by Carrie Elks
What would?
I try to imagine myself staying in this marriage. Waking up with Simon every day. Choosing a life of contentment, of companionship, letting him take care of me the way he takes care of his clients and his daughter. And there’s nothing wrong with that life—it’s one I longed for when I was at my lowest.
But will it make me happy?
“I don’t know.” It feels as if it’s a confession. “I don’t know what will make me happy.”
“Then maybe you’d better find out,” Simon suggests. “I love you, you know that. You’re the best thing that happened to me in years. But I can’t fight for you if I don’t know what I’m fighting against. We can go to all the counsellors in the world, but until you decide what the bloody hell it is you want, we’re just talking into thin air.”
17
When Niall doesn’t turn up to class for the fifth week running, I feel my patience starting to run thin. For the past month I’ve done nothing except analyse what I’m supposed to be feeling, what I’m supposed to be doing, and he just seems to have disappeared. It’s as if he’s set fire to a touch paper and then run away so he doesn’t have to watch the explosion.
More than that, though, I miss him. When I look around the classroom I feel a sense of despondency, even though the kids seem happy enough that Michael is paying them some attention. As nice as the stand-in is, he isn’t Niall, and I’m beginning to realise he’s the one thing missing from my life.
What will make you happy?
I’ve been stuck on that question for over a week. Thinking through Simon’s words every night when I close my eyes, trying to see a way through. And every time my thoughts drift toward Niall, to that kiss, to the way he touched me until my body felt as though it was on fire.
He made me feel alive. Something I’m not sure I’ve felt for a long time.
During my sessions with Louise, we’ve been talking through my choices. She’s pointed out that I never really got over Digby’s death or my role in it. That I was afraid to let myself feel vulnerable again. Maybe choosing to marry Simon was my way of protecting myself from pain, insulating myself from the world, and by wrapping myself in his protection, I’ve managed to numb myself for too long.
Now I’m exposed for the first time in forever. Letting myself feel emotions I’d forgotten about.
Passion. Fear. Vulnerability.
“It will hurt at first,” she tells me. “Like when you pull a scab off a fresh wound. It might sting, it might get infected, but eventually it will heal again.”
“What if I’d rather feel numb?”
“That’s your choice. But if you honestly feel that way, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you just going back to your old life, to your marriage? The fact you’re coming to counselling tells me there’s something you’re not happy with.”
She’s right. She always is. Louise seems to have this ability to make me see myself more clearly. To cut through the bullshit and say it as it is.
I’m still thinking about it when Michael clears away the last of the paint bottles and says goodbye. I remember the other things Louise has suggested, that I should decide what I want, and not rely on everybody else to make decisions for me.
But what will make me happy? Not staying like I am, because at the moment it’s making me feel miserable. When I rule that out, I know that the only option is to change things, to either transform my marriage or walk away.
We’ve tried to mend it. Both of us. For the past five weeks we’ve talked about making things better, but all we’ve done is talk. Neither of us has actually made any difference. Things are still the same as they were.
I don’t want this any longer.
I’m tired of fighting for something I don’t want anymore.
It doesn’t feel as though there’s even a decision to make.
* * *
We’ve been talking for an hour; going in circles, walking the painful perimeter of our marriage. Simon’s sitting in his usual chair, his elbows on his thighs as he leans forward. I’ve noticed that Martin, our counsellor, has gone silent. He says nothing, watching us with interested eyes.
“I’m not happy,” I tell Simon. “Neither of us are. And it feels as though we’ve done everything we can to make this work. What else is there to do?”
He says nothing for a moment. Just stares at me. His face looks drawn, old, and I keenly feel the difference between our ages.
“Christ.” He rubs his face with open palms. “I don’t know. It just feels like you’re giving up too soon. I made you happy before, I know I did.”
I nod, trying not to let my eyes fill with tears. “You did.”
“So let me do it again. Stop fighting me all the time. Stop questioning me. Just let me take care of you the way I want to.”
It doesn’t work like that. He makes me sound as if I’m some sort of pet waiting to be groomed. Not somebody with my own feelings, emotions. My own needs.
“That’s not what I want.”
“What about what I want?”
“I don’t think you want me like this.” My laugh is mirthless. We both know he was looking for companionship and love, not a messed-up wife who is clearly unhappy. I feel a flash of sadness that I can’t be who he wants me to be; beautiful, friendly. A trophy wife.
“So what do we do?”
I take a deep breath, trying to summon some courage. We can dance around this all day—God knows we have been—but eventually one of us is going to have to say it. Even as I open my mouth I hesitate, my heart full, my throat hurting, because as soon as I say the words I know nothing will be the same again.
I still need to say them, though.
“I think we should separate.”
Slowly, he stands up and walks over, kneeling in front of me. Tears spill over my cheeks. He lays his head down in my lap, as if in supplication, and I find myself stroking his thin hair as he breathes into my thighs. We stay there for minutes, his tears soaking my jeans, my own still pouring down my face. Eventually he looks up, his eyes red, his hair mussed from my caresses.
“Stay,” he whispers, taking both of my hands in his. “Stay with me.”
I look for Martin, but he’s left the room. We’re on our own. It feels as though we always have been.
“I can’t.”
“Yes you can. I’ll try harder, we both will. We’ll make this work.” There’s a determined slant to his lips. He’s a winner in life, he always has been. It’s in his nature to fight.
“We’ve tried, Simon, and neither of us is happy. We’ll be better off apart.”
“And how are you going to afford to live without me?” he demands. “Your income from the clinic isn’t going to get you very far.”
“It isn’t about the money.” I know I’m not going to be able to find much. A bedsit at the most, or a grotty room in a shared flat. “Do you really want me to stay with you for your money?”
His laugh is harsh and humourless. “Yes.”
Reaching out, I cup his face with my hands. His skin is cold and damp. “That’s not true. You wouldn’t want me to be a gold digger any more than I’d want you to be my sugar daddy. That’s no way to have a relationship. We got married because we loved each other, because we wanted to be together.” My voice cracks. “Because we worked.”
“We can still work. Give it time, we can find another counsellor. We can go twice a week if we have to. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
“How many times are we going to try?” I ask. “Tell me, when was the last time you felt truly happy?”
He pauses for a moment, enough to wipe his eyes with a crisp, white handkerchief. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t either, and that’s not right. You deserve to be happy, we both do.” I lean forward until our foreheads touch. It’s an intimate gesture but not sensual.
“I know we’ll both be happier in the long run.”
Fifty-two percent. It’s not a fail, but it’s only a cat’s whisker
away. I read the number again, and wonder whether I should be pleased or appalled. Part of me is delighted I passed, despite my worst fears. I won’t have to repeat a year or come back in the summer for retakes. I won’t have to go crawling cap in hand to my parents and ask them to fund a fourth year at university.
But fifty-two percent. Just three marks less and I’d be in a world of trouble. It should be a wakeup call, a reminder of why I’m here. A second chance to make things right.
When I walk into the studio Niall isn’t there. Instead I find Digby leaning over some clay-type monstrosity, his face screwed up with concentration.
“Is Niall around?” I ask.
Digby looks up from the table. “I haven’t seen him for a while.”
“I wonder where he is.”
“I’m not sure.” He stares back down at his clay and starts to mould what looks like an arm. “He said something about getting some supplies.”
I try to hide my disappointment, but he sees it anyway. I’ve been spending a lot of time with Digby since we smoked white widow together at his house. He takes me for coffee and listens to me go on about Niall for hours. Even joins in sometimes.
I’m beginning to suspect he’s got as big a crush on Niall as I have. For some reason it doesn’t make me feel jealous. Having somebody who knows exactly how I feel is reassuring. Like I’m not going totally mad.
“Are you going to the party later?” he asks. There’s a big rave going down at one of the racier halls. DJs and dancing. A whole lot of drugs. I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks.
“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I’m going to enjoy the hedonism while I can. It’s only a week before I have to go home for the summer. Back to Mum and Dad, to overcast Essex. Back to pretending to be a good girl.
I’m dreading it.
“Save me a dance?” He gives me a suitably cute look. I’m going to miss his funny expressions over the summer.
“Of course. I’ll only ever Macarena with you.”
But we don’t dance together that night.
Or ever again.
18
Simon and I talk about moving my things into the spare room. I don’t tell him I’ve tried that once already. This time I follow through. We’ve spoken more in the past few days than we have in months. With the spectre of our dying marriage finally put out of its misery, we’re able to find some middle ground.
It gives me hope we can eventually discover that holy grail of separated couples: friendship. I can’t imagine a life where Simon no longer exists. I hope I don’t have to.
On Monday we part ways amicably. He heads for his office while I take a cab to the grey concrete building which houses the social services department. Daisy waits for me outside, frantically puffing at a stub of a cigarette. Her black skirt is a little too short, and her sweater a bit too tight. I just hope they realise what an effort she’s made to clean herself up and look respectable.
She spots me and throws the butt to the floor, smashing it under the sole of her black boot. I incline my head to the metal ashtray affixed to the wall, and she quickly picks it up and stashes it in there.
“Are you ready?” I ask. We’re due to meet with Grace O’Dell in ten minutes, but it doesn’t hurt to be early. Daisy nods frantically before changing her mind and shaking her head.
“I puked my guts up this morning,” she confides. “What if they never let her come home?”
I put my arm around her and we walk into the building.
We sign in at the desk, and the security guard gives us temporary passes that we loop around our necks. There’s a bank of chairs on one side of the room and he directs us over. Daisy walks up to the cooler that’s letting out a low-level buzz in the corner, her lips quirking up as she pours some water into a paper cup. “I’ve never seen one of these in real life before. It’s cool.”
She drains the cup and pours herself a second before finally coming to sit next to me. Her legs jiggle constantly, her eyes scanning the room in a nervous fashion, and I put my hand on her shoulder to calm her down.
“It’s okay.”
Though she nods her head, the scared expression remains. “I just want her back.”
“I know.”
Daisy gets increasingly nervous as the minutes tick by. Her movements become manic and her questions breathless. When Grace finally walks through the security door, I’m not sure which of us is more relieved.
“I’m sorry I’m late, everything’s gone belly up in the office this morning. My last meeting overran by half an hour.” She gives us a tight smile. “Still, we’re all here now. Would you like to follow me?”
Before we even stand up, Daisy gives me a nervous glance. “Where are we going?”
“Just to a meeting room. A couple of my co-workers are there, and your case notes. Nothing to be alarmed about.”
This reassurance does nothing to calm Daisy. Her nervousness is palpable. I can almost feel it vibrating in the air. I reach for her hand as we walk through the security door, squeezing her cold fingers just to show I’m here,
“Please take a seat.” Grace points at two empty chairs.
The room is small, barely fitting a table and five chairs inside. We squeeze past the two people already at the table—Grace’s co-workers, I assume—and take the two vacant seats on the far side. As soon as she sits down, Daisy starts to rock on the two back legs. The movement makes the rubber feet squeak against the tiled floor. I grab on to the back of her chair to stop it, but then quickly pull my hand away.
She isn’t a kid, so why am I treating her like one?
“Okay, I think we’re ready to start.” Grace shuffles through some papers as she talks. “How are you doing, Daisy?”
“I want my kid back.”
Unflustered, Grace flashes her a smile. “Well, that’s what we’re here to discuss. Perhaps we can start with some introductions?”
We find out the man sitting opposite Daisy is a care worker from the group home where Allegra is staying, and the older woman is a representative from the council. Grace begins by outlining the main issues regarding Allegra’s case, and explains about Daisy’s hospitalisation.
Hearing the specifics from somebody else’s mouth is harrowing. I feel myself choke up as they describe the specific occasions when Allegra’s been neglected, left at home, and generally ignored. If I didn’t know Daisy myself, I’d look at her and come to the conclusion she’s a terrible mother. But she isn’t. When Allegra has her full attention, Daisy can be great. It’s her inconsistency that’s so worrying.
As Grace refers to some reports, Daisy starts to rock on her chair again. She stares out of the window, her eyes glassed over as if she’s not really here. I try to pay extra-close attention, knowing I’ll probably have to explain everything all over again when we leave.
“And you’ve cut off all relations with your former boyfriend?”
I have to nudge Daisy, who does a double take. “What?”
“You’ve cut off any ties with...” The council officer rummages through her notes. “Mr Darren Tebbit?”
“We broke up.”
The woman nods and makes some notes on her pad. I watch as her biro loops and swirls across the page, trying to make out what she’s writing. I catch a few words, but nothing that tells me how the meeting is going.
As Grace details every interaction Allegra has had with social services, anger floods through my veins. There are the situations I know about; the time when Daisy disappeared with Darren for a whole week, the overdose that left her unconscious on the walkway outside their flat. But there’re a million other little incidents I’m unaware of, too. Visits to A&E for a broken finger and lacerations, reports from her school about bruising on Allegra’s arms. All of them occurring during the periods that Darren had been staying with Daisy.
The myriad of indicators stand out so boldly I’m no longer worried Allegra won’t be going back home.
I’m more worried that she will.
> Next, the group home representative gives us a run-down of his findings. He confirms what we already know—that Allegra is a very private little girl. She’s found it extremely difficult to settle there. When he explains the highlight of her week has been our trips out on Saturdays it brings fresh tears to my eyes.
Thank God I never listened to Simon.
When we finally arrive at the conclusion, Daisy is still staring out of the window; it’s as if she’s not really with us. Grace has to say her name three times before her head snaps around.
“We’ve come up with a series of recommendations we feel will best serve your daughter’s safety and security,” Grace explains. “For the next two weekends we are recommending weekend visitation rights. You will be able to pick Allegra up at 5:00 p.m. on a Friday and return her to the home at 4:00 p.m. on a Sunday.”
Finally, Daisy pays attention. “I only get her on weekends?”
“For the first two weeks. Thereafter, if the weekend visitations go well, we will return Allegra into your full custody.”
“I’m getting her back?” A beaming smile breaks across Daisy’s lips. “For real?”
“She’ll remain on the At Risk Register for a period of six months, and then we will have a case review.” Grace starts to outline the multi-agency action plan they’ve developed, which includes close monitoring, home visits and the requirement for Daisy to attend the clinic on a weekly basis. For her part, Daisy just nods, agreeing to everything without really paying attention.
“Did you hear that, Beth?” she asks. “I’m getting my baby back.”
I nod at her, barely able to meet her stare. “I heard.”
Grace starts passing over some papers for Daisy to look at, and though I lean forward I can’t even focus on them. I’m still thinking about the lacerations and the bruises and the broken finger. How did I miss all that? I’ve been seeing Allegra regularly for the last two years, and I never noticed a single scratch.
