You Let Him In Page 13

  It’s all their fault – but I blame him more.

  I hit rock bottom in ways I couldn’t have imagined. There were days when I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed and all because more than anything else I blamed myself. I learnt from my wife’s betrayal that loving someone is a dangerous game. Love is fragile and meaningful but can shatter into disappointment in the hands of someone else. I don’t ever want to put myself through that again.

  The doctors want to be supportive. I am dealing with my demons, which are now under my control. If I had kept my wife under control at the beginning of our marriage, then perhaps it wouldn’t have come to this. She might never have left me. Maybe my demons wouldn’t have appeared?

  During today’s appointment with the therapist, we discussed how I felt watching Michael Clifton die. The therapist didn’t want me to focus on the gruesome details of Michaels’s body ruined under the wheels of the car, but how I felt about being there in that traumatic moment of his death – that one final moment where life evaporated. He knew it made me think of my own mortality and how delicate our lives are in this existence.

  ‘Everything just stopped,’ I explained. I had already gone through this with the police. ‘It was like he was frozen in time. Everything from his facial expression to his body had stopped. I no longer heard his choking sounds or the breathing noises and his hand felt limp and lifeless.’

  I will never forget being there that night and although I am unsure if Michael could see my face with the damage done to his eyes I know he could hear me. I felt the way his hand twitched when he listened to my voice. I was there at the end of his life and I realise in some strange way that Jenny is comforted by this fact. In the same way that she needs to hear every minute detail of Michaels last seconds. I feel drawn to her.

  I’m confident that Jenny will call me soon. I know that she can’t stop thinking about Michael’s death, which is causing her some considerable pain – naturally – and nightmares too. I was the only one who was at the scene and who can reconstruct for her in my own words the vivid detail of the events. She needs to hear what happened over and over. I know because of this she will eventually call me.

  Without realising it, Jenny is going through the self-torture method with her grief. I recognise it from when my wife left me. Although the circumstances are different, Jenny and I share a similar loss. We both have a pain, a void in our lives that we should blame someone else for. Jenny will unlikely ever move on from her tragedy and nor will I. I want to be there for her, a supportive friend. She needs me.

  I look at the list of prescribed drugs for my condition. I have to set reminders to take them because this is still all new to me. I feel so alone. I have thought about opening up to Jenny but we’ve only just met. It’s too soon to bombard her with my troubles. She’s only just lost her husband and is still yet to arrange his funeral. I have to sit and wait patiently – but confident the right time will come soon.

  My mobile phone vibrates in my trouser pocket while I wait for the surgery dispensary to announce that my prescription of drugs is ready for collection. I take a quick glance at the notification. I’m unfamiliar with the number but I know who it is by the message. Finally, she’s made a move.

  Thank you for the flowers, they are beautiful. Sorry if I have been offish when you visited. Lots to organise as you can imagine. Thanks again. Jen.

  I smile joyfully. I feel perky already. I am smiling and cheerful that Jenny has reached out. I make the decision not to reply straight away because I don’t want to come across too keen. It might put her off. I want to choose my next words wisely since the communications channel has now been opened and I don’t want her to push me away. I have to think about how I can entice her to invite me round again. I want her to open up to me, to tell me how she feels because I know that we have a connection, even if she doesn’t realise it yet. I’m not going anywhere.

  ‘Mr Taylor.’ I hear my name as the pharmacist holds up the white paper bag. ‘Your prescription is ready.’

  I look at him standing there, waiting for me to rush. I stand up, stretch my legs and collect my drugs. I turn to look around the room and wonder how many more are in my position? All of us sat here with varying illnesses hidden from view. You couldn’t tell from the outside what’s wrong with anyone. I wonder if they’ve also been let down by people they once love. People they trusted. People they cared for who abandoned them. Jenny and me have so much in common.

  Just as well no one can see what’s going on inside my head. Nothing but pain and misery. Jenny might have discovered my weakness. Those brief minutes when she opens up with her grief, I feel we are connected. That sense of turmoil and despair we each have is created by different circumstances but unites us with its misery. She doesn’t realise yet what similarities there are between us. Friendship is a beautiful thing. I can’t wait to meet her again.

  Walking out of the pharmacy, I can’t say I feel any better but I have to keep at it with my appointments. My therapist admitted that I looked better than he thought I would, under the circumstances. I can see where he is coming from – but Michael’s death hasn’t kept me awake at night; it hasn’t stopped me from eating or running my business as usual but it has turned me in the direction of Jenny. I told my therapist I had a new friend – someone I can talk to about my problems and maybe in time, if I show her what a compassionate, caring person I am, someone who wouldn’t need anyone else. She might want to take care of me.

  I’ve decided – after a few minutes of waiting – that now is an appropriate time to reply to her text message.

  I’m glad you liked the flowers. I understand your difficult times, but if you need to talk, I am here. Text me anytime. Gary

  I keep looking at the message to assure myself that it’s not too forward – but not bland enough for her to ignore. I almost ended with a kiss at the end but she might have been offended. I hope I have planted a seed for future contact and I hope she replies – if not today, then tomorrow or the next day. I look again at my phone, knowing that she would have received the message by now. I wonder what she is thinking, feeling or doing? I hope I haven’t frightened her off because there is so much more I can talk to her about.

  Nineteen

  Jenny

  I don’t seem to know what is happening in my life anymore or if anything was ever clear to me from the beginning. Each day is morphing into the same routine of constant grief and, emotions that run wild. I have to fake normality in front of Daniel until he goes to bed. Only then, when the sun has set, and the nights draw in, can I really be myself. I even feel guilty at times for sleeping. How can my mind ever switch off from this loss?

  Since finding out that Michael had been hiding the post from me to conceal his credit card debt, I can understand the stress he was feeling. It’s exactly how I feel now. I had no idea that we are in so much debt. The mortgage, the credit cards, the savings accounts, the overdraft, the whole of our life together I now see as a financial picture of negative balances. This was confirmed when I managed to find some time to open a handful of the letters. I put the statements to one side and stopped reading them. I don’t even know where to begin to fix this awful mess.

  All the withdrawals, the money transfers between accounts, were unknown to me. If he was stood here in front of me now, I’m not even sure if I would believe what came out of his mouth. He lied to me.

  Why?

  I keep asking myself why he would hide this from me. I assume he didn’t want to worry me or thought he had it all under control. If I challenged him about this, I know exactly what he would say.

  ‘Leave it to me, Jen. Have we ever gone without?’

  I wonder if he knew we could end up homeless. I’m not sure how Michael thought he could keep this from me all this time. How was he going to explain to me that he hadn’t been paying anything?

  I don’t even know how to pay for his funeral. I might have to sell our belongings, even though there is nothing of much value here
. Most of it came from our shopping catalogue – more debt. I bought into the convenience and payment plan options, not realising that all the time I had been adding to our financial struggles. I was left in the dark.

  All the different things that I need to consider float around my head along with one worry after the other. I don’t know what else to do, who to turn to, what to say or where to even begin. I don’t even think his parents have enough to sort out this mess. All I want to do is lock myself away and think about something else. This strain on my living circumstances has me wanting to go to bed and never get out of it again. I’m constantly tired: tired of the lies, the worry and the stress of what might happen next.

  What’s wrong with me?

  I know the bills keep coming in because I’m piling them up unopened. My sick pay from work is not enough to cover everything but I do have another month of compassionate leave left. Even if I were able to return to work sooner, I still wouldn’t be able to afford this house on my own. Whether I like it or not, I’m going to have to face up to the possibility of losing it. When the funeral is over, I will find more strength. I have to do this one step at a time. My mental health is already broken enough.

  Michael’s mother will no doubt judge me and form opinions that will send me into a rage, while my own mother will just pester me to pack my bags and move back up north. That does seem like an easy option and certainly better than homelessness. I don’t know the process because I’ve never had to think about being a single parent with no home of my home. I’m going to check the local authority website later to think about what help I can get, if any.

  I am dreading the conversation I am going to have to instigate with both Donna and Peter. I will ask his parents if they could contribute towards Michael’s cremation costs. I’ve managed to find the local crematorium online, which I can show Donna when she’s next over.

  The telephone is ringing and it distracts me from my depressed thoughts. I’m expecting this call from Donna because she is collecting Daniel from preschool this afternoon. I can’t go there and face the other mothers staring at me. The death of my husband makes everyone smile – or glance at me in awkward silences. I’d rather Donna went for the time being.

  ‘Hi Donna, is everything ok?’ I ask. ‘Is Daniel all right?’

  ‘Daniel is fine,’ Donna replies. ‘He’s always safe at school. The teacher said he was a little grumpy, but that’s to be expected. They aren’t concerned, and we will be back home in about five to ten minutes. See you soon.’

  ‘Thanks for letting me know,’ I reply. I can tell she can hear the concern in my voice. ‘I hate this fear I seem to have of everything. I never had this before Michael died.’

  ‘It’s only natural. I would be the same,’ Donna replies. ‘I don’t mind picking him up anytime. You know that.’

  I hang up on Donna after saying my goodbyes and I feel relieved. I have been thinking about taking Daniel out of preschool to keep him at home with me. I’m scared about losing Daniel too. What if Daniel died in some accident?

  Daniel is all I have left. He is our son and I have to protect him. If he went to school and there was some freak accident that killed him too, how could I go on living?

  The mental torment from the thoughts of despair, loss, anger and hurt leave me unmotivated to do anything. The struggle to wash and get dressed was something I would never consider difficult until now. Everything in my life is such an effort. My motivation to do anything is dwindling because my mind won’t switch off.

  I’ll get washed later.

  I look down at my mobile phone and start flicking through the contacts list: names that are all too familiar and contacts who seem distant strangers after Michael’s death. The only recent reply is from Gary. I owe him a thank you for such a lovely gesture. I keep thinking about messaging him again. He might think it strange for me to want to hear about Michael’s death all over again. I want to get an understanding of how he was feeling and what was going through his mind. Now that I know the extent of the secrets that he was hiding and the consequences, I want to get inside his head.

  Michael wanted me by his side, and I failed him again. Every last detail of his facial expression helps me to come to terms with his death. I get comfort from understanding it – from the fact that Gary is able to be honest with me about what he saw. He understands.

  The sound of the car engine shutting off outside alerts me that Donna is here with Daniel. I stand, staring at the wardrobe door with the black bags in one hand and my tissue in the other – wiping the tears from my eyes as I ready myself to start packing away Michael’s clothes: suits, jeans, shirts and jumpers, all strewn across the bed as I had left them after emptying the drawers earlier in the day. I’m not ready to see them go but I can’t hold it off much longer. What good would keeping them do – these constant reminders all over the house? Daniel must be sick of seeing his mother cry from one room to the next.

  Someone knocks on the front door twice. I can hear Daniel’s sweet angelic voice from the other side of it. I feel both calm and relieved that he is home and safe. I have this yearning to lock ourselves in the house – away from the world and cocooned in a dream of safety and the reassurance that I will never lose my son. I want to keep him safe.

  I open the door to Donna. I watch her eyes wander up and down as she stares at me. At the same time, I take a look into her eyes for one second and I can see she is still grieving too. That solemn look shows she is hurting even if the fancy designer clothes that she wears say otherwise.

  ‘You’re still in your bedclothes?’ Donna asks. ‘Why haven’t you got dressed yet?’

  Before I can answer, she barges in and walks Daniel through to the living room. I shut the front door and by the time I pull up the handle to secure us indoors, she is stood there with her hands on her hip. She doesn’t look impressed.

  ‘I’m worried about you,’ Donna says. ‘You haven’t washed by the look of your appearance. You’re not getting dressed; you’re barely leaving the house, if at all. Pete and I are concerned.’

  I can’t believe her at times. My husband is dead. What does she want me to do –act like nothing has happened? I can’t just forget him.

  ‘I’ve had too much on my mind today,’ I reply, wishing she wouldn’t ask such stupid questions. ‘I don’t even know where to begin.’

  Donna sighs and looks at me as if I’m making excuses.

  ‘Tell me,’ she says, ‘we’re in this together.’

  ‘He hasn’t been paying the mortgage. I think I’m going to lose the house. Michael has got us into so much debt and he’s been handing money to god knows who,’ I blurt out while bursting into tears again, tears that don’t seem to want to stop. ‘I don’t know what to do or who to speak to about this. I don’t know why he’s been lying to me, Mum.’

  The look on Donna’s face reminds me of the moment the sheet was pulled back to reveal Michael’s body at the morgue. That was the last time I saw her with that dropped mouth expression. I don’t care about whether I am washed or dressed and I can barely even cook for myself. Everything in my life is centred around Daniel’s needs and surviving day by day.

  ‘How much are the arrears?’ Donna asks, hands now removed from her hip with one on her forehead. ‘One month, two? What do you mean you are losing the house? Are you serious? Michael’s not even been cremated yet.’

  ‘I’m serious, it’s really bad,’ I respond. ‘It’s thousands. He’s been hiding things from me: credit cards, missed payments. I don’t know where to begin. It’s not going to be long before the debt collectors start knocking on the door. I could lose everything.’

  Donna frowns and shakes her head. I can see she is worried. She must be disappointed about her son – but these are the facts. He was lying to us all.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Donna replies. ‘Maybe Pete and I could help. I can see what I can offer to at least keep the roof over your heads. Credit cards, things like that – well people can’t get from
you what you haven’t got. This house has to be your priority. What about the funeral?’

  ‘I have the coroner’s certificate now, approving the release of Michael’s body. The certificate is on the microwave.’ I reply. ‘I have to register his death and to get the process rolling with a funeral director. I’m not coping. It’s becoming too much. I’ve tried, but—’

  ‘Stop that,’ Donna interrupts me mid-flow. ‘That’s not the Jenny I know. You have to get through this. You have a son to look after. This is not what Michael would have wanted to see from you.’

  We stand together tearful in the hallway. I try not to argue back but I want to be left in peace. Every little thing in my life right now seems like a big hurdle. Some hurdles are too big to jump over. I’m falling flat.

  ‘We need to get Michael’s funeral planning underway as soon as possible. Why don’t you let us take care of that?’ Donna asked. ‘We can register Michael’s death together now that you have the certificate and see if we can get him buried next week?’

  ‘I don’t want him buried. We’ve been through this before,’ I reply, sharply. ‘The thought of him being there in the ground, rotting away, is not what I want. I don’t think Michael would have wanted that either.’

  ‘Did Michael ever talk about what he wanted?’ Donna asks, walking forwards in my direction to get closer. ‘If he ever wanted a cremation or burial?’

  ‘We talked about death, Mum,’ I reply. ‘Of course we did, once or twice when I was pregnant, in case anything went wrong but he wasn’t that bothered either way. It’s me who can’t face the idea of him in the ground. I don’t want him to be buried.’

  ‘Don’t you think it would be lovely if we had somewhere to visit? If he was in a grave.’ Donna sobs. ‘I brought him into this world. I think he should be buried. I can’t hide my opinion – because he was my son.’