by JA Andrews
Jenny looks up at me, wipes her eyes and sips from her coffee. Her lips look soft and her mannerisms come across as quite delicate. She must be a gentle person.
‘I’m expecting the go-ahead from the coroner’s office to start arranging the funeral this week or next. The post-mortem has been completed already,’ Jenny continues as I try to stay focused on the conversation. ‘Sharon, she has been great throughout all of this turmoil. I could not have done this week without her. She’s also signposted me to victim support but I’m not sure about it.’
‘I’ve thought about speaking to them too,’ I reply. ‘The police officer who took my statement handed me a small card with the contact number. He suggested I might need counselling after the trauma of what I witnessed but I’m not interested. I don’t need it.’
For the next few minutes Jenny discusses the importance of the wedding ring. I watch as she removes her own ring from her finger to reveal a small engraved date on the inside. I stare at her with pity, not knowing what else to tell her on the matter.
‘I haven’t stolen it, Mrs Clifton?’ I reply sensitively. ‘You are asking me so many questions about his wedding ring that I believe you are wondering if I have taken it.’
‘I’m so sorry. Honestly, I really didn’t mean it like that,’ Jenny replies. ‘I didn’t mean for it to come across that way. I know Michael would never have taken it off. It might have been lost in the accident but I thought you might have seen it. I didn’t mean to offend you.’
We are both sat at the table with our numb expressions. Almost every day, I have reminders of his face staring back up at mine with the blood pouring from his mouth. Like a scene from a horror movie. He was in such a bad physical state that I dare not describe the true gruesome level of detail to her. She is his wife: a gentle delicate-looking soul who needs someone to talk to.
I remember squeezing Michael’s hand so tightly, staring straight into his eyes while he struggled to breathe. I focused on his face the whole time because I wanted him to maintain eye contact – but he might have been blinded. His entire body was a complete mess. His last breath came so hard and fast. I don’t think he was really consciously aware of the damage that that car caused. Watching the scene was very surreal. It was as if I was playing a small part in a movie. I watched the driver leave the car and run into the distant woodland area near the hotel. He looked drunk.
‘Actually, I forgot to ask if you’ve heard any news on the driver. The local news has been reporting on his death for days and the police suspect he was heavily under the influence of drugs, alcohol, or both, don’t they?’ I ask, inquisitively. ‘Have the toxicology results come back yet?’
‘Nothing yet that I am aware of,’ Jenny replies, after sipping her coffee. ‘Sharon said they can take anything up to six weeks. I think they’re expecting them through much quicker judging from the last conversation I had with her. She made it sound more within the next week or two.’
‘May I use your bathroom?’ I distract her from the conversation. ‘Sorry, I’m bursting.’
‘Yes, sure. It’s just up the stairs and first room on the left,’ Jenny replies. ‘Are you sure that I can’t get you anything to drink?’
I shake my head and stand up from the table to head upstairs. Jenny remains seated, solemn and in grief. Understandable at this time. As I make my way up the stairs, I can see other photographs of them all as a family. There is a small landing with a bathroom on the left and ahead what must be their sons room next to the master bedroom.
The temptation to wander into her bedroom is hindered by my need to pee so badly. I know I shouldn’t be looking but I want a little peek. This is where Michael lived. This was his home. It’s so odd being in this house where he once walked and got himself ready for work. So surreal.
There is a mix of feminine and sporty shower gels in the bathroom. I also spot Michael’s shaving kit on the window next to a bottle of cologne. It looks expensive judging by the extravagant bottle. I take a sniff because I can’t help myself. That’s a good aftershave.
As I had expected, everything I have checked out in the house so far is typical of a middle-class family – but the child in the photographs is nowhere to be seen.
The sound of the flush conceals my footsteps as I tiptoe around the bathroom. I look inside the cupboard under the sink – just to be nosey – but all I am greeted with is sanitary wear and skin moisturising products. I know this is very wrong but the bathroom door is closed so she doesn’t know what I am doing. I compose myself for a moment to not give anything away. I walk slowly down the stairs and see Jenny pop her head around the corner of the kitchen door.
‘Are you absolutely sure I can’t get you anything to drink?’ Jenny annoyingly asks again. ‘A nice hot cup of tea or coffee?’
I shake my head. How many times do I need to say no?
‘No but thank you for asking.’ I reply, straightening my shirt. ‘I will be fine. I’m really not very thirsty.’
Together we walk through to the kitchen. On the wall I see the photo of the little boy again with his father. This poor boy has no idea what’s happened, I imagine.
‘How old is your son?’ I ask. ‘I couldn’t help but notice the family photos. He must be missing his father terribly?’
I witness her expression drop – maybe I shouldn’t have said anything about the boy?
‘Daniel doesn’t really understand what has happened,’ Jenny replies. ‘Every now and then he calls out for his dad but it’s been a difficult time for us all.’
‘Poor boy,’ I reply, sitting back down at the table. ‘It’s so tragic, growing up without a father. I’m so sorry.’
Jenny pulls out another tissue from her back pocket and wipes away the fresh tears. I’ve clearly upset her.
‘I don’t know how we will ever be able to cope. Daniel and I, all we have now is each other. I will make sure he will always know everything about Michael and how much he loved him.’
‘I don’t have any children of my own,’ I answer, unable to relate. ‘I always wanted some, but it never happened.’
For the first time since she opened the front door, I see Jenny smile.
‘Oh, kids can be quite a handful,’ Jenny says. ‘I only have the one and parenting has its challenges at times.’
I see her glance down towards my hands. I think she is checking if I am wearing a wedding ring.
‘I’m not married. Well, not anymore.’ I reply. ‘My wife left me. We got divorced some time ago but I’ve been focused on my car dealership business. I daren’t bore you with all the details.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ Jenny says. I can tell from her body language that she feels a little embarrassed. ‘Hopefully, it was amicable?’
Amicable? She doesn’t know the half of it. I wouldn’t even know where to start on that story. I don’t want to get angry. If I talk about it in detail, I might not be able to contain myself.
‘She was having an affair.’ There, I have revealed it. Jenny didn’t need to know but I couldn’t help myself because there is something about Jenny that makes me want to open up to her. ‘I caught her with another man and discovered that she was cheating on me. Our divorce only came through last year but we’ve been separated for much longer than that. It feels like a lifetime ago now.’
Jenny doesn’t say another word. Another moment of awkward silence passes between us for a couple of seconds as we look at each other in sympathy for our circumstances. I can sense from her reaction she wishes she hadn’t asked me. I don’t want to go into too much detail. I want to remain calm but we are bonded together in this tragedy. She reveals her vulnerability then I reveal mine.
‘I’m sorry to have asked,’ Jenny says. ‘I hope you’re ok.’
‘Michael called out your name,’ I say, feeling the knot in my stomach tighten with nerves. ‘He was looking for you, thinking about you too, no doubt.’
Jenny’s sobs are so loud they are almost bursts of little screams. I struggle to show my
emotions. I thought she might get some comfort from that announcement. Again, this vulnerability: displaying her sadness and letting me see these intimate emotions. I like that she is taking an interest in me. She seems concerned.
‘He was looking out for you,’ I continue. ‘You must have been the last thought in his head as he passed.’
Jenny bows her head and cries into her sleeve. The tormented grief is clearly written across her face.
‘Jenny?’ I ask, speaking softly to give an indication of compassion. ‘Those last few moments of Michael’s death… Before I go, is there anything else that you want to know?’
Jenny appears to be an emotional wreck and is now wearing her heart on her sleeve.
‘Can you tell me everything that happened that night in every detail?’ She asks. ‘I had wondered that if Sharon had been here, you might have held back to be polite. I need to know what Michael went through to understand it. If you don’t mind?’
She is devastated by the tragedy yet I can still see the beauty in her. Unlike my wife, she seems to be a good person. Michael was a very lucky man. I wonder if she wants to meet me again and if, in time, we could grow to support each other. For the next few minutes, Jenny listens as I reveal to her everything that I watched happen. I purposely leave out some of the detail because I don’t want to be distasteful. Her emotions are clearly fragile. These are images I will never forget. Scenes I described that I hope she can draw comfort from.
Thirteen
Jenny
I have woken up in the middle of the night again. This time I am hot and sweaty as the nightmare has played on my emotions. Every second of Michael’s death was being played back to me in slow motion. There was no escape as all I could do was look on in horror as he died in front of my eyes. Since Gary told me what he witnessed, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. That shock is now manifesting itself in my dreams.
I turn to face Michael’s side where he has been missing next to me for days – although it feels like months. While placing my hand across the quilt covers to gently stroke his pillow, I feel that I’d give anything to have him back in this bed and snoring again. Those irritating moments are now memories of him that have me in tears. I think of his clothes or the annoying scrunched-up tissues I would complain about him leaving around the house and realise that these are small memories of a big loss.
So many regrets have crossed my mind over the last few days. I regret not telling Michael how much I love him enough. I regret the pressure I put him under to support his family. I feel partly responsible for his death because I could have stopped him leaving that night. I regret the last argument we had because I implied that he needed to change or I would leave him. He died knowing that I might not have wanted him, which adds to my pain.
I’m aware that I am now a widow and a single mother, left to fend for myself. The thought of this takes my breath away with grief when it comes back into my mind. Coming to terms with it is an everyday struggle. I will trawl through the mountain of letters and bills that sit unopened in the next few days. I can’t face the world yet. I feel burdened by responsibility but thank god that I have Daniel. My saviour.
I don’t know how to cope with this grief.
I listen to the silence that confirms Daniel is still asleep in his bedroom. Donna brought him back around eight-ish this evening after taking him into town. These trips keep Daniel occupied and save him from seeing me upset during the day. I don’t want him to live in this misery. No young boy of that age should have to watch their mother go through this pain and grief.
My own mother is trying too hard to be supportive by insisting that we just pack our bags and up sticks to live with her for a few weeks in Leeds. As tempting as that sounds, I need to be here in my own home, surrounded by Michael’s belongings. I haven’t removed nor touched any of his clothes and it still very much feels as though he lives here. It would be much easier if she came down and supported me – but I appreciate the offer. Nothing can change what has happened but I’m finding it harder and harder to get out of bed each day. Nothing is motivating me except for Daniel and even then I could use some sleep. I like being surrounded by Michael’s books. His alarm clock. I like feeling that he is near me. In some weird way I a sense that he is watching me at times.
It’s like waiting for him to return home.
I can’t stop thinking about how Michael must have felt when he called out my name. It’s hard to believe that he is really dead. I know it but accepting it might start to embed more when the funeral has taken place. That burden of responsibility – organising Michael’s cremation – will soon lie on my shoulders. Ideally, there would just be me, Daniel and Michael’s parents present. No one else has been that close to him or our lives – not even my own parents because they live so far away.
I must have been crying in my sleep as I feel the wetness of my eyes. For now, while I compose myself, I can only stare at the darkness with the shadows from the trees outside faintly visible on the bedroom wall. The clock on the bedside cabinet flashes at four in the morning. I don’t know whether to get up and sit downstairs or try to go back to sleep again. I know I am sinking further into my own misery but I have to grieve for my husband. I am lost without him.
Why did we have that stupid argument, Michael?
I wonder if the guilt will stay with me for the rest of my life. Convinced that this is what depression must feel like, I try to remember that it is normal to grieve. I barely have any energy or enthusiasm to get out of bed let alone cook, clean or do the shopping. All these regular routines in my day now have become such an effort and I can’t be bothered. It’s difficult not to pull the covers over my face and lie there until I am ready to face the world and all its chores. If it was not for Daniel, I think I would actually just sit here and stare at the walls until I passed out. My days are filled with the constant loss of Michael and no wonder. When I sleep, he is all I dream of.
As I lie here still and silent in the dark confines of the bedroom, I hear a murmur of noise.
‘Daddy.’
I place my hand on my heart as my body goes rigid. I know I heard it correctly – and then once more.
‘Daddy.’
Daniel’s muffled call for Michael melts my heart. I curl up into a ball and the tears flow so hard and fast that I scrunch my face without being able to hold back or leave the bed. I hold the pillow to my face to conceal the cries. Devastated by the death of my husband, I now have emotions I never thought I would ever feel.
What can I say or do?
‘Mummy’s coming,’ I shout into the darkness. ‘Daddy’s…’
I control my breathing so as not to sound devastated in front of Daniel. I place the pillow back on Michael’s side of the bed. I am still able to smell his hair wax on the pillow. I know I will struggle to remove the bedding for washing.
‘Daddy’s not coming home, darling,’ I continue. ‘Mummy’s coming to see you now.’
I pull the covers back and get out of bed to reach Daniel as quickly as my tired, heavy legs can carry me. I switch on the light to his room and find him sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes.
‘Everything is all right now. Mummy’s here, little man.’
I sit on the bed and cuddle Daniel, holding him close to me as I hug him. I look down to see his eyes closing.
‘Daddy loves you,’ I say. ‘Daddy will always love you. You were his little man.’
For five minutes neither of us say a word but then I settle him back into bed and pull the covers up to his chest. I watch as Daniel turns on his side and I listen as he gently falls to sleep. Sleep is all I have been craving but I can’t stop thinking about Michael. The image of him walking out of that door is the last memory I have of seeing him alive. He gave me a look of disappointment as I turned away. I will never forget that memory as much as I wish I could.
I turn out Daniel’s bedroom light on my return to my own lonely bed. I look at my phone. I nervously stare at the screen becau
se I know I will be faced with images of Michael. I open Facebook. While looking at my friends’ posts, I notice I have barely responded to any of the messages so I write out a post thanking everyone for their condolences. Images of Michael are on here, stored digitally as keepsakes. At the time I never knew how precious these would become. Pictures of us as a family that I can keep to show Daniel when he is older.
As I scroll further down the list, I stop at one image that jumps out at me. One I had forgotten about. I’d been tagged in it last year by my old colleague Victoria who’s now living in Australia. I know it was taken when I was pregnant because I recognise the plumpness of my face but at the time I must have briefly acknowledged the tag with an emoji without looking closer. Maybe it’s tiredness and my mind is playing tricks on me. Perhaps it’s my insecurities eating away at me?
I can’t stop staring at the image, wondering if I am reading too much into it. I’m standing beside Michael, barely twenty weeks pregnant and holding both hands on my little bump. The smile on my face displays all the emotion and happiness of our relationship back then. They were good times. We were so in love with each other and the news of our baby brought excitement and cemented our commitment to each other. Not only were we married but we were a family. Victoria has her arm around my husband. When I zoom in I can see her hand behind his waist. I’m stood slightly in front looking directly at the camera – but that look in Michaels eyes. I know my husband. I can tell when he looks nervous.
Her eyes. They’re lit up and the smile in my husband’s direction looks like they know each other really well when in fact I am sure this was the first time they had met. It was a barbeque organised by Victoria to celebrate her new job and moving abroad. It looks like she is pinching Michaels bottom but I can’t be certain. Maybe it’s the angle. She wouldn’t tag me in it otherwise, surely?
Perhaps I’m reading it all wrong, although I can’t stop this niggling feeling that Michael was hiding something from me. I have to know if he was wearing his wedding ring or not. I stare into the picture, trying to remember it being taken. Michael was probably telling one of his rubbish jokes. He was such an attention seeker and so charming. Michael had mentioned that he went to university with her brother. Westbridge is one of those places where everyone seems to have a connection. I’m likely over thinking it and coming to the wrong conclusion. I remember that I’ve not spoken to her in months. I’m sure it’s innocent.