The Confusion of Karen Carpenter

by Jonathan Harvey

  ‘Also’ – and I lean in as if this is pretty major gossip. Which it is – ‘he’s not who he says he is.’

  Claire shunts her head back like my breath smells. ‘Are you on drugs, Karen?’ she says, incredulous.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well, what you bloody on about, then, you nutter!’

  So I tell her. About Steven McIntyre. And the IRA membership card. And the poster. And she thinks. Long and hard. I can practically see the cogs whirring in her brain. And then her face cracks. And she laughs. Long and hard. At one point I fear she’s having a hernia. She has to cling on to me for support.

  ‘What? Claire, what?’

  And then she tells me. And I want the ground to open and swallow me up. As I stand there in stunned silence, her laughter ringing in my ears, I see the door open and hope it might be Kevin who’s coming in. Instead I see Wendy. She waves over. She looks great. I wave back, still dumbfounded by what Claire has said. I see an old man, quite nattily dressed, follow Wendy in. I wonder briefly if he’s got the wrong pub, or hasn’t realized this is a private party, and then I realize. It’s Wendy’s boyfriend.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I lie in bed, warm and fuzzy with drink and spinach pie and Black Forest gateau. I hear Dad pottering in his room, packing to return to Liverpool tomorrow. I think how valiant he was in the face of Mum’s behaviour tonight, parading Jorgen around like he was her new puppy from Battersea, offering everyone a quick pet and a stroke. How composed he’d remained. Till we were leaving, and I heard him say menacingly to Jorgen, ‘I give it six months, you Norwegian nonce,’ and Jorgen looked shocked and stammered that he was Danish, but then he had to go because Mum was calling him to an awaiting taxi. It’s a wonder Dad didn’t punch him. Oh, to have his patience. But maybe we’re all always waiting for our lost loves to come back. Even if having them back isn’t the best option in the world, and they’re not even right for you. I confuse myself with this line of thinking, then decide not to lose any more sleep over it. If it’s a trait that runs in the family, fine. It shouldn’t really affect me. Mum might, one day, return to Dad. Michael will never return to me.

  Maybe I should try and find Dad a girlfriend. I’m surprised Wendy wasn’t all over him like a rash.

  I toy with sending Kevin an email, apologizing for my behaviour, but decide it can wait till the morning. I cringe with embarrassment when I think about him. Oh well. Maybe I was stupid for a reason. Maybe I misunderstood because that is what needed to happen. Again, not going to lose any sleep over that.

  I remember Little Lee getting in the cab with Mum and Jorgen, but comfort myself with the fact that they must have just been giving him a lift home. They must have. They must . . .

  I realize I’m fighting sleep. I enjoy drifting in and out of consciousness. I wonder if I should get up and go to the loo – I did drink more than usual tonight – but sleep is too attractive right now, too comforting. I give in to it.

  I wake and think the lights are on. I’m sure I switched them off. Then I see that the curtains are open and moonlight is casting a silvery glow over the room. The sash of the window is up. I know I didn’t leave it up, but I also know why it is. My eyes seek him out and he is stood there, in the corner of the room, next to the wardrobe. His side of it is open and he has a holdall in his hand. His clothes rail is empty.

  ‘Just came for my things.’

  I sit up. I feel wide awake. I no longer feel drunk. In fact I’ve never felt so alert, like every nerve in my body is pulsating, wildly alive.

  ‘Are you cold? I can close the window?’

  I shake my head. He comes and sits on the bed. He takes my hand.

  ‘Are you a ghost?’ I ask.

  He thinks. ‘Possibly. Not sure. I think so.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Well . . .’ he struggles for the right words ‘. . . I think this is it.’

  ‘Time to go?’

  He nods. ‘Yeah.’ Then he grimaces, like he doesn’t want to. I return the grimace. I don’t want him to either, but know he has to.

  He goes in a drawer. He pulls out a work roster and the hankie I found in Chinatown. I’d put them there for safe keeping. He tucks them in his pocket.

  ‘I came looking for you,’ I say, trying to convey in those few words how hard I tried.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh God, Michael, there’s so much I want to say, but, well, now you’re here, it’s all gone out of my mind.’

  ‘I know, babe. Try not to worry about it.’

  OK. I won’t.

  But he carries on, ‘I just want to say, before I go . . . I . . . I’m sorry.’

  I nod. OK. It’s nice to hear, though I think he’s said it before. Then I realize he’s not said it before when I’ve been in a position to appreciate it.

  ‘I know you think I didn’t love you, that I fell out of love with you, but I didn’t.’

  I gulp. He’s saying something lovely, but it pierces me with a hot pain. Salt stings my eyes.

  ‘I fell out of love with the world, with living. You could never rescue me from that, and I’m sorry you had to try.’

  It is, it’s so lovely, and yet it’s like a scalding iron on my stomach. I could double over, it hurts so much.

  ‘You were the only person I ever truly loved, apart from my mam, and you know how she did my head in. The only reason I put her contact details in my pocket was so that she’d get the news and not you. I wasn’t really thinking straight, babe, but I was trying to protect you, in my own stupid way.’

  I take a deep breath; maybe that will make the pain go away.

  ‘I’m sorry I was so selfish over Evie and didn’t appreciate what you were going through. And I’m sorry it’s left you in a bit of a mess. Anyway, that’s about it really. Except . . .’

  I breathe out.

  ‘. . . I don’t want you to be sad. Well . . . I am a bit of a selfish bastard, so, like, be sad for a bit, but don’t let it stop you living. You deserve to be dead, dead happy. You’re brilliant. And beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ I say gently. Never good at taking compliments. Even from a dead man.

  ‘Well, you are, and I’m just a knobhead, so . . .’

  So? So what? What does he mean?

  He lifts the holdall from the floor and puts it on his knee.

  ‘Will you come with me? A bit of the way?’

  This is unbearable, but it has to be done. I hoick my legs out of the bed and tell him I’m going to put on my dressing gown. When I have, I turn and see he’s standing by the open window. I slip on some old trainers that don’t need lacing up.

  ‘Oh, just one thing, Michael.’

  He turns, wondering what I might want.

  ‘D’you mind if we go through the front door?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He moves away from the window. ‘Force of habit.’

  I turn the handle on my bedroom door, careful not to make any noise that might wake Dad, and we head downstairs.

  I have no concept of time as we walk the deserted street. The streetlamps are off, but the whole area has taken on a surreal quality with the strength of what, I can see now, is a full moon. It’s cold. Michael takes my hand as if this might warm me. We stop so he can rebutton his army jacket, then carry on. We don’t speak as we walk, and I’m not sure where we are heading. He seems to know, so I just let him lead me. Eventually I ask what I’ve been burning to know.

  ‘So what happens when you die, then?’

  ‘I think I’m about to find out. There’s been quite a lot of hanging about so far. Queuing, doors slamming in your face, some people being helpful, others not. A bit like getting a new passport.’

  This had happened to us before, years back. We’d forgotten to renew our passports and had booked a week in Spain. We’d had to queue for ages, begging men in suits to try and get it all done quickly. Faceless men, characterless rooms, never-ending corridors.

  ‘Do you know someone called Toni?’ he suddenly says.


  God, that’s weird. What do I say?

  ‘Yes,’ I answer, but he doesn’t want details.

  ‘She says . . . to tell you . . . he’s OK. Does that make sense?’

  I nod. It does.

  ‘What’s she like?’ I say, not sure why I’m asking.

  ‘She’s nice. Her hair’s still growing back. Looks a bit like Sinead O’Connor.’

  Sinead O’ . . . ?

  Ah. The picture. The picture from the spinach pie party. It makes sense now. Everything does. But how is that possible? None of this is, yet somehow everything feels so right. I get a sense that I’m walking towards the edge of the world. That should scare me, but strangely I feel safe. I could literally fall off, spin into space, but know I won’t, as Michael is here to protect me.

  We’re in the park now, I see. I don’t remember us coming in, but it doesn’t perturb me. Moonlight filters down through the branches of the trees. They look like bony fingers, I think to myself, and suddenly I realize where we’re heading. Maybe that should scare me, but for now it doesn’t. A faint mist has descended and wraps round our feet like dry ice. Somewhere an owl hoots.

  ‘It’s very Disney,’ I joke, and his hand tightens round mine and I know he thinks it’s funny.

  We stop Oh God

  ‘Is this it, then?’

  He doesn’t answer. He’s looking straight ahead, not at me. I look to see what he might possibly be staring at. Ahead, near the trees, is a bench. Sitting on the bench is a child. It looks sunny over there. How is that possible?

  ‘Come on,’ he says, and we walk forward.

  As we get closer, I see there is a little girl sitting on the bench. She must be about five or six, and she’s radiating so much light. She’s reading a book with pictures in it. She’s wearing a duffle coat. She looks up. She has the prettiest face. Freckles. I can see her eyes are green, and her hair, curly as anything, is the most beautiful shade of red, like a sunset. She smiles at me and I know immediately who she is. I run to her and hug her, picking her up and swinging her round. She chuckles and I smother her in kisses. I am warmed by her light.

  ‘Oh, you’re such a beautiful little girl!’

  Her laughter is like sweet music. It’s as loud as an orchestra. It echoes round the park and I feel so joyous, so proud. She’s warm and smells of honeysuckle, summertime. Then I see Michael looking sadly on and realize it’s time to say goodbye. I slide her back to the ground. She runs and gets her book.

  ‘Come on, Sunflower.’ Michael says, and stretches out his hand.

  She hurries to his side. I walk over and kneel, facing her, head to head.

  ‘Now, you be a good girl and always keep an eye out for Daddy, right?’

  She nods.

  I envelop her in a hug and kiss her curls, then let her go again. She looks up to Michael. He has a tear in his eye. I stand. He buries his head in my shoulders and I feel he’s trying not to cry. I have to stay strong. I tell him I love him and give him an extra-hard squeeze. He no longer smells musty. He smells like him again. He’s wearing the peppery aftershave I bought him for Christmas but ended up not giving him. I step back.

  ‘I love you,’ I say. And I mean it.

  He swings the holdall over his shoulder then bends to pick up Evie. She nestles into him, the book still in her hand, like she might fall asleep in his arms. I hope she does. Her glow is fading.

  What do you say? What do you say when you know you’re never going to see someone again? It all sounds so pathetic and banal and mundane. Words aren’t enough.

  And in that moment I realize we don’t need words.

  He gives me the fondest smile.

  ‘Come on, then. Let’s go,’ he whispers, and Evie smiles.

  He gives me one last wink, then turns and walks towards the trees.

  I try my hardest to concentrate. I drink the picture in, desperate to remember every last detail: his slightly lolloping gait, balancing the bag and our daughter, her wrestling slightly in his arms to get more comfortable. Then he stops. He looks back. He looks scared. I give him an encouraging look and think so, so hard, Come on. You can do this.

  He gathers himself up to his fullest height, suddenly looks fearless and proud. Evie waves sleepily. Then he turns and walks off into the trees. Evie slumps, limp against him.

  I have an urge to follow them, find out where they are going, but I know it’s not my time yet.

  The mist seems to rise the further they walk from me. Eventually it swallows them and I am just stood looking at moonlit trees.

  I pull my dressing gown to me, freezing suddenly, and look about myself.

  Did that really just happen?

  Did it?

  It did. I know it did.

  I am a woman. In a park. In the dead of night. In her dressing gown. But I no longer feel confused.

  4 December 2012

  I write on the rice paper with silver marker pen. I write gently not too much force, scared of ripping the fragile sheath. Kneeling on the grass my knees are wet, but these are old jeans, so it doesn’t matter. My message written, Kevin passes me the next billowing piece of rice paper. I write my second message and draw a sunflower.

  I look up. I’m ready. Kevin holds out his hand and helps me to my feet. The night air is cold and our chimney breath dances in the air.

  ‘There’s no breeze. Does it matter?’ I ask, but he shakes his head.

  ‘Which d’you want to do first?’

  ‘Can we do them both together?’

  He’s unsure. ‘Might be easier to do them separately.’

  The Chinese wish lanterns were his idea. He and Connor did one for Toni on her anniversary, and it felt right to do it today, a year after Michael went.

  ‘Do Michael’s first,’ I suggest, and he takes out a cigarette lighter.

  I hold the bamboo frame of the first lantern as he lights the flammable material in its base. Immediately the white paper illuminates and expands. A magic cube of light. He looks at me. He smiles, his face lit by the lantern. He takes hold of the other side and we lift it so it obliterates our faces.

  ‘Let go,’ I hear him say. I do and the lantern floats effortlessly up into the inky-black sky.

  ‘Now Evie.’

  We do the same with the second lantern, then step back, necks cricked to the sky. Kevin puts his arm round me.

  I thought I might cry. I could, but the sight is too beautiful. If tears come, they will be tears inspired by wonder and awe. The lanterns float higher and higher, one higher than the other, Michael leading the way. They’re like moonlit swans soaring silently ahead. At one point the crescent moon looks like their distant triplet sister. They head to our right, westward, like they’re following the path of the Thames. Like sedate shooting stars, majestic galleons sailing on – to where, I do not know – carrying their wishes with them. Will they fly to heaven, or will they simply evaporate into the ether? Who can tell? Who knows the secrets of the universe? Who wants to?

  We stand there, wishing, praying, hoping, happy, until they’re so high and so far away that eventually they just leave pinprick white spots on the inside of my eyelids.

  They have gone.

  Kevin pulls me to him and kisses the top of my head.

  I have done it. I have marked Michael’s passing. And Evie’s. I feel numb but serene. As serene as the lanterns as they glided into the clouds.

  I put the marker pen in my pocket. Kevin puts the lighter in his and we head back to his car.

  Before leaving the park, I take one last look at the armadillos of the flood barrier. In the dark it looks like they’re sleeping. It would have been wonderful if they’d been awake and raised for the occasion. Michael would have loved a biblical flood, but life has a way of not working out the way you expect it.

  ‘What d’you want to do?’ Kevin asks quietly.

  I turn to him and smile.

  ‘I think it’s high time we went back to yours and watched Some Mother’s Son on DVD,’ I giggle.
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br />   He laughs his head off. ‘It’s embarrassing!’

  ‘No, come on, I want to see how rubbish you were as an extra.’

  He’s still laughing. ‘Can’t we go for a Chinese? There’s a really good one by London City Airport. You can watch the planes taking off.’

  ‘Then we’ll go there and get a takeaway. Come on, I’ve seen your props. Now I want to see your one and only film appearance.’

  ‘I was shite. They had to tell me to stop looking at the camera.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ I insist.

  We snake through the bushes that lead from the park to the car park.

  He opens the passenger door for me and I clamber in.

  Before he shuts the door, he asks, ‘How you feeling?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Good.’ And he slams the door shut.

  Connor is staying at Jason’s tonight. Connor who is not best pleased that his dad has started seeing his form tutor. Connor who blushes every time I dare to look at him in class.

  As Kevin slides into the driver’s seat, I feel a wave of panic. This happens sometimes. I’ve learned to live with it, aware that it’s just my body’s way of reacting to all the changes I’ve been through. Sometimes I think I’m going to go home and find Michael sitting at the kitchen table, furious that I’ve betrayed him, but the panic lasts for a shorter time each time it visits. I allow it to wash over me, then drain away, and I reassure myself as we head back towards Kevin’s that in a minute I will feel safe again.

  I focus on the Olympics 2012 sticker on the dashboard. It’s fading now. I remember how we drank wine and scoffed pizza throughout the opening ceremony as we watched it on my telly, sporadically shouting things out like, ‘Oh, look! The suffragettes!’ or, ‘Oh my God, is that J. K. Rowling?’ and, ‘God love the NHS!’ It was the first time we kissed. It was like . . . like the show had been put on especially for us.

  And even though it was a while ago now, the memory warms me like a pashmina. I look away from the sticker and smile at Kevin, but he’s concentrating on driving.

  As we’re pulling into the car park of the Chinese place, I think I see the lanterns in the sky, but it’s a plane coming in to land at City Airport. I wonder if the passengers have seen the glowing cubes on their descent.