The Man I Loved Before: A completely gripping and heart-wrenching page turner

by Anna Mansell

  He shakes his head, gently. ‘You won’t. It’s fine. Just do whatever she needs to be comfortable.’

  As the doctor packs up his stuff, I dance around him, lightly, uncertain what to do with myself or where to go. Mitch is busying himself making things tidy, organising the paperwork from the doctor, generally making sure it’s clear to anyone who might see that he is very much needed in our house.

  But he isn’t. We survived years without him. Without Dad. Just the two of us, it’s all we ever needed. We can do it again. Well… I can.

  Mum sleeps, her breath shallow, her face relaxed. Yesterday she was chatting to Leanne, laughing at Harley, cooing over Elsie. She was in pain, yes, but she was alert. She was aware of what was going off around her and she had opinions. Always an opinion. But now? Now, she lays in her temporary bed, unable to respond when I whisper her name. I hold her hand, her fingers bony, her skin like paper. And it’s as though my body has injected pain relief directly into my heart and soul, something to see I survive however long this lasts; I am numb.

  76

  ‘I’ll come back later, at the end of the day when surgery’s finished, just to see how she is.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mitch hurries through to the front door, opening it for Dr Fairleigh. ‘Thanks so much for your help,’ he says, gravely. ‘We really do appreciate it.’

  We?

  We appreciate it?

  From my bedside vantage point, I watch Dr Fairleigh plod down the drive, medical bag swinging. The house is quiet as Mitch shuts the door and I listen out for Dr Fairleigh’s car door closing, his engine turning on. He pulls away. Mitch comes to stand beside me, hand on my shoulder, looming presence. Mum’s breath is just about audible, there’s something so tiny about her, almost newborn. The bond that knitted us together so tightly for all our years tugs at my gut. She protected me when I entered this world and now it’s my turn to do the same as she leaves it. And for the first time in my grown-up life, I know exactly what I have to do.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ asks Mitch, stroking my hair. ‘Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’

  I let out a shallow laugh. ‘Yeah, that’s just what I need, a pint of vodka to wash down the sadness.’

  ‘I wouldn’t blame you…’

  I look up at him, uncertain if he’s being serious. He places his hand behind my head, pulling me into his chest. ‘I know how hard this is, I know exactly how you’re feeling.’

  ‘Exactly how I’m feeling? How can you know exactly how I’m feeling?’

  He steps back. ‘Because I’ve been here before. I’ve sat at Mum’s bedside, holding her hand.’

  ‘Right.’ I wonder if he even did that. Was he even there when his mum passed? I trust nothing that comes out of his mouth. And whether he was there or not, he won’t be here with me. With Mum. I tuck her hand into her side, loathed to leave her but determined to fix this before it’s too late.

  In the kitchen, I put the kettle on. I mean, I don’t actually want a drink, but what else do you do in situations like this? He’s followed me through. He stands by the fridge, leaning, watching. ‘Why did you send Ben photos of the letter?’ I ask.

  He looks confused. At least, I’m pretty sure he thinks that’s how he looks.

  ‘I saw them, on my phone. It was in my room the other night when I came up and found you with the letter. I probably wouldn’t have realised except that Ben’s girlfriend texted back. She asked me why I’d do such a thing but I didn’t, did I?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why would you?’

  In the very pit of my belly, so deep I could be forgiven for missing it, there’s a sea change. Where fear – mistaken for butterflies – was, there’s strength. Where nerves – mistaken for excitement – were, there’s… resolve. It’s unfamiliar, but it’s stronger than anything else I’ve felt for weeks, months… years.

  ‘It’s not the only thing you’ve lied about though, is it?’

  ‘Jem, you’re tired, you’re upset. Your mum’s there’ – he drops his voice to a whisper – ‘she’s dying, Jem and this is what’s on your mind? I mean, I know grief does strange things but is now really the time to discuss this?’

  ‘No, you’re right. It’s not.’

  ‘There—’

  ‘You should just go.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Where the assumption I couldn’t manage on my own once was, there’s fire. And whilst I wouldn’t go as far as to say determination, there’s definitely det… or determ… and there is no way I am going to watch my mum die with him in this house. Even if that means it’s me and her alone, just like it was the day I was born because Dad was away and Mum couldn’t get hold of him. She hatched. I’ll despatch. If that’s what this is, I’m doing it on my terms, not his. ‘I want you to take your things and leave.’

  ‘Jem, I know this is a difficult time. I really do understand. We can talk about this another time though. You need me.’

  ‘Nope. No I don’t. That’s what you wanted me to believe. And for a while, I did. The phone, the taking over here with Mum, the surprises, that was you making me think I needed you. That was you making me rely on you until I believed I couldn’t rely on myself. Though, I can’t credit you with that achievement. I’ve never thought I could rely on me. You just tapped in to that. But I was wrong.’

  ‘I’m not leaving.’

  Mum takes a heavy breath in and we both stop. She will not die with him here. I watch her through the doorway, my eyes fixed on her chest, waiting to see it move. Which it does. But it’s enough to make me certain in what I feel.

  ‘You’ve got half an hour. If you haven’t gone by then, I’ll be calling the police and telling them about the money you’ve been spending out of Mum’s account. I’ll tell them about your manipulation. Maybe there are a few more things you might like to share with them, whilst we have their attention. I could start, you could finish off, update them on Lisa. If she’s the bad guy here, we can kill two birds with one stone.’

  He bites the inside of his cheek. He looks out of the window, then back to me. He looks to Mum then back to me again. He fidgets. ‘You can’t be here on your own with her. You need someone.’

  ‘Mum and I don’t need anyone but each other. We never have, not since Dad left. And we never will.’ I hiccup, knowing that soon it’ll just be me. ‘Now leave.’

  At Mum’s bedside, I take up her hand again, turning my back on him. I’m pretty certain she gives me the very smallest flicker of a squeeze, which clouds my eyes with devastated tears. And eventually, when I hear the front door click shut, I breathe.

  77

  If I’m honest with myself, I’m a little reluctant to call Deni. Her nonchalance hadn’t exactly ingratiated her to me but I don’t know who else to call. I don’t want to put it on Leanne, though not because I’m being a martyr or anything, I just need to manage this my way. By myself. Gently. Quietly. Like any normal grown-up would. I’ll call Leanne when I’ve got organised, assuming Deni picks up this call. It rings as I stare out the big front window, Mitch’s car is parked up the road with him sitting in it. I wonder how long he’ll stay there ?

  ‘Hello, this is Deni.’

  ‘Deni, it’s Jem Whitfield. Hilltop Road, Dronfield. I’m Val’s daughter.’

  ‘Ah yes, hello. How are you? I’m due to see you later this week, aren’t I?’

  I hear a rustling sound in the background and imagine her furiously flicking through pages in the scrappy diary she wrote our next appointment in. I can see Mitch staring. ‘Yes. You were. Tomorrow, in fact. The thing is, I wondered if you were able to help me at all?’

  ‘I can try. What’s the matter? Is your mum okay?’

  ‘Erm, well… no. Not really. She’s taken a turn. It’s happened quite quickly. She was in pain yesterday, it escalated overnight. The doctor left about an hour ago.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He’s given her some morphine. There’s a team coming later to fit a
driver and give her some more. They’re making her comfortable…’ I say that in the same code I now realise the doctor was using. The same code I remember someone saying they might, back when it became talks of palliative, then end of life care.

  ‘Oh. Oh, love. I’m so sorry. But she was doing so well? She was really getting her strength up.’

  The memory of Mum ordering me around Coles, buying clothes she’ll never wear, picks at my heart. The image of her necking slow roast pork like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted, its juices all around her mouth, it’s clear in my mind, right down to the twinkle in her eye. I pack away the sadness I feel, for now.

  ‘There’s a prescription at the doctor’s for Mum. I don’t want to leave her and the community team aren’t due until later this afternoon. I wondered if there was anyone near that could collect it for us? I didn’t know if you were about doing visits or anything?’

  ‘Actually, I’m due over in Dronfield at lunchtime. I could try and collect it and drop off before then? Now let’s see, what time is it now?’

  ‘It’s just after ten.’

  ‘Okay, can she wait?’

  I glance across to her. ‘She’s okay at the moment, seems comfortable. I just don’t want it to get worse quickly and there not be anything for her here.’

  ‘Well it shouldn’t do, if she’s had a decent enough dose. Let me finish up here then head over to her surgery. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

  ‘Thanks, Deni.’

  I hang up, placing my phone on the side. I clock Mitch parked outside again but Mum stirring pulls me away from the window.

  ‘Mum? Are you okay? Can you hear me?’ Her hand rests on the bed and I slip mine into hers. She definitely squeezes it this time. Her eyes briefly flicker in my direction. She clacks her lips as if her mouth is dry, so I try to sit her up just a little, feeding her a few sips of water until she pushes the cup away.

  ‘Deni’s bringing you some medicine up. And the doctors will be back in a bit, with some more morphine and anti-sickness stuff. You’re Tom Cruise short of a cocktail.’ I smile, then feel my eyes fill before I can stop them. I take a moment, allowing the fear to pass.

  ‘Are you comfortable?’

  Somehow, she manages a shallow nod and though there aren’t any words, it’s the most she’s done since the doctor was here, which is an odd relief. Confused tears spill on to my cheeks, finding a route direct to my top lip. I lick the salt and use my free hand to wipe my face. ‘Any pain?’

  She gives the smallest shake of her head.

  ‘Good. That’s good.’ Pause. ‘That’s the last time you overindulge slow roast pork,’ I say, and she manages the faintest of smiles.

  The house feels big. Overwhelming. The quiet is deafening. The weight of what I know is happening feels crushing. It forces me down, my legs leaden, my neck and shoulders solid. I look around at the dining room with her makeshift bed, wheelchair in the corner. I shift in the wicker chair beside her bed and it creaks like wicker does, which makes Mum raise her eyebrows as if noticing I’m still here.

  ‘Where’s Mitch?’ she says, her voice so small.

  I close my eyes because her eyes are closed too, and I don’t know where to begin. Or how much to say. If these are her last days… or hours… however long she has left, I don’t want them to be consumed with worry for me. But I also know I’ve made the right decision and all she’s ever wanted is for me to believe in me. Besides, the squeeze of her hand when he left tells me she knows.

  ‘He’s gone.’

  Her hand flinches. I study her face. A face like mine in so many ways. The same shaped eyes, the same freckle to the left of our noses. Over the years, we’ve compared photos of me to her at the same age and been blown away by the similarity. We frequently sit the same way. We both pause between mouthfuls when eating, knife and fork on the table, hands clasped together. We both roll our eyes like my nana did. We both fight when we think we’re losing. At least, I used to. As a young teenager. Maybe until I was fifteen, sixteen. I think that’s when the fight started to fade. And it kept on fading. Until now, I’m thirty-eight and until this morning it had gone altogether.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asks.

  It makes me do a laugh cry because how can I possibly be? But I say, ‘Yes… I am.’

  Her eyes flicker, though closed, then slowly, she opens them just slightly, halfway, turning her head slowly to face me. ‘You’re stronger than you think. I’ve always known yet never been sure how to help you see it.’

  ‘I see it now,’ I say, resting my cheek on her pillow, our noses touching like inverted bookends.

  ‘You are your mother’s daughter,’ she whispers.

  ‘Thank God,’ I whisper back.

  78

  ‘Thank you so much.’ I take the prescription from Deni.

  ‘It’s no problem. How you doing? Can I come in for a minute?’

  ‘Of course. Though haven’t you got another appointment to go to?’

  ‘I do. But it can wait.’

  I smile to myself because Mum was right. And now it’s our turn for her to make us the priority, part of me feels bad for being so cross with her before. Except, it’s the tiny part of me that I don’t have to listen to any more. The bit that knows I’m flawed and judgmental and make mistakes, the bit that somehow, from this morning onwards, I know won’t shout so loud.

  ‘There was a guy outside when I arrived, he asked who I was, said he was worried about you.’

  ‘I’d sort of assumed he might have gone by now.’

  ‘He says he’s your partner, you’ve kicked him out? Is there anything I can do to help?’ She’s searching out eye contact. Do they have workshops on managing difficult people in end of life scenarios? Probably. ‘Do you want him here?’

  ‘No. I don’t want him anywhere near me. But I also won’t be giving him the satisfaction of calling anyone so he can make out I’ve gone mad in my grief state or something.’ Deni looks concerned. ‘It’s fine, honestly. He won’t do anything. He’s many things but I don’t think he has that in him.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I think perhaps he’s the kind of person who gets his strength from other people’s weakness and I just cut all his hair off. I do need to make a phone call though, if you wouldn’t mind sitting with Mum for a minute or two?’

  ‘Of course not. Go on, I’ll shout if anything changes. Take your time.’

  * * *

  The lock in the back door sticks, like it always does, and I wonder why I was waiting for him to put oil on it when I could have done it myself before now. When I finally unclick it, I step out into the back garden, pulling my coat around me to protect from the breeze.

  I wander up the overgrown path that I used to skip along as a kid. I sneak round the back of the garage where I used to sit and smoke Lambert & Butler cigarettes because that’s all fourteen-year-old me could find to nick off the old woman I used to cat sit for. I pull out my phone, dialling Leanne’s number.

  ‘It’s me,’ I say when she picks up. ‘Have you got a minute?’

  ‘Of course I have. What’s up?’

  ‘It’s Mum—’

  ‘Oh no…’

  ‘Something’s going on, a bleed or blockage or something.’

  ‘I’ll come over.’

  ‘No, no, it’s okay. I don’t need you to. I’m just letting you know. So you don’t worry if I don’t text for the next day or two.’

  ‘Oh, Jem…’

  ‘I’m okay,’ I insist, looking up to the sky as clouds spin past. ‘I’m okay,’ I say again, because oddly, I think I am. ‘Mitch has gone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This morning. I asked him to leave. I decided I didn’t want him here in this house. Not now. Not ever, actually, but especially not now.’

  ‘Wow… I can’t believe you – actually, of course I can. I can believe you did it.’

  ‘I’ve wasted so many years trying to live and be the person I thought I needed to be and
just when I thought I was putting it all right, I made it worse. And part of me wants to say how stupid am I? How could I have done that? But there’s a part that’s shouting louder.’

  ‘What’s it saying?’

  ‘That I’m okay. That I’ve always been okay. That even when I’ve been a dick, it doesn’t mean I’m not, fundamentally okay.’

  Leanne lets out a whistle. ‘Finally. The penny drops.’

  ‘I know right, took long enough. I mean, I very nearly messed it right up!’

  ‘Well, I didn’t exactly help, did I? Pushing you like that to get on Tinder.’

  ‘You were trying to get me out of myself, you meant well.’

  ‘Yeah, might not bother doing that again.’

  ‘Don’t you dare bail out on me now, I probably need you now more than I ever bloody did. Well… by my side though, not carrying me. I don’t need anyone carrying me any more.’

  ‘Sometimes you might. And that’s okay too.’

  ‘Yeah… sometimes I might. Maybe sooner than I’d like.’

  ‘You know you’re amazing. And you will survive.’

  ‘I don’t want to have to, Leanne,’ I say, letting myself cry properly for the first time all morning. Which may have been a mistake because I sob into the cold air and frighten next door’s cat.

  ‘I can be there in a heartbeat, chuck.’

  I sniff up. Letting out the sadness and rebuilding the strength. ‘No. It’s okay. I’m okay, I promise. Just… belt and brace yourself ready for the fallout.’

  ‘I’ve got casseroles and vodka on standby.’

  ‘Casseroles I’m all over. I think maybe I’ll give the vodka a miss.’

  ‘Who are you? What have you done with my best friend?’

  ‘Ha! She’s here. She was always here. She just couldn’t see it for herself.’

  79

  The funny thing about time is that it can drag. It slows when you want it to speed up. It flies when you want it to slow. It plays tricks. But what I’ve never experienced before, is when it stops. When everyone around you carries on working to it, appearing, disappearing, living and being and doing what needs to be done at a time like this, and yet they do that whilst you sit, suspended. In a film, I’d be the still one, as those about me blur in a frenzy of busy. So I have no sense of time at all when the next day’s dawn begins to chorus and Mum’s breaths are getting shallower. Fewer and further between. I’ve no sense of who I am when tears stream down Mum’s face. I don’t know where I am when she no longer flickers at my voice. When her hand is limp in mine. I’ve no connection with the world at all as she breathes in, then out, then in… and, my hand in hers, holding on whilst letting go, she breathes out. And instinctively, this time, I know, without any question in my heart, that she’s gone.