Never Leaves Me

by C J Morrow

  ‘Yes. Robin. Yes. Let’s suppose that he is dead and that the voice you’ve been hearing is your own subconscious talking to you.’

  ‘That’s just stupid.’

  ‘Mmm. Let’s just suppose that’s what’s happening.’

  ‘What? As though I’m haunting myself?’ I would laugh if only I could. How stupid. How ridiculous.

  ‘Yes. Let’s suppose that’s how it is.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  She glances at her watch again then scribbles something down.

  ‘Does he tell you anything you don’t already know.’

  ‘Of course he does.’

  ‘Give me an example.’

  I can’t think straight. I shake my head. ‘I can’t think of one at the moment.’

  ‘Okay. What I want you to do is think back over everything he’s said and try to find something that he’s told you that you didn’t already know.’

  ‘Yes. I know. He told me my sister was being bullied by her best friend, Chloe. And, he told me who was approaching my bed before I could see – when I couldn’t open my eyes, I mean. I didn’t know who they were, but he told me.’

  ‘O-k-a-y. Do you think that you might have already known about the bullying? Or that you might have been told who these people were but, due to your brain injury, you might have forgotten?’

  ‘No. I don’t. How could I know about Chloe? And, I couldn’t see these people even if I did know them. Which I didn’t.’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible that you picked up on their voices as they approached, that you identified them without realising then,’ she stalls, blinks then remembers his name. ‘Robin’s voice gives you that information?’

  ‘No.’

  She doesn’t sigh, but I can tell she wants to. She looks even more tired than I feel. I’m sick of this.

  ‘Okay, we’re going to leave it there. I’m going to make an appointment for you in clinic tomorrow and we’ll see how you’re doing then.’ She stands up, gives me a weak smile and turns to leave. As she opens the door Jeff appears. Has he been waiting outside?

  ‘Jeff, Jeff. Tell her you’ve met Robin.’

  Jeff looks at me, then at Dr Bev. They exchange that pitying look – and it’s for me.

  ‘Tell her, Jeff.’

  ‘I’ve never met your husband, hun.’ He steps aside to let Dr Bev out, then comes in and sits down in the seat she’s just vacated.

  ‘But you’ve had conversations with him.’

  ‘No, hun. I haven’t.

  ‘But he’s spoken to you and you answered.’

  ‘No, hun.’

  ‘But I heard you.’

  Jeff shakes his head.

  ‘You think I’m mad too, don’t you?’

  ‘No, hun. You’ve had a big accident, a lot of damage.’ He taps his head. ‘The mind plays tricks.’ He takes my hands in his; he has large hands, they’re warm and soft, and podgy. ‘When I was a kid I had a dog, he was a good dog, RexTex we called him, I don’t know why. He slept under my bed, not on it, my ma wouldn’t allow that. Every night he snuffled and scuffled and scratched the carpet beneath my bed until it was threadbare. He’d bark at any noise, even my sister going to the toilet in the night. Then he died. He was old. But I kept on hearing him scratching under my bed when I was asleep, even barking at noises. I’m not comparing RexTex to you husband, but the mind plays tricks, especially when we’re grieving.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that could be anything, that scratching sound. Robin speaks to me. And you.’ It’s a bloody conspiracy, I just don’t know why they’re doing it.

  Jeff changes the subject, talks about the weather, helps me shuffle around my room then up and down the corridor because he says I’ve been confined to one space for too long. I get up quite a pace and I’m only using a walking stick, albeit one which has three-pronged feet. He takes me down to the Costa Coffee and buys me a tea. He doesn’t mention Robin again. Or RexTex. Neither do I.

  Mum and Dad are sitting in my room when Jeff escorts me back, he leaves me at the door. Mum and Dad watch me shuffle in; I’m exhausted now and I feel about a hundred and eighty. Their faces are creased with anxiety but they force false smiles for my benefit.

  ‘No doubt you’ve heard they all think I’m insane?’ I flop into the chair.

  ‘No one thinks that, love.’ Dad pats my knee.

  ‘Well, I’m not going home tomorrow. I’m seeing the nutcase doctor instead.’

  Mum and Dad don’t know what to say to that. I realise how stupid and immature it sounds.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me Robin was dead?’

  ‘We did, darling. Over and over.’ Mum’s eyes don’t quite meet mine.

  ‘I don’t remember that.’ I shake by head and raise my eyebrows as though I am presenting proof.

  ‘The doctor says that you’ve blocked it out.’

  There’s a silence now as we all look anywhere but at each other. After five very uncomfortable minutes I speak.

  ‘Is he really dead, Mum? Did you see him?’

  Mum shakes her head as Dad slowly nods his.

  ‘What?’ I’m looking at Dad for more and he’s looking solemn.

  ‘I identified his body.’

  ‘Why you?’ As I say it I realise that there would be no one else until his mother came over from Brazil. ‘Where’s his mother?’

  ‘There wasn’t anyone else. You could hardly do it. And we don’t know where his mother is.’ Mum looks livid now as though talking about this has churned up so many feelings for her that she cannot contain herself. ‘You should be grateful your Dad did it.’

  ‘I am. I am. It’s just I can’t believe it. He’s been here, in this room and the ICU, with me, every day. How can he be dead?’

  ‘It’s your subconscious speaking.’ Mum and Dad have obviously been given the same version as me.

  ‘I can’t believe he’s dead. I won’t believe it.’

  ‘You can see his body,’ Mum says in such a flat way that I almost don’t understand the words.

  ‘What? What?’

  ‘You can see his body, anytime you like. He’s at the chapel of rest.’ Tears fill Mum’s eyes, then mine.

  I remember. We visited Mads in the chapel of rest. Her little body laid out in the basket-weave coffin. She was wearing her favourite smart jeans and a bright pink top. Mum had only bought the top for her the week before she’d died, she’d worn it non-stop. It was in the laundry basket and Mum had had to wash it before they could put it on her corpse.

  Robin and I met Mum and Dad there; Mum and Dad went in first and we went in when they came out. Robin had kissed Mads on the lips; I couldn’t do that. When I touched her, she was hard and cold; not Mads at all. Mads had gone. She looked odd too, her face posed, her lips closed, she never shut up so that wasn’t like her. She looked thin, thinner than she had been the last time I’d seen her, but that had been many weeks before.

  They’d wrapped a blue silk scarf around her neck, tucked it under her chin. It wasn’t hers. I poked it with my nail.

  ‘To cover the scar, I suppose.’ Although the t-shirt didn’t have a low neck, it wouldn’t have covered the post-mortem stitch-line.

  ‘Don’t.’ Robin pulled my hand away, scowling at me.

  ‘She’s too thin.’ I surprised myself when I said that; it sounded like a judgement.

  ‘She’s beautiful.’ Robin kissed her again, on the forehead this time. ‘Forever young.’

  It was my turn to pull him away; I couldn’t wait to get out of that chilly room with its odour of air freshener and new carpet.

  ‘You should have said a proper goodbye, you’ll regret that you didn’t later.’ He’d waited until we were outside in the car park before delivering his wisdom.

  ‘Too late now.’

  ‘How does he look?’ I search Mum and Dad’s faces for a clue.

  ‘He looks fine. Like he always did.’ Mum delivers her verdict without emotion. ‘Not a mark on him, that you can see.’ She hasn’t seen
him so Dad must have told her.

  ‘How?’ What I want to ask is how he can be dead but have no marks on him while I am alive and looking such a mess. ‘What killed him?’

  ‘Massive trauma to the chest. Steering wheel. His air bag saved his face, yours saved your body.’ Dad doesn’t look at me when he speaks, he’s looking away, remembering.

  ‘Stephen pulled him out.’ I’m musing aloud rather than asking a question. I’m crying again, forcing words out between sobs and dribbles.

  ‘Yes. He did. He pulled you out too. Saved your life.’

  ‘He pulled me out first. Maybe if he had pulled Robin out first he’d still be alive.’ Am I already accepting that Robin is dead?

  ‘Don’t blame Stephen.’

  ‘I’m not blaming him, Mum.’ Is that true?

  ‘Stephen’s outside,’ Dad says.

  ‘What does he want?’ I don’t know how I feel about Stephen. I don’t know if I want to see him.

  ‘He wants to make sure you’re okay.’

  ‘I’m blatantly not okay, am I? My dead husband is haunting me and I’m pregnant by another man. And let’s not even mention the crash, the mess I’m in physically and my poor, dead, little sister.’

  Mum and Dad don’t react, not even when I mention Mads. They are either very good at playing poker face or they are wrung out of all emotion. They are just staring, not at each other, not at me; just staring.

  ‘Well, he’s there if you want to see him.’ Mum stands up and waits for Dad to do the same.

  ‘Are you going? Now?’

  ‘Yes. You’re tired.’ Mum already has her hand on the door handle.

  ‘No.’ I am tired but my head is spinning. ‘I won’t sleep.’

  ‘We’re tired,’ Mum says, without looking at me. ‘Stephen is here for you.’

  ‘But what if Robin comes back?’ There, I’ve said it. My greatest fear is spoken.

  ‘That’s why Stephen is here, to make sure Robin can’t come back. I’ll send him in.’ Mum opens the door.

  ‘Robin won’t come back. He’s gone, love. You need to accept that, and believe it, because they won’t let you out until you do.’ Dad kisses me on the cheek and follows Mum through the door. They don’t wait for me to protest. They’re gone, closing the door behind them.

  Minutes pass and there is no Stephen. He’s probably conspiring with Mum and Dad. I’m starting to think that none of this is real.

  None of it.

  ‘How you doing?’ Stephen asks from the doorway before he comes in.

  ‘How do you think?’

  He sits in the chair that Dad sat in, reaches over for my hands but I pull them away.

  ‘Am I imagining all of this? Are you real? Are Mum and Dad real? Is any of it real?’ I feel sick. Is that real?

  ‘Oh Etty. I’m so sorry about Robin.’ He tries to grab my hands again. I clutch them to my chest and out of his reach.

  ‘Are you? Are you?’ Snot dribbles out of my nose.

  ‘Yes. No one wanted this. Any of it.’

  ‘If you’d got him out first he might have survived.’ There, I’ve said it to his face. My accusation.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You’re not even denying it.’

  ‘If you want me to say that I chose you over him, then I will. I did. I always would. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead but Robin was a controlling bastard.’

  ‘You don’t know him.’

  Stephen stands up, goes over to the window and presses his forehead against the glass. I don’t know what he’s looking at; it’s dark outside.

  ‘I may not have known him like you did, but what I did know, I didn’t like. He didn’t treat you well.’

  ‘You don’t know about us. You don’t know anything.’

  ‘He groomed you.’

  ‘What? What shit is this?’

  ‘He groomed you. You were a child; he was an adult.’

  ‘You sound like my bloody mum, is that where this is coming from?’ I’m angry, so angry that I can’t even cry anymore.

  ‘He did such a good job that you can’t even see it.’

  ‘Get out. Get out.’ Now I’m screaming.

  ‘I am sorry he’s dead, because now you’re going to turn him into some latter-day saint. He wasn’t a saint, Etty.’

  ‘Just get out.’ My voice is hoarse now.

  ‘I’ll be down the corridor if you want me, there’s a little family waiting room.’

  ‘You’re not family.’

  ‘I’ll be here all night.’

  He’s gone before I can scream at him again.

  A nurse comes in to check on me, no doubt Stephen sent her. No doubt he told her I was hysterical. She says they can give me something to help me sleep. She offers to sit with me for a few minutes. She offers to help me into bed. I decline all her offers. I prefer to sit in the chair.

  I don’t know what’s real anymore.

  Now I’m alone. Now it’s quiet. It’s late. I’m alone in my room. If I close my eyes will Robin speak to me? I won’t close my eyes.

  I think he might be dead.

  What did Dr Bev ask? Oh yes: Did he tell me anything I didn’t know? She couldn’t even remember his name. I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t know what I don’t know.

  I’m so tired but I daren’t close my eyes; just in case. But I’m so tired and my eyes are stinging.

  Gasp. I was asleep.

  The nightmare that isn’t a dream. The car spinning: wheels, roof, over and over. The black coat that doesn’t fit me, the large buttons straining. Robin by my side on the grass verge. Stephen’s face close to mine. Robin makes a sound, a gurgle, a choke. He was alive.

  And now he isn’t.

  If I tell the psychiatrist that, will she let me go home? Home, our home. Do I want to go home? I don’t know what to do.

  I thought I was a mess before, but I’m an even bigger, fucked-up mess that I thought I was.

  If I’m hearing voices does that make me a psycho?

  I wish I could remember what happened in the car.

  Maybe I’ll never remember, maybe I’ll have to accept that. Maybe I’m blotting it out, after all, I’ve successfully blocked out Robin’s death, even though, apparently, I’ve been told several times about it.

  Is that true? Is it real? Is anything real?

  I get up from the chair and shuffle to the bathroom, greet myself in the mirror. I look like a ghost. I look like a monster. Made of bits.

  ‘I am a ghost,’ I say to my reflection. ‘I don’t need you haunting me, Robin.’ I shake as I wait for his response. It doesn’t come.

  I shuffle along the corridor, my three-pronged walking stick squeaks along the floor. I’m looking for the family room. I’m looking for Stephen. I must tell him something.

  He jumps up when I enter the room. He looks as grey and tired as I do. He smiles, but not too much – I suppose he’s worried I’ll take offence – no one can ever be jolly again because my husband is dead.

  I stand. I don’t move. I just stare. Stephen steps forward and wraps me in his arms; it’s nice. I can feel the softness of his shirt against my cheek. I could sleep like this, safe in his arms. Safe and alive.

  We sway. I close my eyes and we sway. We could be dancing; the slow dance at the end of the evening, the last couple on the dance floor. I can almost hear the music. It’s lovely.

  I break the spell.

  ‘If Robin really is dead…’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Shush.’ I take a deep breath, I must say this. ‘If Robin really is dead, then I killed him. I’m a murderer. That’s why he’s haunting me.’

  Sixteen

  ‘No. No.’

  ‘Listen. Have the police said anything? Do you think they think I did it on purpose?’

  ‘No. No. You’ve got this all wrong.’

  I pull back from Stephen, reach up and place my hand across his mouth. I don’t want him to confuse me, I don’t want him to speak until it’s clear in my
head.

  ‘Do you think I did do it on purpose? That’s what it must look like. I’m having your baby, not that they would have known that, not then anyway; and I’m leaving him. Not that they know that, do they? Has anyone told them? What did you say when they questioned you?’

  Stephen pulls my hand away from his mouth. He’s smiling.

  He’s smiling.

  ‘What the hell is there to smile about?’ Another thought occurs to me. ‘Shit, do you think I did do it on purpose?’

  He almost laughs.

  ‘You’ve got this all wrong. You haven’t killed anyone. Not by accident and not deliberately.’

  He wouldn’t lie to me, not Stephen.

  ‘Etty, you didn’t do anything. You weren’t driving. Robin was.’

  I feel my knees buckle, but Stephen catches me.

  ‘Are you sure? He never drives when I’m there.’

  ‘Quite sure. I pulled you both out, remember.’

  We sit down, side by side on plastic padded chairs that squeak as we move. Stephen puts his arm around me and I slide down and snuggle into his shoulder. I let my eyelids droop and allow myself to doze, safe in his arms.

  ‘It saved my life.’ I’m awake and sitting up, sitting forward.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Because I wasn’t driving. I’ve just remembered what Mum and Dad said, Robin was killed by the force of the steering wheel hitting his chest.’

  I nestle back down in Stephen’s embrace before lunging out again.

  ‘If I’d been driving we might not have had the accident. We’d probably both be fine. None of this would have happened.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘No, but…’

  Stephen cuts across me. ‘If I had bought a lottery ticket I could be a millionaire now.’

  ‘What? That’s not the same. Not the same at all.’

  ‘My point is that you can’t second guess what might or might not have been. There’s no point in torturing yourself any further.’

  I slump back into his arms.

  ‘You’re right. But why was he driving? He never drives.’

  ‘You’ll probably never know. You were very upset when you left. Maybe too upset to drive.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s probably it.’

  ‘Why do you always drive?’