Guilt

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  “Warrick does this,” she whispers, “whenever I take a turn.”

  “Thanks.”

  Meanwhile all Hetty can do is sit staring, no idea what to do with herself.

  “I don’t need your pity,” I growl at Hetty.

  “It’s not pity, I just can’t stand to see you like this!” She storms out of the room in tears, but while she’s gone, Jules turns to me and whispers, “It’s okay. It’ll be all right. You know Hetty. All fire and passion, no off-switch.”

  “Oh god, I know.”

  Jules stays with me and the hand thing begins to work. My heart rate starts to regulate again and the pounding in my head becomes less severe. Jules brings a blanket over to cover my legs and switches the TV on. It’s just some crappy drama or something. She shuts the curtains on the windows and reassures me, “We’re just going to relax, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good.”

  She takes a seat on the end of my sofa, pulling my feet onto her lap. “It’s going to be okay, you know? I wouldn’t lie to you, you know that. One day, it will be okay. I’m not saying that day will be soon, but eventually things will be okay.”

  “It’s hard right now to envisage that.”

  “I know. And I’m not going to start spouting off about how you should be thankful to even have a mother, because I’m not you, and I don’t know what it feels like to be you. Nobody does. Only you know how it all feels.”

  “Yes,” I agree, and a couple of tears slide down my face.

  “You know, before Warrick and I were ever boyfriend and girlfriend, he saw me at my absolute worst.”

  I look up and see her smiling fondly, remembering times gone by. “Really?”

  “Yes, he saw all my ugly. I felt incredibly vulnerable and at the same time, the fact that he stuck around made me think that there was something wrong with him, too.”

  “And was there?”

  “No,” she says, smiling, while also shaking her head. “He had nothing wrong with him, not really. His only fault to this day is that he tries too hard to save other people and that’s not really a fault, it’s just the one way in which I’m forced to share him… and I don’t like it. I’m a greedy cow and want all of him.”

  “So… when you say ugly…?”

  “Oh,” she murmurs, “it was in the very early days of us seeing one another that he witnessed me having an anxiety attack, a really bad one too. I also made him do a bunch of stuff to test him… because I didn’t think he would stick around. I guess I was self-centred, a lot like a loner… many things not to be proud of, but his love somehow made me human again. I’d been surviving for so long, it was strange when he came along and basically showed me what it might be like to live finally, you know?”

  “Wow. Remind me how you met again?” She’s never actually said, but I’ve always wondered how two people so disparate might then come together.

  “We met on a street corner, actually. I was this wet little limp thing, desperate and unhinged. He saw me and saved me. People can do that for one another, you know?”

  I take a shuddery, deep breath, the worst of it having passed.

  “I think it’s because we were so raw that we’ve lasted, you know?” she continues. “We couldn’t hide ourselves from one another. It was also the circumstance and the unexpectedness of it all – it’s what’s rooted us, you know? Getting to know one another in that way, when there was no sex involved and it was just so pure, it’s why we’re still together now. Because we know one another inside and out.”

  I start shaking my head. “I don’t think I was ever honest with Gage, nor was he ever honest with me.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  I purse my lip, shaking my head. “From his point of view, maybe he was afraid I’d leave him like his father did. From my point of view, maybe because I’ve been taught not to have outbursts like Hetty does. I sometimes wish I could just put it all out there, but I’m not like her. I’m not sure I ever will be.”

  “Hetty’s found a kind of peace with Joe, don’t you agree?” she continues, her lilting voice still soothing me.

  “Yes.”

  “She still flares occasionally, but think back to what she was like, and compare her to now. It’s clear he’s the difference. She’s getting to a place of calm and it’s amazing really, considering.”

  I can’t disagree with her.

  From out of nowhere, a memory assaults me and renders me stuck with an image of Gage in my mind. “This one time, he came home drunk. Nothing new about that. It didn’t have to be a weekend, it was any day he fancied it. He was rubbing up against me and we ended up in bed. He started thrusting between my legs but he didn’t realise he hadn’t penetrated me, he was just sandwiched between my thighs sort of thing. He went for it anyway and fell asleep after a few minutes, his limp cock still between my legs. I shifted away from him once I was sure he was asleep and then I turned over to stare at him, passed out. I vividly remember looking at him and seeing a stranger, someone I didn’t recognise. The lines of him weren’t familiar. His hands were foreign. He was often never able to finish because he was so drunk, but he’d grab me the morning after and grunt as if proud of himself. I often caught sight of him in the shower, seeing to himself, even after failing to see to me. Seeing this stranger in the bed next to me… it was shocking… and I still did nothing. I stayed with him. I did nothing, Jules.”

  “You didn’t do nothing,” she assures me. “You protected your children. You tried to do the best for them. You wanted them to live with their father. You wanted their dad to be around for them.”

  “I don’t want to become my mother,” I tell Jules, my lip wobbling.

  Jules continues rubbing my feet and whispers, “Then don’t. You made mistakes, sure… but what’s true is that you don’t have to be bound by them forever. Like I said, Warrick and I were at our most raw and rugged in those early days, but looking back that was what was most special about it all. If you can find the courage to be honest with Sam, maybe you’ll find yourself seeing things differently. Maybe you’ll let go of all this guilt you’re carrying and move on.”

  “I’ll try,” I promise.

  “Trust me, Liza. There’s so much we could all hold onto, but it’s just so much easier to let it go.”

  I take a deep breath. “Easier said than done.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I’M WALKING AROUND THE HOUSE early one Saturday morning… when it hits me. It’s been almost two months since he died. It doesn’t feel real. Time’s ticking has been so unreliable since he left – he could have died yesterday or last year for all I know. My heart and my soul are still buried beneath this quagmire of grief which seems to me to be existing for existence’s sake.

  Anyway, back to the present. It’s early and the garden outside is trapped beneath dense fog. It’s going to be warmer later, but it’s been a cool early-spring night.

  I’m still not sleeping well. It’s better than it was, but it’s not great.

  I often wander the house like this in the dead of night, buried in my pyjamas, my oversized robe, a woolly hat and slipper boots – perhaps so I won’t get cold, or maybe so that I don’t feel exposed. It’s been important since he died to button up and bury myself. It’s a comfort, anyway.

  “Liza,” he whispers, sneaking up on me. I turn and catch sight of Sam, squinting in the dark. “What are you doing wandering around at this hour?”

  I shrug and continue staring at the blanketed world outside. He walks up behind me and rests his chin on my shoulder, his strong arms wrapped across my midriff.

  “Beautiful, insomniac angel,” he whispers. “Come back to bed. Let me just hold you.”

  I let him take me. He carries me there as if I’m a tiny silk pillow stretched out across his arms. He pulls me tight against his chest in bed, my hat and slippers removed, but not the rest.

  It’s been like this for weeks now. He comes and stays over on Friday and Saturday nights. We
do nothing but hold one another in bed. I remain buttoned up. He holds me and understands, while I try my best to ignore the desire vibrating beneath his skin – a desire I am as yet unable to reciprocate.

  Joe’s transfer has been temporarily postponed. Of course, it was never in the press or anything. It was all hush-hush. Hetty and he have moved back into their tiny little house for the time being. Some mornings I manage to get out of bed and take Emily to school – but often I text Hetty and she comes in the car and dresses my daughter, then ferries her there to that place where people know who I am and what has happened to me.

  When I first found out they weren’t moving after all, a part of me wanted to accuse Hetty of hindering Joe’s career, just because she’s not ready to leave me yet – but the moment that rebellion rose up in me, it was quickly replaced by the fear that I might have to start relying on my mum instead, if indeed Hetty does leave the city. I don’t have the energy to wheedle the truth out of her. Whether she’s put the dampers on his transfer or not (because of me), I have no right to question her, and no strength to fight her, not anymore.

  “I’m sorry I’m still struggling,” I whisper, suddenly remembering who I’m with.

  “Don’t be.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “I know. Hush, take comfort.”

  Sometimes, I want him to shout at me – tell me to snap out of this. He never does. He arrives after the kids are in bed because it’s too soon for their father to be replaced. It’s difficult.

  Sometimes, Sam leaves in the early hours when I’m finally asleep and I’ll wake to find a note on my pillow, reminding me he loves me and will see me soon.

  “I can’t promise I’m ever going to get better.”

  “I don’t need promises. I just need to be next to you.”

  He says all these wonderful things, but a part of me still doesn’t believe them. I hate myself. I don’t know why I’m even still here. I don’t deserve to live.

  “You know, for so many years I told myself you were just Sam, my flirty friend who had all the girls wrapped around his little finger. I told myself it was just your way… to be gregarious with everyone. I had myself convinced you might have a bunch of girls at your beck and call, one for each day of the week.”

  “Hmm, you did, did you?”

  “Yes.”

  He buries his nose in my throat and breathes in the scent of my skin, inhaling me. “How right you were, kitten.”

  “Kitten?” I scoff. “Why do you always call me that?”

  “Because I could put you in my pocket if I wanted to.”

  “Oh, you are mean,” I snicker.

  “Well, it’s true.”

  “Yes.” He could put me anywhere he wanted to, and I would never complain. Ever.

  “Have I ever told you about how Jules and Warrick met?”

  “No… why? Is it something I should know about? I don’t know them well at all…”

  I begin to tell him about the ritual of Jules’ – how she would wait on street corners. How Warrick picked her up, shook her down and changed her world. How things didn’t quite go according to plan – but they got there in the end, eventually. I tell him about how Hetty and I fit into it all – how a number of what Jules thought were erroneous events actually brought the stars into alignment.

  I explain how the rest of us have only ever been able to admire Jules and Warrick from afar, unable to achieve that same magical quality of a union which injected new life into them as individuals, but also into an entire community.

  Eventually, Sam cottons on and says, “So, you mean to say, they were fated, or something? To do all they’ve done together; to achieve all they have. You’re saying you believe in fate.”

  “I want to, don’t you?”

  “I do. I want to. I’m not sure I believe in the beyond or anything… I can’t say I’m into all that, you know. However, fate sounds nice… it sounds romantic.”

  I find myself worrying he’s missed the point, but maybe he just needs me to elaborate.

  “Sam, what if soulmates who get together aren’t just meant to live happily ever after… what if their union is actually meant to effect change in the world? What if they’re meant to partner in life, not just love? You know?”

  He sighs, as though disappointed. “I’ve always thought that anyone who finds love at all must be lucky… but to have all that as well, it’s rare, surely? I can’t speak from much experience. My parents were pretty crappy role models and I’ve never had a serious relationship. I’ve always been bobbing along. That’s who I am.”

  I lift up and stare down into his eyes. “I guess what I mean, is that, don’t you want something that’s more than sex or love? Don’t you want something that changes the world?”

  He’s staring up at me with that endearing look in his eye. “I think Jules and Warrick sound like two magical people, and I think they’ve kept you and Hetty under their wings because they recognise something familiar in both of you. The truth is though Liz, I’m just me, Sam. I’m just here. I’m just bobbing along. That’s what I do. I’m never going to claim to be something I’m not, but at the same time, I would never stop you from exploring your potential and running with it, even if that means you end up working in some sphere that’s totally different to mine.”

  I snuggle back into his chest, feeling frustrated. I’m not sure he understands.

  “I mean… what I meant was that… well, my marriage to Gage was a bitter disappointment. I’ve been trying to rationalise his death, for it to mean something. I feel like – and I know this is going to sound crazy – but I feel as though it has to mean something, for me, and for the sake of my sanity. I have to make something out of it. I have to go on and achieve stuff…”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “…but I feel like I allowed myself to be buried beneath my marriage and motherhood. That I hid behind it for some reason, and I don’t know why.”

  “I see.” He holds me tighter, sounding a little worried.

  “I feel like I romanticised it all… the whole childhood sweethearts thing. We built it on a flimsy foundation of fantasy, but then as time moved on, it just became more evident it lacked substance. It became more evident it wasn’t real.”

  Sam takes my hair in his hand and clutches me in his arms. “God, Liza. If you were to ask me what feels most real in this moment, I would have to say it’s my desire for you. The way you talk, the way you smile… I would just about do anything to see you smile. I have loved you for such a long time, do you know that?”

  “I don’t…” I try to bury myself tighter in his embrace.

  “There’s no point in talking ill of the dead, or about what could have been, or about how to make his death meaningful instead of pathetic, which is his fault entirely… because he drank too much and didn’t put you first. He had a lousy gag reflex after a dozen pints and six shots and that’s all there is to it. I’m sorry, Liz. That’s the truth of it. You’re here ruminating over all this, trying to make sense of it, but you can’t. And let me tell you why.”

  “Okay, tell me.”

  “Because you’re a woman of deep, deep yearning. A woman of passion. Of love. Of great understanding and empathy. You want to put a romantic spin on all this? Do it… if it helps. But from my point of view, and many people will agree, he was a stupid idiot. He was one-dimensional. He didn’t see what was right in front of his eyes. You’ve projected your great capacity for feeling onto him, even though from what I’ve heard over the past couple of years’ worth of emails, he possessed the emotional range of a teaspoon, if you don’t mind me quoting Hermione Granger. He was never going to make you happy, not really. You’re the one who made him look great. Without you, he probably would have got in debt, gambling and visiting Vegas all too often. He might have graduated from drink to drugs much quicker. You just don’t know. All you need to realise is that your emotional range is mega, but his wasn’t. He didn’t understand you; never could; never would h
ave. You’re here, still lingering on this, weeks after. I understand that, I do. It was shocking and brutal and truly, truly ugly. But the artist behind this stunt wasn’t skilful and certainly didn’t have integrity. He just acted carelessly and paid for it with his life. Anyone can die, any second,” he assures me, with the click of his fingers, “but nothing comes from nothing. You’re not nothing. You have a lot to give. You don’t need me to hold you up. You don’t need me to promise you anything. The person you really need promises from is yourself. Yes, I can promise you that I won’t allow you to be sucked into another vortex again, one where you’re doing all the giving and your partner is doing all the taking. That will never happen if you’re with me, because I won’t allow it to. However, you have to promise yourself that you’ll try to believe in you, that you’ll reach for more from life, not for your parents’ sake or your kids’ or mine, but for yourself. You. Then you’ll start to value yourself and what you’re capable of.”

  A tiny electric spark runs across my heart and I start to hope… I start to feel again. He sounds so impassioned and desperate. He’s not afraid of treading on eggshells anymore and that’s just what I need.

  I lever myself and look down into his eyes, stroking his cheek. “Sam, you say the most beautiful things.”

  “I learnt from you, kitten. All from you.”

  “I’m just afraid.”

  “It’s okay, I’m afraid too.”

  I wipe away a tear. “You don’t seem afraid. You seem strong and full of life and unbroken, not like me.”

  In his eyes, I see demons unleashed, plus a determination to face fire and wrath. “No, Liza. I’m afraid of everything. I’m afraid of losing my job and not being able to pay my bills. I’m afraid I’m not good enough. Sometimes I have to pinch myself in the job I’m doing. I’m a perfectionist, I can’t relax for a minute. I’m afraid that makes me appear a pedant in front of my colleagues, when I’m actually just unable to show vulnerability…