freak and if I don’t have order in my life, I struggle to feel at ease. Warrick loves me and because of that, he abides my deficiencies.

  Sometimes, I can’t even cuddle my children for fear I’ll lose them one day. I have troubles still, I’m not going to lie. Warrick tries to help me but he can’t see directly into my head. He can’t see the terror I still deal with everyday – her ghost, following me around – because I refuse to let her go.

  Anyway, I’ve been sat here in the car with all these thoughts as I wait for Warrick. The babies are blissfully ignorant, asleep in their car seats behind me. My dad died on Thursday and it’s now Saturday. I imagine he’s pretty corroded already but Warrick insisted on seeing the body for me. We want to be sure.

  My husband emerges from the funeral director’s place looking casual but I know him, he’s probably just trying to look strong for my sake. He climbs into the car without looking at me.

  He sits in the driving seat of our Ford Focus and holds the wheel tight. He doesn’t start the engine or even address me.

  “Was it him?”

  “Yep.” He stares straight ahead, his eyes looking at nothing.

  “Wh–what did they say?”

  “Funeral a week on Monday. And yes, he was ill. Early-onset Alzheimer’s. He was, I don’t know–”

  I touch his forearm, wondering what’s wrong. I know my husband saw dozens of dead bodies throughout his career in the police. He’s not squeamish, not like me.

  “What is it?”

  “He looked really, very old Jules. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “How, old?” I squint against the low, winter sunshine.

  “Like, way older than his time. He was in his fifties, right?”

  “Yeah, but–”

  “He looked a hundred.”

  “Yeah but he’s fucking dead, Rick.” I sound annoyed, I can’t help it. Why is my husband showing my father mercy? “He’s bound not to look good.”

  Warrick’s jaw sets and he stops himself retaliating, a skill I don’t possess.

  He looks into the back of the car and gestures, “You gonna keep talking like that, even when they’re older? Eh?”

  I grind my teeth together. “Why do you pity him?”

  Warrick turns his dark eyes on mine and glares at me. “He was just a man, Jules.”

  I frown. If Warrick can’t see what I still fight every day, he’s bloody blind.

  I love my husband and my babies, but I am suffering here. Right now, I can’t compartmentalise all the emotions I’m feeling. They’re one, big mess.

  “You should see his body. It won’t be real unless you do.”

  “No,” is my flat, outright response. I repeat, “No.”

  “You’ll just add this to the stack then, yeah? The stack of ghosts you’ve got racked up.”

  Warrick still challenges me, every sodding day.

  Why does he do this to me? Poking and prodding for a reaction. Most others just leave me to my moribund state. If I prodded him as much as he does me, well, he wouldn’t be happy about it (that doesn’t sound right!).

  “Please, just love me,” I say looking away, because I can’t stand it when he’s like this.

  “It’s never enough, is it? I can’t rescue you, I am not the saviour you think I am. I’m just the man who agreed to stand by your side, and by ’eck, I will until the day I die. It’s you who needs to accept they’re dead and move on.”

  I spent three years trying to find myself and all I found was a stubborn woman unwilling to face her demons. I might have kicked out some of my bad habits, like hoarding and being an anal bitch. However, the bitch still lives, somewhere, and comes knocking on our door at times like this.

  “My dad’s dead… he was ill… and he never thought to fucking tell me, the selfish bastard. He never thought to give me the chance to say goodbye.”

  “Maybe he died twisted and bitter because he knew he couldn’t put things right with you.”

  I turn on him, “That’s my fault, now?”

  My face is hot. How dare he?

  Warrick’s eyebrows meet. “All I saw was a bloke and now we’ve had kids, you know, when I look at them, he’s a part of them Jules. That’s how it is.”

  “I can’t listen to this!”

  I get out of the car and slam the door shut. I fold my arms and turn my back on him in the parking lot. The window winds down and Warrick shouts, “Have some time to cool down Jules. I’m taking these home before you start them off.”

  He leaves me, here in my hometown, without a ride home! It’s only about fifteen miles back to our house! The cheek. He squeals out of the gravel car park and leaves me. He actually leaves me!

  What am I going to do?

  My arms are still folded and I can’t move. I can’t help but look at the funeral director’s. I’m not going in. No way. I don’t want his dead image burned in my mind forever and ever. He’s a corpse now. He should have done the decent thing and let me see him one, last time while he was actually still alive. Part of me wants to bloody kill him! And he’s dead!

  I shake my head and drag my hands through my hair.

  Warrick’s my bloody husband now! I can’t just run off on him anymore.

  I start walking and find myself out in the town centre. I pull up at my friend Amy’s shop. It’s still an alternative place and when I look inside, I see her in there. She’s not left.

  I walk inside and stand opposite her. She’s at the desk and when she looks up, she doesn’t recognise me. I’m curvier and I dye my hair lighter, to blend in with all my greys.

  After a few moments staring, she looks into my eyes and exclaims, “JULES!”

  I grin awkwardly. “In the flesh.”

  “Bollocks, it’s you!”

  She dashes to me and throws her arms around me. “I heard.”

  “Yep.” What else is there to say? Really?

  She pulls back with red eyes. “I’m really, really sorry.”

  “Thanks,” I say, though I don’t know what she’s sorry for. I’m not sorry. “It’s okay. I mean, yeah. Whatever.”

  “Oh.”

  She looks awkward and when I look down, I realise she has a bump.

  “When are you due?”

  She rubs her tummy. “August. Feel so fat already.”

  I sniff. “You should have seen how big I got… I have twins, Charlie and Harry.”

  “NO!” she screams, hands over her cheeks, fresh tears emerging. />
  “Yeah. My husband, Warrick… he is the most wonderful man. He’s so wonderful, he actually just dumped me in this town.”

  “What?” she says frowning.

  “Yeah, we went to the funeral home and had a little row and he’s buggered off back home without me!”

  She laughs, wiping tears with her index fingers. “He sounds ace!”

  “Yeah, well,” I say stuffing my hands in my pockets, “he can be an arse but he knows when I need to be alone.”

  She laughs incredulously. “So then, you came to my shop? To be alone!”

  “Hmm. First place I came to. Must be like a magnet, this place of yours.”

  I fold my arms and stare around. I last saw Amy just after I met Warrick but she and I haven’t really talked in more than ten years.

  She shagged my dad.

  Yuck.

  I still love her but something like that isn’t easy to get over.

  “I could shut shop if you want? Trade’s slow today and Julie’s at Mum’s, mister’s at a mate’s. We could go upstairs and have some tea and cake?”

  Our eyes meet and I see she’s desperate for me to say yes, so I say, “Okay then.”

  Amy is the opposite of me. I’m tall and she’s short. At school she was dark-haired, I was mousy. I was a swot and she always forgot to do her homework. I loved sports, she loved smoking behind the bike sheds. I won writing competitions and she won as many remarks for her constant change of hairstyle. We just worked.

  She’s platinum now but my do isn’t so severe, I’ve just got highlights. Even though she’s pregnant, she’s only carrying a tiny bump whereas I ballooned with the twins and I’m still trying to shift some to get back to my normal size. Warrick says he loves me with a bit of meat but I’d like to get back into some of my old clothes or else I’ll forever be wearing jumper dresses.

  She shuts shop and we walk upstairs. Her home is exactly as I imagined – like a bomb’s hit it. Everything is all over the place; toys, blankets, supplies she’s stocking up on for her new baby, you name it. If it’s in her house, you can see it. There’s no such thing as a cupboard here.

  She clears a chair for me and I sit in the kitchenette with her, twiddling my thumbs. I’d love to clear up this place for her. If she asked, I’d get a toothbrush and start scrubbing the whole place, top to bottom. I’ve already done every surface at home twice over.

  “Do you know what you’re having?”

  “Another girl,” she says popping the kettle on. “Old man says he’s happy, but I know he secretly wanted a boy.”

  “Yep. I’m the opposite. Warrick already had a boy from a previous marriage so I was hoping for just one girl but we have three boys.”

  She turns quickly to stare at me. “Jules Simonovich? Is that really you?”

  I chuckle nervously. “What?”

  She coughs. “I just never thought you’d go for something so complicated. I thought you’d marry someone without baggage?”

  That’s just her judging me on what I used to be like – closed off and seeking convenience – so I remind her, “People change.”

  “Where’s his ex-wife then?”

  “Living about a mile and a half from us.”

  I can’t help feeling annoyed that Anna has entered the conversation, even with Amy, who doesn’t know my husband’s ex from Adam.

  “I’m taking it she’s a pain?”

  I shrug but quickly change my tune. “Huh! Yeah! You got that right.”

  She places our teas down and carves two wedges of carrot cake. We’re tucking in when I explain, “Few years ago, I met Warrick on a street corner. Somehow we became friends… it developed, you know. I had no idea what I was letting myself in for. He was divorced with a kid, yeah, I knew that… but then later on, I realised his ex was a frickin’ nut job too! I mean, like a hate-mail sending, poop-posting nut job!”

  “Oh, shit!” she chews through her cake, avidly waiting for more.

  I would explain about the paedophile case but that never reached news – it was too sensitive.

  “He used to be undercover in his police job and in a nutshell, their marriage fucked up because he got too buried in his work. He told me it didn’t work out between them because he didn’t love her enough. So then, oh then,” I tap my finger on the tabletop, my audience enraptured, “he was meant to be in love with me and she came onto him and tried to rape him, even though at the time Warrick wouldn’t admit she’d attacked him… he just said they almost slept together and didn’t explain the rest, like he wanted me to go off and live a good life without him. So then I went abroad travelling for three years, came back, made up with him… and a marriage and two kids later, here I am.”

  “Abroad? I never knew this! Three years!” She sits digesting it all, scratching her chin. “Why, Jules? What the bollocks have you done getting yourself involved in all this shit? Why didn’t you go down to London and get yourself a wanker banker. Done deal.”

  I laugh madly. “Oh… if only it were that simple!”

  She stares straight into my eyes. “What is it about him?”

  I feel tearful and say, “He knows every single thing about me and he still thinks the sun shines out of my arse and I can’t stop loving him. He’s a hero cop. He busted big criminals. He’s just… we were friends and got to know one another, fell so deep we couldn’t help it.” I sip some tea and add, “Plus he used to come over and stay the night just to hold me and there’d be this massive morning glory next to me everyday. Eventually I couldn’t ignore it any longer.”

  She laughs the laugh I’ve missed, snorting like a giddy piglet.

  Eventually she stops laughing and adds, “So, what did you do while you were abroad? Work? Chill? Sell rugs to the Arabs?”

  I shrug. “I worked… chilled… and I danced. I wanted to know how alike her I am.”

  “Jules?” She sounds worried.

  I look up into her eyes. “Yeah?”

  “You’re still not over it?”

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  She holds the table edge and glares, disappointed I still haven’t gotten over this. “You’re nothing like either of them! You’re you. You’re so tender-hearted and you just don’t realise it!”

  “Not you as well,” I complain, wiping a tear. “He’s been like this too, all morning, ever since Dad died in fact. Trying to get me to react and face up to this.”

  She nods like she understands. “I’m liking this fella of yours already. He sounds tough, I mean, you did leave him for three years!”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  We spend several moments thinking before I add, “Would you go see the body, if it were your parent?”

  She shakes her head. “Nope. Not my bag.”

  “Me either.” I’m glad she agrees.

  “So, tell me more about this man of yours then,” she begs, a cheeky glint in her eye.

  I spend the next three hours telling her everything, from his curly hair to the way he makes me laugh, then to the way we fell in love.

  Several hours and two buses later, I arrive home. I walk into the hallway and don’t hear anything but the telly, though I see Terry and his lady friend Wendy sat in the living room. They come round every Saturday and treat Joe to a takeaway and a DVD while the babies sleep and Warrick and I go have dinner on the Avenue.

  “Hi guys, where is he?”

  “Upstairs,” Terry says and stands when he sees me. I walk into the room and rub Joe’s head as he sits in the armchair hidden behind the door. No sooner have I entered, when I’m accosted by Warrick’s dad, who pulls me in for a hug and says, “I was sorry to hear your news.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, and he looks at me like I’m mentally ill.

  “Leave the girl be Tel, everybody deals with it different.”

  I nod at Wendy. She’s not my favourite woman, but tonight she’s becoming more popular by the second.

  I look down at Joe, who looks more like Warrick every day, “What mood’s
he in?”

  “The best,” Joe says, grinning with both thumbs up. That means my husband’s in a stinking, foul state up there. Boy have I got some work to do.

  “I’ll be back,” I tell them all and Terry sits down even though I sense he’s desperate to lay down the law with me about how to deal with grief, given he’s an expert having lost his wife and all.

  Yep, the mega bitch is out.

  I storm upstairs and hear him in the shower so I make a decision. I can avoid this, or face it, and right now I’d like to enjoy the rest of my evening.

  So we need to face this, right now.

  I undress in the bedroom and throw my robe on. After travelling the peasant wagon and sitting in Amy’s pit today, I definitely need freshening up.

  When he hears me enter our private en suite, he turns and glares, still angry with me.

  I can’t help but chuckle to myself.

  He turns away from me but I won’t be shunned that easily. I lock the bathroom door behind me and disrobe, climbing in with him.

  I wrap my arms around him from behind and rest my forehead between his shoulder blades. I rub my hands through his chest hair and squeeze his hard body, holding onto him. He pulls my hands into his and flexes his fingers through mine.

  “Where’ve you been?” His words are curt to say the least.

  “I went to my friend Amy’s shop. We talked.”

  “That, Amy?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s she say?”

  “That I’m a lunatic, more or less.”

  “I like this Amy.”

  “She seems to like the sound of you, too.”

  He laughs and I feel his body shudder beneath my cheek. I can’t help but laugh, too. I kiss his warm flesh and run my hands further, through the strong muscles of his lower abdomen to his pubic hair. I tug and stroke him gently and he comes alive because of me.

  “Jules,” he breathes heavily.

  I run my hands up his arms, holding his biceps, his shoulders. I can’t stop kissing his skin, the scents and textures so familiar, so absorbing. I adore my husband.