by Andrea Darby
Sunny walks slowly over to the bookshelf, removes the candle from a terracotta oil burner, then fetches matches to light it. She has her back to me, facing the flame. The silence feels prolonged and painful.
‘Has he got a family?’
‘No. He’s been separated from his wife for a while.’
She turns, hazel eyes narrowed. ‘Were you in touch with him before, you know before Dan … passed?’
‘Of course not. Why would you think that?’ It feels like the anger Mum stirred is loitering inside, ready to rise up and reignite. I put my mug down on the carpet.
‘Sorry, it’s just you’ve known him so long … and …’ she pauses. ‘Are you going to move to London?’ Sunny blinks quickly, a flicker of concern perhaps.
‘I’m not sure. There’s a lot to consider. I’ve applied for a job in Birmingham. Eleanor loves her school, her friends—’
‘Yes, I can see it wouldn’t be an easy relationship. Acting’s such an unstable profession. And it’s such a crucial time for Eleanor, isn’t it?’ she says, floating towards me. ‘I appreciate she’s your main concern.’
Fury surges through me. ‘Yes, I’ll make sure everyone’s happy and getting on with their lives and I’ll just be miserable and sit around waiting for a miracle to bring my dead husband back. Because that’s what it’ll take. A BLOODY MIRACLE! You don’t believe it any more than I do.’
Sunny stares with a pitying look. She sits.
‘You’re right, I don’t share Dan’s faith in cryonics, or his desire for a physical extension to this life. I believe the spirit lives on. But none of us know. He may be right. Besides, it’s not about what I believe. Or you. It’s about love, and respect.’
‘So you think I’m showing disrespect to Dan by trying to find happiness for myself – and our daughter – after two-and-a-half years of hell. And what’s love got to do with it?’
‘Please stay calm, sweetness. I didn’t mean to upset you.’ I feel her fingers pressing my hand. ‘I’m saying Dan absolutely loved and adored you and deserves …’ she corrected herself, ‘deserved—’
‘So you think he deserved better, that I wasn’t good enough for precious Dan, I didn’t love him enough.’ I pull my hand away. All I see is a sea of purple fluff and a return of the bright red mist. My breath burns my throat. ‘Or as much as you – is that it? I should share his belief in a second go at life, and … I’ve tried so bloody hard to be civil to you, to get along for Eleanor’s sake, for Dan, but I’ve had enough. What’s your problem with me? I think you’re jealous of what we had because you can’t find love.’
Sunny snatches a sharp breath, eyes hardening as shock strikes her face. I’m desperate to leave. When other people lose their temper that’s what they do – storm out and slam doors, finishing their display of fury with a flourish. I stand, but my foot catches the mug, sending tea flying across the carpet.
‘You’ve no bloody right to judge our relationship, to keep tormenting me with guilt after what I’ve been through. You think you’re on some higher plane, spiritually superior with your fancy potions and ethical ways. But you’re not. You’re cold-hearted and cruel.’
My cheeks are wet, face contorting. I can’t believe the words I’ve just blurted. Who’s the callous one? What’s happening – first Mum, now this? Carrie Colwell didn’t get really angry, just mild outbursts, and very rarely. She didn’t say hurtful things out loud. She kept them inside, fleeing on her Conflict Dodgem, avoiding confrontation, frightened of the repercussions of cross words, terrified of losing control, losing respect, losing friends.
Sunny stays silent, hands clasped. She pulls a tissue from her bag. I wonder if she’s crying.
‘I don’t think I deserved that. I’m – shocked. And you’re upsetting yourself.’ She hands the tissue to me. I scrape at my cheeks, an angry buzz still coursing through trembling fingers. ‘Maybe I am jealous of what you and Dan had,’ Sunny whispers.
‘Well, maybe our marriage wasn’t as good as either of us thought.’ I don’t want to mention Kirsten, but I’ve lost control. Sunny’s eyes narrow. ‘Dan’s old secretary claims they had an affair; that he’s the father of her four-year-old boy.’
‘No.’ Sunny shakes her head calmly. ‘No.’ She’s almost smiling; a strange reaction, considering what I’ve told her.
‘You see, your brother might not have been so bloody perfect.’
‘Please … sit,’ Sunny says. I’m stunned by her stillness. Had she already known about Kirsten? ‘There’s something you should know.’ I perch on the sofa, stifling sobs.
‘I didn’t want to tell you this, but things are being said and I need to.’
‘What?’ I ask impatiently.
‘The fertility thing was a huge burden for Dan. He felt it was all his fault, that he’d failed you somehow. And Eleanor.’
I frown. His fault? ‘But the tests—’
‘He had a very low sperm count.’ She searches out my eyes. ‘That first doctor told him, the one Dan got so upset with. Eleanor was a one-in-a-million fluke.’ My anger is quashed by bewilderment. It can’t be right. Dan hadn’t told me. But surely she can’t be evil enough to make such a thing up? ‘I’m sure that’s why he had such a strong desire to keep healthy. He felt there was a chance he could reverse things. I think he was right to try. It’s amazing how our bodies can be transformed with a few positive steps. He desperately wanted a second child – with you.’
No. His health obsession was triggered by the desire for longevity, a need to be in control, and vanity; perhaps a fear of death. Maybe to keep fit for a mistress. But not this.
‘So he told you this, but not his own wife?’ I challenge.
Sunny stares through me. ‘He thought he could change it, and …’ she seems reluctant to go on, ‘… feared you might be a little, I don’t know, flippant. Turn it into a joke. That you’d dismiss—’
‘How could he say that?’ I spit the words. ‘It’s me he should have bloody told.’
‘He told me that before his appointment to … donate … you’d said, “Don’t worry, you’d still love him if he was firing blanks”.’
I recoil. It sounds so awful when Sunny says it. It was just a throwaway quip, my attempt to lighten the mood.
‘For God’s sake, Dan knew I took it seriously, that I’d have supported him, just as it would be the other way around, if I’d been infertile, which I assumed … I can’t believe he’d keep this from me.’
Sunny touches my hand with a gentle sigh. ‘He was just hurting a great deal. Feeling extremely sensitive. Male pride.’
‘So that’s why he didn’t want me to have further tests. And I thought he’d decided he was happy with our little family of three.’
‘He was happy. So happy.’ Her voice has a reproachful edge. ‘He just wanted the best for you all.’
Sunny stands, disappearing into her treatment room. She reappears, rubbing her wrists. I can smell lavender.
Then it strikes me, like a slap round the face awakening the senses. If Sunny’s telling the truth, Kirsten is definitely lying.
The deep disappointment over Dan’s infertility deception is smothered by relief. He couldn’t have fathered a child with another woman – any woman.
Through the tears comes a concealed smile and a thought I shouldn’t be having in this moment. Maybe –just maybe – I could have another child. With Ashley.
As I sit back, bewildered by my feelings, Sunny tells me about her romance in Spain. Felix was a busker, entertaining people on the terraces of cafes and restaurants. They shared a love of music, meditation, an interest in the spiritual; she’d believed they were soul mates. As she worked all day waitressing and he worked at night, he moved into her flat so they could spend more time together. She loaned him money for a new guitar. Then one day she returned from her shift to find he’d ransacked her home, taking the few things of value she had, including cash and lucky gemstones from her handbag. He left a note saying, ‘Sorry, you don’t deserve
this.’
Was that why her handbag rarely left her side? Sunny stands up into the sharp silence that follows her revelations. Her eyes are moist. I realise why she doesn’t cry. Sunny wraps the serenity shawl impossibly tight around her, putting all her energy into easing the pain and hurt trapped inside, rather than letting it out.
‘I’m very sorry if I’ve upset you with some things I’ve said. Life’s been stressful for me, too. Keeping a spiritual balance hasn’t been easy,’ Sunny says. ‘You see, I have been in love – and hurt. I do know something about relationships.
‘And Dan was the only man who never let me down.’
With that, her sobs come. Old tears that have been trapped for too long.
***
Most of the drive home passes in a blur, my eyes straining to see through tears that obscure the windscreen, head struggling to straighten out thoughts jostling for attention in my fraught mind.
I hate the thought that my husband shared a problem so deeply personal with his sister, not his wife. Dan’s sperm count was so low it was highly unlikely he’d ever father another child. A life-changing fact – yet one I never knew.
Who else knew? He thought I’d be insensitive. Flippant. The words he’d written to CrykeyMoses on the forum come back and won’t leave me: ‘Everything’s a joke to her.’
I deeply regret what I said to Sunny – the mean, wild words. And I believe her. It’s as if the black voile through which I’d viewed her has been pulled aside. Sunny’s not the evil sister-in-law I’ve cast her as. Far from it. She’s been an easy target for my grief, someone to blame. I’ve been unfair to her.
I know Kirsten’s lying, about the child at least. I have to see her.
I hope to hide my emotions from Eleanor that evening, to hold them in; save them for bedtime. But it’s impossible. She confronts me the moment I step in the door.
‘I only got 35 per cent in the science test.’ She spits the words, standing close as I kick off my shoes. ‘I have to do a re-test tomorrow.’ I can’t be sympathetic. Or think in straight lines.
‘Maybe you should have worked harder for it,’ I say testily.
‘I’m just crap at it! It’s your fault.’ Eleanor stings me with a look of sheer contempt, mouth screwed into a seething mass. ‘You should help me. Dad would have.’ She storms up the stairs, pausing on the landing. ‘I HATE MY LIFE.’
Later, when Eleanor comes down for a glass of water, I’m still at the kitchen table, staring blankly at a magazine, wrapped in my own muddled misery.
‘You OK, Mum?’ She’s giving me a searching stare.
‘Things have just got to me.’ I sniff into a tissue. ‘I’m having one of those days.’
‘Maybe you should have some mash, cheer yourself up.’ She smiles through a look of concern. Talk about mood swings. Eleanor doesn’t know that there isn’t enough mashed potato in the kitchen of a care home to console me. She lingers by the table, eyeing me carefully, tears gathering. I sense her remorse.
I stand up, hold out my arms, and she lets me hug her close, crying quietly into my chest.
The latest hate letter’s on the table. I’d pulled it out of my bag, looking for tissues. Eleanor looks at it, then at me.
‘Mum, I …’
‘Yes,’ I will her to continue with my eyes. I knew she was about to say something important, her mouth held tight. I wanted it to be about her dad, for her to open up.
‘Nothing.’
‘I love that photo on your desk, darling,’ I say as she walks away. ‘Maybe we could frame a few more.’ She looks back, half smiles.
Later, I find a message on the answerphone from Ashley asking me to ring back. I don’t. I can’t bear to hear his voice and not be able to hug him. It’s torture.
I wait for Eleanor to go to bed and pour my heart out to Imogen.
CHAPTER 28
‘Yes, I lied. I’m sorry.’ Kirsten looks directly into my eyes.
I put my handbag next to an upturned beaker and several broken breadsticks on the sofa, between us. If she feels genuine remorse, it’s concealed beneath a blank expression.
‘You can’t just make up something like that, it could ruin lives,’ I say.
Kirsten’s still in her raincoat. I’d met her in the driveway, after she’d returned from dropping the children at her mum’s house, wasting no time telling her why I wanted to see her.
‘We only slept together once,’ she says glibly. I flinch, breathing restricted by a swell in the chest.
‘But, you said you didn’t … you’d fibbed— ’
‘It was the weekend of that London conference. In that posh hotel. Dan was really upset about something. He was stroppy all day. I thought you two were having issues.’
Kirsten fidgets, swiping her nose. ‘He got really pissed. I was flirting a lot – he came to my room in the end.’ She pauses. ‘We shared a bed but he was too drunk to do anything. I let Dan think something had happened. That’s why he sacked me.’
‘So he thought—’
‘Yeah, that he’d cheated on you.’
‘Why would you mislead him like that?’
Kirsten grabs a frayed cushion, squeezing it tight to her abdomen. Her face is blotchy.
‘I fancied Dan. I was jealous of you two, the things he did – buying flowers and presents, and forever going on about you and Eleanor, and your perfect life.’ She tosses the cushion aside. ‘My boyfriends have all been bastards. I was with Carl when I got pregnant with Jayden. He was a good dad at first. Then he started going out with his mates all the time. I had to do everything. Then he cheated on me.’
‘It doesn’t excuse what you’ve done.’ I stand to go. ‘It’s vindictive and vile—’
‘Seeing all the headlines about Dan, how much money he’d paid to get frozen …’ she pauses, hands squeezed into fists. ‘I can’t get a job now ’cause of the kids. It’s not fair, how rich people like you can …’ She stops.
Compassion crushes some of the anger. I sit, trying to make sense of the surge of sympathy I feel. The tears she’s resisting are visible, a shine on her tired, dull eyes.
‘Were you really tricked into telling the press about Dan’s donation?’
‘No. That was a lie, too.’
I pull a cheque from my purse; start writing. ‘Here, have this. It’ll help until you get work.’
‘Shit. Really? Ta.’ She takes it, eyes wide with disbelief.
‘And you can stop sending those stupid notes, and the calls. Was it you who scratched my car and threw eggs at the door – or got someone else to?’
She looks incredulous, mouth gaping as she shakes her head.
It wasn’t her. So who?
***
After days of flicking open the blinds and hovering at the window at every opportunity, like an undercover detective, I finally spot the old man on the bench.
‘I’m taking an early lunch,’ I announce to Mark, dashing past his desk with only one arm in my mac.
I take the back stairs, head across the courtyard. My foot catches a discarded drinks can as I hurry over, sending it flying, noisily, along the concrete path.
‘Hi … Gordon,’ I say, as he turns to see me approaching.
‘Hello, my dear,’ he says, with a big smile, strands of wispy hair circling above him in the breeze. He shuffles along the bench. His anorak’s unbuttoned over a stripy jumper; steam rising from a plastic cup in his hand. I sit next to him. ‘Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Carrie.’
‘That’s right, I had a second cousin we used to call Carrie – her real name was Carolyn.’
‘Mine’s Carolina. I can’t stand it.’
He looks surprised. ‘That’s a lovely name.’
After a few more pleasantries and some silences, I can’t hold it in.
‘I walked through the churchyard the other day. I saw your wife’s grave. I hope you don’t mind. It’s a beautiful headstone.’
Gordon takes a flask from his bag, hand sha
king as he pours more coffee.
‘I’m afraid to say, I don’t tend to the grave like I did. I used to take fresh flowers every week. I prefer thinking of her on this bench. Edith’s in here,’ he pats his head, then his chest, ‘and here.’ He stares ahead, hair taking off again in a gust. ‘She’s weaved into all our lives; mine, our children, grandchildren …’ He smiles. ‘Have you got family?’
I find myself telling Gordon about Dan. He listens, taking occasional noisy sips. ‘I’ve never heard of that,’ he says.
‘Nor had I until a few years ago when Dan told me his cryonics plan. He hoped I’d want to do the same when I die.’
‘And do you?’ Gordon squints into the sun. I don’t hesitate.
‘No.’
‘I’ve always thought you only get one shot.’ He flashes a warm smile.
‘But I still feel bad.’ I tell him how overwhelming the guilt is at times – especially concerning Ashley – and about the news stories, hate mail and other incidents, how Eleanor’s been teased at school and I fret about the effect everything might have on her in the future. I mention the ‘nearly cheat’ with Kirsten – even divulge Dan’s sperm deceit, wincing inwardly as I do so.
All the while I wonder why I’m relaying my life story to a near stranger, lowering my voice as others pass by, and for several minutes when we’re joined on the bench by a young man in a red Harrington, a distant beat emanating from huge headphones. But I can’t stop. Gordon frowns at some of my revelations, but makes no comment, listening intently.
‘You’ve got to make the most of the here and now,’ he says finally. ‘Seems to me you’re wasting your one shot worrying about things beyond your control. We can’t change the past, and predicting the future’s a fool’s game.’
I nod. His words echo Imogen’s, but somehow carry a weight and wisdom that makes them penetrate much deeper.
I fall silent – pensive – watching clouds scroll swiftly above the line of trees ahead, consoled by his sentiments and reluctant to leave. I’m startled when Gordon speaks again.
‘Most of us keep secrets, don’t we? I lied to my wife for years about being an accountant.’