by JA Andrews
‘Please don’t let Dad know,’ Michael begged me. ‘He would be so disappointed in me.’
‘So long as you can pay me back,’ I said. ‘At least within the next couple of years because your father doesn’t have control of the savings accounts.’
Pete never seems to know what comes in and out of the business accounts. The money just piles up and I am left to transfer it from one account to the other. He is good at monitoring trends with our sales and doing all the talking with our suppliers.
That money I loaned Michael was meant to be for our nest egg. Pete and I were thinking about a world cruise when we retired. But Michael never paid any of the money back. I challenged him and chased him for some of it and he did pay just over a thousand pounds but there will be no way of seeing the rest. Not that I was disappointed, it was only money, and he was my son. I would have given him the full £10,000 but I had to keep something back just in case we needed it. I knew I was going to have to tell Pete the truth.
In my head, I kept thinking about what I was going to say to Pete. He would be disappointed that I had lied to him. He would never have given Michael the money without demanding answers, but I trusted my son. I knew he would have paid me back.
Now Pete sits quietly alone most nights. We make dinner together and support each other with the shop in Cornwall but our son’s death has put a gaping hole in our lives. I don’t think we will ever return to normality after this.
To have outlived our only child feels unnatural. We’ve been there right by his side when he qualified as an accountant. I remember how nervous he was opening his results and how I thought he had a whole bright career ahead of him. I’ve watched Michael grow into a man and was sat right behind him on his wedding day. I might have had my doubts about Jenny at first because I thought she was trying to tie Michael down but I could see how happy they were together. Michael was overjoyed to become a father and that moment where we were all waiting at the hospital for Daniel to be born was unforgettable. It’s as though all those magical memories have been tarnished by misery and loss. He had a future and now it’s been taken away. Our son is dead.
I remember this same feeling when my father died. It’s a loss that only time can heal. I continue to live my life, and carry on as best I can, but the strength to motivate myself came with the support of those around me that I loved. I am keeping this thought for Jenny. She needs our help, even if she can’t see it now – she’ll thank me for it later.
Throughout the day I have made one list after another. It keeps me focused while helping to remember what it is that I need to do. Although Jenny is Michael’s next of kin, I have assumed responsibility for organising everything for as long as she seems to be unable to get out of bed most mornings. I wish that girl would find it within herself to be stronger. She has to keep herself together for Daniel’s sake.
The funeral director seems to be able to take care of most things. All I had to do was explain my wishes – well, Jenny’s wishes. The word burial was on the tip of my tongue but all the time I sat there with the phone to my ear thinking I have to honour her requests.
Michael will be cremated in a dark oak coffin. There will be a small service, with his ashes returned in an urn for all of us to scatter at a later date. If only my son had made a will. His wishes could be granted. At least then, in writing, it would have said about a burial. I know my son would not have wanted a cremation. It’s something I am going to have to accept and let go of before it destroys the relationship I have built with Jenny. As his wife and next of kin it’s unfortunate that she has the final say.
There’s no going back now.
Pete is crying on the sofa. I watch his face and the redness of his cheeks that reflect a father grieving for his son. Not only will I have to tell him about the money that Michael borrowed from our savings last year but that I have paid for the funeral expenses directly with the funeral director. From the conversation I had with Jenny about the missing mortgage payments – the unpaid bills and debts that Michael kept from her – it is obvious she is in no financial state to contribute. Michael has nothing left.
I wish I could have helped him more. I wish he could have come to me and been more honest with his problems. He was secretive at times, just like his father used to be.
I feel my admission on the tip of my tongue. It’s right there and I want to blurt it out. Pete will be so angry. I am disappointed with myself for keeping this from him but I have to tell him. He needs to know the truth.
‘Pete?’ I say while staring at the television. I see him place his mug on the floor. ‘Will you listen to me for a moment? I have something to tell you.’
Pete turns to face me after lowering the sound. The quiz show is muted, leaving only my voice to fill the room.
‘It’s about our savings account. I don’t really know how else to say this, but Michael asked to borrow ten thousand pounds last year. He needed our help.’
‘What was that – did you clear out the account for Michael?’ Pete interrupts me. ‘Is it all gone?’
‘No,’ I snap back. ‘We still have five thousand in there but he swore me to secrecy. He said he would pay it all back. I never expected any of this to happen.’
I feel the tears start to fill my eyes. The sadness overcomes me and I weep with both grief and disappointment.
‘It’s all right, love,’ Pete says while getting off the sofa to come and give me a hug. ‘Surely he must have something in his bank – or maybe some savings to pay us back. Jenny will sort us out, I’m sure she will help. Give it time.’
‘That’s just it,’ I respond, now shaking as the announcement is about to happen. ‘Michael has nothing left. Nothing. Jenny has discovered he hasn’t been paying the mortgage, the bills, not even the credit cards. He has left her in a mountain of debt.’
There it was. The moment that Michael never wanted and I know he would have been let down badly if he was here. The look on Pete’s face as the disappointment with his son sinks in is expressed loud and clear. It hurt me to say it out loud but I had no choice if I was to be honest with my husband. He trusts me to do the right thing.
‘He was a bloody accountant,’ Pete ranted. ‘Wasn’t he meant to be good with money? How the fucking hell is Jenny going to keep a roof over that poor little lad’s head? She can barely fucking get out of bed and cook the boy his breakfast from what you’ve been telling me.’
I sit in silence as Pete continues to let out his frustration. We are both left in the difficult situation of needing the money to be repaid for our savings but also needing to support Jenny.
We can’t leave her to be homeless with Daniel.
‘We will have to speak to Jenny about this after the funeral,’ Pete said. ‘We should just get that one day out of the way and say goodbye to our son. I know that you paid the directors this morning and I am happy that Jenny doesn’t need to pay this back. He was our son and it feels right that we pay for his funeral.’
I nod at Pete while also wiping my eyes dry with the end of my sleeve. At least it is all out in the open now.
‘Even if the savings are paid back over a few years, something small here and there will make a difference. We aren’t retiring just yet, are we, and we still have a few grand spare. We can sort this mess out between us all.’
‘What about their house?’ I ask. ‘Michael hasn’t been paying the mortgage for months. They owe the bank thousands. He didn’t have any life insurance against illness or death either.’
‘What the hell has he been doing with himself?’ Pete asks. ‘Where has the money gone?’
‘I don’t know anything else,’ I reply and I can tell he believes me, ‘Michael never said. Jenny has lost all mental capabilities to be able to organise anything herself. So, I agree. We just wait until the funeral next week and then take some control ourselves. For Daniel, more than anyone else. That boy needs us.’
I watch now as Pete rubs his forehead with his hand. He is looking confused but I can see
him trying to work it all out in his mind. I know he will want to resolve this as much as me. I hope I can get him round to the idea of having Daniel come and live with us for a few weeks, maybe even months. At least I can look my husband in the eye and know I have been honest with him.
If only Michael had been able to be this honest.
Twenty-Two
Jenny
I have been thinking about what to cook Gary for dinner all day, so much so that in my head I had planned a massive three-course meal with the idea of manipulating him to stay longer. But when the reality of leaving the house to shop set in I could only think about cooking something I knew well enough to do without much effort – Michael’s favourite meal, a home cooked lasagne. My head is flustered because this is the first time I’ve cooked properly in weeks. The last time I cooked lasagne was the night Michael and I had the argument. Now I am cooking for another man. I try to remind myself it’s only food. This is only a meal and I can’t keep thinking about that argument. What I am doing doesn’t feel right but I push myself to carry on. I can’t avoid cooking. I can’t not have lasagne again. There will always be reminders of Michael everywhere I turn so I need to push through this emotion in the hope that it gets easier next time.
I don’t know what stops me when I stand by the front door but I get an anxiety attack that destroys my composure. I look at the door with an overwhelming urge to turn back and sit in the kitchen. I place my hand over the handle. My breathing gets faster and the shaking will not stop. Every minute that passes by with me stood there, coat on, looking out of the frosted glass window, makes the dread of stepping over that threshold greater. Everyone will be staring out at me – the widow from the end of the street.
I know the root of my issue is that Michael stepped out of that door and never came home. His last step, the final goodbye, was from this house. He had no idea what was about to happen that night. None of us did.
It was so final.
My mental health is not in a good place. I cannot deny the difference between the woman that I was three weeks ago and the person that I am today. I am afraid of losing myself in this misery. I don’t know who I am anymore. I know that when I step outside everyone will look at me as the widow that lost her husband. Inside, I feel safe. I can feel secure that Daniel is safe too – and I don’t ever want to let my little boy out of my sight.
Daniel’s preschool hasn’t seen me at all. I am now used to Donna taking him there and collecting him later in the afternoon. I can see how attached she is to him. She comes back and gives me advice on what I should or should not be doing. I try to listen to her. In my head I am screaming at her you are not his mother – but I just agree and nod my head. I don’t want the grief or hassle.
The smallest thing can make me feel like I have no fight left in me. I keep reassuring myself that Donna has always been this aggressive with her views. There were times in my marriage when I am sure she forgot that I was Michael’s wife and that I am Daniel’s mother.
I mustered up the energy to visit the local shops to buy everything I needed for my lasagne. I know it was Michael’s favourite meal and I’ve cried my eyes out about it for the last hour but I tell myself I must overcome these small reminders. I will never forget Michael; he was my husband. I’m trying to remain stable. His clothes lie upstairs on the bedroom floor, hanging over the doors and falling out of the wardrobe where I had tried to pack everything into bags for a charity shop. I gave up.
Removing his presence from this house takes away other reminders of him. It made me feel as though I was removing memories. I looked at his suits and it reminded me of the pressures he felt at work: the strains of his employer putting timing issues over his client’s tax returns. Michael’s jumpers brought back memories of when we stayed in his parents lodge that Christmas not long after we had first met. I know I can’t keep his belongings here forever but it hurts to hold them and place them into a bin liner. It is as though everything he owned is now worthless.
I’m proud of myself for leaving the house today, albeit not in a perfect state – but I still got washed, dressed and took Daniel with me. The whole process took hours and, initially, I kept talking myself out of it. I can’t keep relying on Michael’s parents and online shopping orders to help me survive. I know it’s not natural. I will get better if I can push through these small steps. Just one step at a time.
All the ingredients are fresh and dinner is in the oven. I have a bottle of wine in the fridge and some ice cream in the freezer should Gary mention dessert. He could have remembered some vital information about Michaels missing wedding ring. I need to know it was on his finger when he died. I have to have a resolution on this issue because otherwise I will keep trying to figure it out for the rest of my life. It will drive me insane. I only offered him an invite to dinner on the basis he might stay for a few hours to go over the incident again.
When Gary describes what happened and what he saw, in some reassuring way that others would find odd, I get a sense of closeness with Michael. It helps me to be part of his last moments. When I hear it back, I can almost visualise being there. I picture Michael in my head. I can practically see him on the road, calling out my name. Some wives wouldn’t want these memories but the guilt within me feeds on the knowledge that he died quickly and with someone there for him. I wish it had been me but I will never be able to change what has happened, nor can I thank Gary enough for his support.
Donna happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong moment yesterday while I was having another low moment. I couldn’t hide my stress with the mortgage situation. She didn’t seem that bothered and accepted that there is nothing I can do about it right now. She assured me that she will support me with organising the paperwork this weekend; that’s tomorrow and I have all the piles of envelopes she needs in the living room. It’s a mountain of unpaid reminders. A reminder that Michael hid the truth from me.
My head and my heart are both in separate places. The majority of my thoughts are on the upcoming funeral while other parts of my mind cling to the guilt I feel. Then, the anger sets in. The anger of being lied to by my husband is fuelled by my confusion about his intentions. I might never know why he lied unless I assume that he didn’t want to worry me. He wouldn’t have wanted me to be stressed knowing that I spent most of the time looking after our son.
Would Michael have really left us homeless?
Looking through the mortgage statements, I have noticed that we had been in further periods of missed payments on the house last year. I have been so naïve about our financial circumstances. I was so trusting of my husband that I had no reason to disbelieve him. I have all the letters in separate piles: bank statements, mortgage statements, credit card statements – three interlinking mountains of paperwork that paint a distorted picture of what I once called happiness. I trusted Michael to take care of everything. He insisted that I need not worry.
I cannot make sense of my own thoughts right now. Another niggling worry in the back of my mind is who was Michael going to meet that night? I have been through his phone and called the number that texted him to meet at 7.30 p.m. – but no answer. I tried texting too since there was no answerphone but I’ve had no replies. I’ve been contemplating paying his work a visit to see if I can clear his desk and go through his things in the office. I know that I’m looking for reassurance that he wasn’t meeting another woman. The debts and the lies that he was hiding make me question if he could have been cheating on me.
Did he take off his wedding ring because he was having an affair?
Michael was in such a rush that day – and came home late most nights. I need to find out. There are too many what-if’s that I can’t make sense of. I am sure that once Michael’s funeral is over, I can start to rebuild the broken fragments of my mind.
Donna’s reaction to my admission about Michael has also been in my thoughts. How can she be so casual about it? This confirmed to me that she must have known more than she is letting on – bu
t at the same time she might be the answer to the financial problems caused by her son. I’m going to have to start thinking about what support I might need if I return to work full-time. I don’t know if I can afford the house on my own. Do I sell it, rent it out? I’m lost. I don’t know where to begin.
Shit. Is that smell from the oven?
The aroma of the lasagne fills the air after I open the oven door. A rush of heat hits my face and from the corner of my eye I can see Daniel running towards me.
‘Go and play in the other room,’ I tell Daniel who is playing aeroplanes with his arms – another mimicked action from the cartoons he watches on television, ‘Mummy will follow you in there in a minute.’
Daniel stops in his tracks, pulls a face and blows a raspberry in my direction. My heart warms as he is enjoying himself. I pull a face in return and force myself to smile. I don’t want him to see me this unhappy all of the time. Masking my sadness from him these couple of weeks has resulted in a distance between us. I have had no choice but to rely on Donna.
‘Daddy.’
It has been the first time in days, but it still cuts through me like a knife. My eyes are welling up with the anticipation that I have to remind my son that his father is not coming home. All those times that I cried myself to sleep while Daniel was at preschool, out of the way – now I am struggling not to break down in front of him.
‘Daddy is not with us tonight,’ I reply, unable to look him in the eye. ‘He is looking down on us though, sweetheart. Somewhere around us, I believe. Shall we go and watch cartoons again?’
I sound enthusiastic, trying to divert his thoughts from his missing father. I know there will be a time when the calling out will become less frequent and I am accepting that when he is older I will be able to sit him down and tell him everything he could ever want to know about Michael – especially how much his father loved him.