What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?

by Claire Allan

  “We can’t go on like this,” he said.

  “Nothing happened.Nothing happened at all. We just met and had dinner and I should have told you and I don’t even understand why I didn’t tell you. But nothing happened. You are the one for me.I just freaked out.” I flopped onto the sofa and put my head in my hands.

  Sitting down beside me, he took my hands and I held on to them, tightly. I didn’t want to let go. I didn’t want to even think about letting go because I was so afraid that I wouldn’t get to hold them again. The fear in the hospital, the day he was rushed in, that was one thing – this felt more real, more immediate and scary as hell.

  “It’s been scary, Paddy – and when Ian got in touch, I just had to see him.”

  Paddy’s face paled.

  “But it’s not what you think. I just wanted to try and make sense of it all – to have closure for what we had been through and to allow me to move on. I wanted to be able to walk down the aisle with all our ghosts put to rest.”

  “Our ghosts aren’t at rest,” he said, his hand squeezing mine again and I held on tight. “It’s not just last night.I’ve lived the last few months wondering – probably knowing, if the truth be told – if the only reason you agreed to marry me was because I had cancer.”

  I shook my head, lifting his hand and kissing it. He pulled his hand away and continued talking.

  “I’ve lived knowing that you could wake up one morning and realised this was too much responsibility for one person and just decide to clear off. And I would have to be the bigger person – you know the cancer sufferer who says ‘Go on and live your life, have those things I can’t give you with someone else. Don’t let me hold you back.’ Because, Erin, I know I am holding you back.”

  “You’re not holding me back!” I said, my eyes trying to find his and my heart starting to crack.

  “I’ve changed you, from the vibrant, confident, carefree, gorgeous woman I fell in love with to someone who has to worry about me, who has to remind me to take pills, who has mopped up my sick and held me while I shook and shivered with the side effects of chemotherapy. I put you in the position where you came home and found me looking half-dead in bed and I’ve done that to you and I can’t undo it.”

  My heart cracked a little more. “Please Paddy, it’s not like that.”

  “I’ve thought about this a lot, Erin, you have to let me finish. I want to undo the harm I’ve done, but I can’t.”

  “You can.”

  He shook his head. “And when this is done, if this is done, it’s always going to be there. Isn’t it? I mean, when we go to have a family, it’s possible we’ll have to get doctors involved. The chemo, we know the damage it may have done . . . well, the doctors say it’s often temporary, but . . .I have taken away so much from you, Erin, and all I ever wanted was to give you the moon. Not a ruddy sperm ice lolly and an intimate date with the fertility doctor. So if I have pushed, if I have put on a stupid, happy, smiley, wedding-obsessed face it was because I was trying to convince myself and you that this was all normal. That we were doing this for all the right reasons. That you, Erin Brannigan, the love of my life, were doing this for the right reason.”

  I was sobbing now – trying to find the words to make this better but feeling my cracking, shattering, shredded heart sink further and further.

  “You think I haven’t seen you struggle? You think I haven’t seen you pull a face when Fiona talks all things reception-related. Or that I haven’t seen that look on your face, that panic-stricken moment of horror when a doctor walks into the room? And you think that I’ve not seen how you look at me – like I’m a wounded puppy. No man wants to be looked at like he’s a wounded puppy, Erin. No man. The doctors took away a testicle and I was okay with that but I look at you and see the life I had wanted slipping away from me bit by bit by bit and that scares me more than cancer. I’m losing you.”

  “No,” I sobbed.

  “You don’t even realise it yet, not really. But I’m losing you and for a while now I’ve been trying to hang on but the thing is, Erin, and this breaks my heart into a million pieces to admit, you can’t hold onto something that doesn’t want to be held onto. And there you are again, with that wounded-puppy-dog look. So here we are. I admit defeat. I admit that I’ve lost and that’s the price I’ve had to pay for getting through this cancer.”

  I didn’t know how to look at him. I didn’t know how to find the words to tell him that I loved him, that he hadn’t lost me. Yes, I was scared. I was so unbelievably shit-scared it made me sick to the very core of my stomach and that wasn’t something we had ever talked about. We had never allowed ourselves to admit to each other just how scared we were because that would make it real. Neither of us wanted it to be real – not even a little bit.

  It was a bastard because I should have been able to tell him all that – and he needed me to speak then. He needed me to speak without so much as a moment’s hesitation but I couldn’t. Because there was a part of him that was right. Of course our relationship had changed. How could we ever have been so naïve as to think that it wouldn’t or couldn’t or that it would make us stronger? What a pile of sanctimonious bullshit claptrap.

  He looked at me and I looked at him. I knew I could tell him how I loved him, how I desperately, desperately loved the very bones of him but I knew that I couldn’t make his fears go away with just words. I couldn’t make it go away no matter how hard I tried.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I sobbed. “I don’t know how to make you believe me . . .”

  “You can’t say we didn’t try,” he said, sadly. “We did try.”

  “I’m not ready to stop trying!”

  “I’m not sure you have a choice.”

  I looked at him, trying to see some trace of something – anything – which would lead me to believe he didn’t really mean what he was saying. That this was just some mad blip to add to the list of blips we’d had over the last few months.

  “We have choices,” I said, sniffing loudly, trying to recover my composure. “We have choices, Paddy. You know that. You can’t give up on me. You know, you know I love you. I will marry you.”

  “Erin,” he said, looking at me, his eyes taking on a steely glare, “I don’t want you to marry me for this – because of this. And can you tell me, really and truly, that you didn’t say yes primarily because I had this illness hanging over my head?”

  “I do love you,” I said, pleading with him.

  “I know . . . I know . . .” he said, breaking down, the tears flowing freely, making my heart finally shatter into a million pieces. “I know you love me but I’m not sure it’s enough. I’m not sure I’m the best person for you. You have been hurt before and the thing is, Erin, I can’t promise that I won’t hurt you again. I can’t be the person you want me to be . . .”

  He stood up and I grabbed at his hand, trying to haul him back to me – pulling him towards me, the sob which had been building escaping and mingling with the sob that had just broken free from his throat. He shrugged me off, walking away, lifting his coat and walking out of our house and I knew this time that he wasn’t coming back. He was right, I thought, as my world crumpled around my ears. You can’t hold onto something which doesn’t want to be held on to – no matter how hard you try and no matter how fierce your grip.

  I crumpled then, folded in half almost, or maybe in thirds, or maybe even in quarters on the floor. I crumpled as I realised I had never known loss or pain before – not compared to this. It was physical – excruciating – ripping through every cell in my body and I felt my body, from the end of my hair to the tips of my toes ache and scream out.

  I loved him. God I loved him – and I had lost him. Jesus, I had lost him by agreeing to marry him – by standing by his side through this cancer. Through being human and having doubts. Through, it dawned on me horribly and painfully, doing things wrong.

  And I simply did not know where to go from here. I had no clue – no notion at all.

>   Chapter thirty-five

  Kitty

  “You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to,” my daddy said as I sat frozen in the car, unsure of what to do.

  I shook my head, then shrugged my shoulders, looking like I had some kind of weird nervous tick. “I don’t know . . .” My fragile heart was telling me to run to him, to hug him and make him feel better. He looked awful – just awful. My gut – the part that had already started building up really high, really strong and really quite impenetrable walls since his departure wanted to turn the car around and drive away, just leaving him there to have whatever new mid-life crisis he was having. I’d been on the receiving end of it already – I had no desire to have my heart trampled on any more.

  “I don’t know,” I repeated. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “What feels right?” Daddy asked, taking my hand.

  “Nothing,” I said slowly. “At the moment nothing, no matter how I try.”

  “Whatever the outcome may be, you and him, you need to talk at some stage. But it doesn’t have to be tonight, pet.You’ve had a tough enough day. But, believe me, avoiding it doesn’t make it go away.”

  “I know,” I said, squeezing his hand. “I need to. I need to be a grown-up about it, don’t I? I can’t run from it.”

  “No, but there’s no shame in putting it on pause for a day or two.”

  “I’m stronger than that, Daddy.I can do it. I can really do it.”

  And there and then it was clear to me – to move on – to really move on I had to face him. It was one thing taking off my wedding ring. It was another thing changing the locks. It was another thing completely and altogether to tell James I needed a break from him and the time to find myself. But the one thing I knew I would have to do, to really break free, was to hear my husband tell me why I wasn’t good enough for him, why we didn’t work and why he needed to not be with me. Even if it would hurt and even if I thought my heart couldn’t break any more.

  I let go of my father’s hand and stepped out of the car. I walked towards the man who had been my heart and soul – my everything – and steeled myself for the final break in what had been the biggest, and greatest, love affair of my life.

  Mark Shanahan had captured my heart the very first time we had met. We had shared our very own Jerry Maguire moment that day, except he hadn’t had me at hello, he had me at “Excuse me,” as he brushed past, arms laden with drinks in a busy bar. He had spilled some Guinness on my far too expensive shoes and I had called him a bollocks even though, really, I didn’t mind as it gave us chance to talk. I just knew, you see, in the way you know – the way you know someone is meant for you.

  He was gorgeous. Dark-haired, lean, tall – well, taller than me anyway. He had dark, deep eyes, a smile that was as a wide as it was gleaming. He had a keen business head – was there by my side when The Dressing Room opened, offering what advice he could. He had a wicked sense of humour, a quick-wittedness that could make me laugh so hard that my ribs would ache and I would beg him to stop. He was, without doubt, the best kisser I had ever encountered. And we had never stopped kissing – properly kissing. We weren’t one of those couples who had at some stage started just pecking each other on the cheek or simply avoiding any physical contact. We had kissed – properly kissed – at least once a day and there was not a single day where I felt as if we were going through the motions, where it didn’t feel real or it felt wrong. It felt right – we felt right. He was the one. He had been the one, always.

  He followed me into the house, sheepishly, knowing perhaps that he wasn’t meant to be there anymore. This may well have been his house – his name was still on the deeds – but this was not his home. He stood awkwardly in the hall – not wandering straight to the kitchen as he would have done. Not slumping on the sofa in the living room, kicking off his trainers and switching on Sky Sports. There was no grabbing me in the hall and leading me upstairs to our bedroom. He just stood behind me, his head stooped. I turned and looked at him and heard a strange noise come from his throat. It took a few seconds to realise he was crying – his shoulders shaking, his body tense. It winded me – I had never seen Mark cry like that before. Not even at his own father’s funeral when he had insisted on doing the great stiff-upper-lip routine and had ended up comforting me as I sobbed at the graveside. I stood, watching him shake, his body judder, listening to the strange sounds from his throat, fighting the physical urge to either hug him or hit him. How could he stand here in front of me now, crying? He had been the one who ruined it. He had been the one who had walked – no, actually, run at the speed of light – away. He was the one who had slept with someone else when we were still married. When he was still coming home to me and kissing me every day like he meant it. My head started to hurt and I just wanted to make it stop. I squeezed at my temples, felt my arms twitch, not sure what to do or what to say. I decided just to wait until he spoke – wait to see where he was coming from. By now he was hugging his arms – a pose I realised I was now copying. Hugging ourselves and not each other – me feeling pathetically useless and powerless.

  “Sit down, Mark,” I said, thinking he might feel a bit better at least if he was seated comfortably in his misery. He led the way into the living room – instinctively walking to his favourite seat and sitting down. I sat across from him, listening to him sniff and snivel.

  “I’m so, so sorry, Kitty. I’m so sorry I ruined it all.”

  Did he expect me to say it was okay? There was a part of me that wanted to. But a bigger part of me knew that he was right. It had been ruined. So I nodded, sitting forward and wringing my hands, noticing he was wringing his too. I waited for him to say more. He didn’t. He just sat there, staring at his hands, glancing at me. Maybe he was waiting for me to make it all better – good old Kitty.

  “I can’t believe I was so stupid,” he said eventually.

  “I can’t believe you were so stupid either,” I replied.

  “I didn’t mean for things to get so out of control,” he said. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I would never hurt you . . .”

  I snorted. Was I really supposed to believe that he didn’t think his actions would hurt me?How could he? “You walked out, Mark. You went away to ‘find yourself’ – you didn’t talk, you didn’t call, you didn’t care a damn whatI was going through.”

  “I didn’t know what to say. I knew, I knew as soon as I left that I had made the biggest mistake of my life. I knew I had messed everything up – handled everything so badly. And I knew I had lost you.”

  “You didn’t lose me. You threw me away. You made those choices, Mark, and yet you’re here now – crying and looking miserable and none of this makes sense.”

  “I only came to pick up the new key,” he said, with a very weak smile. “But when I got here, it hit me. Everything that I’d lost.”

  “You say you lost it like you just casually misplaced it or something.”

  “Okay,” he said, sitting back. “Everything I threw away. Everything I arsed up and destroyed. Does that make you feel better? Would me throwing myself at your feet or self-flagellating make you feel better?” His voice was sharp and horrid.

  “No! Funnily enough there’s not a whole lot between me and you at the moment which would make me feel better. I appreciate you have apologised – that is a definite step up from twee letters about things being wrong for a long time. Things weren’t wrong for me, Mark. I had no warning – and I phoned your work to find you not there – you having walked out. And then came home to find you not here – and a letter. A bloody letter, throwing away whatever we had . . .”

  “I didn’t walk out of work,” he said, cutting me off mid-rant. “I didn’t just pack it in, Kitty. They didn’t give me any choice in the end.”

  I looked at him blankly. They didn’t give him a choice.

  He sat forward – his head in his hands again. “They fired me. Said I wasn’t getting the results I once had. Said they needed to downsize.”

/>   “They can’t just do that – just fire you?” I said, my brain spinning. Fired? Mark had been fired – Mark who loved his job and worked damn hard. Mark, who had left me a letter telling me he had left his job. This didn’t make sense – none of it.

  “Things hadn’t been right for a while. I’d had a few warnings – falling targets, missed sales pitches. They would have done whatever they could to get rid of me in the end – anything to save them a redundancy package.”

  “You didn’t tell me . . . any of this . . .”

  He snorted. “I couldn’t, Kitty. My pride was in shreds – and there was your business booming despite the recession and I was sinking like a stone. I thought I would turn it around – that the next month would be better. I wanted it to be better – I wanted to give you what you wanted – security, the baby we wanted.”

  My heart lurched at the mention of the baby we had wanted. The baby we wouldn’t have. Tears pricked at my eyes but I was determined not to let them fall.

  “It just got too much,” he said, his eyes pleading, and I tried to imagine what it must have been like for him – to have his world fall apart and think he couldn’t talk to me about it. We must have been more broken than I thought.

  “I would have helped,” I muttered. “We would have managed.”

  “I didn’t want to ‘manage’. I wanted to make you happy.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh – a weird, strangulated laugh. “Well, well done on that score. I’ve never been happier. Tell me this, Mark, were you thinking of happiness when you were sleeping around at work too?”

  “What?” He jolted upright.

  “When you were sleeping around. At work. Before or after your verbal warnings – I’m not sure.”

  “Kitty, what are you talking about?”

  “Sex, it would seem. You know – that thing we used to do together and which traditionally, once you are married, you only do with your partner?”