Who We Were Before

by Leah Mercer

  I’d never seen him so still. Even when he was sleeping, he was a whirlwind, constantly twisting himself up in blankets and falling off the bed. His face was chalky like he’d been into Zoe’s face powder once again. One cheek was scraped and bruised, and his lips had two deep marks. But other than that and some dirt on his jeans (par for the course), nothing could tell me what happened.

  Zoe explained in that same flat tone, gripping Milo’s hand the whole time as her voice filled the small room. I remember staring at her, seeing her lips move, yet all the while not taking it in. Desperately trying to find something – someone – to make it not true.

  A cry bursts from me now that has nothing to do with my head. Grief rolls over me, and this time, I’m powerless to stop it. It fills every pore of my being, soaking into all the cracks and empty spaces, until I feel like my body is almost solid with sadness, like concrete weighing me down on the bed. I want to get up, to escape, to move away from it like I usually do, but I can’t – I’m pinned. It presses on my lungs with such force I can barely breathe, or even form thoughts. A low wail leaves my throat, a sound that’s so animalistic, it doesn’t even seem human.

  I don’t know how long I lie like that, inert on the bed, as sadness crashes inside me like physical blows to my guts. Each hit takes my breath away, as image after image of Milo lying on that gurney assaults my mind. I silently beg for my brain to stop, but I’ve lost control. I’ve no choice but to give in.

  In the midst of all this, Zoe’s stony face fills my mind. Is this how she feels every day? Is this what she lives with – a sadness that isn’t just a passive passenger but a violent hijacker, grabbing your life and the will to live? If so, I can understand now why she’s had such a hard time moving on. If this is the norm, just getting through the hours must be torture. No wonder she couldn’t talk to me, couldn’t respond to what I thought was my help and support.

  A stab of guilt pierces me as I picture the times – the many times – I tried to move her on, and the frustration I felt when nothing seemed to work. Packing up Milo’s room, encouraging her to get more clients . . . even asking to try for that baby again. I wince, remembering her stricken expression. If someone tried to chivvy me along right now, I’d haul off and hit them. I was only doing what I thought was best, but can I really say my method of moving forward has served me well? Have I ever even allowed myself to grieve properly for him, for my son? Feel the soul-deep sadness engulfing me now for longer than a few seconds, without batting it away?

  I slide my hand down to my ring finger, where the skin still feels strange and naked, then up to my recently shorn chin. Here I am, trying to make myself into something I am not, turning back time by shaving and trying to lose myself in alcohol. Here I am, about to cheat on my wife and the mother of my child with a woman I like but – let’s face it – don’t love, and probably never will. I’m forty-one years old, and I’m lying in bed at the emergency department of a foreign hospital after splitting my head open from drinking too much. Pathetic.

  And none of it has helped blank the memory I’m trying to dodge. I’m still a man whose son has died, and whose wife has left him too. And while I may understand that a bit better now, no matter how hard I try, nothing will erase that.

  Not even sleeping with Fiona.

  I force my eyes open and look at my mobile. Fiona still hasn’t texted her arrival time, but it must be soon. I’ll get fixed up here, head to the hotel, and see when she’s coming. I’ll meet her at the train station and tell her I’m sorry, but I need to return to London – I can’t go any further with her. I don’t want to disappoint her, especially after the long train journey, but I can’t keep this up any longer. I don’t want to be a tourist in this town; I don’t want to try to keep forcing myself to look ahead.

  I just want to be home, even if I don’t know where that is any more.

  54

  EDWARD, MAY 2013

  I’m sitting in the doctor’s office, willing myself to stay calm as I await the results of the fertility test. I know I’m not infertile – obviously, since Milo’s my son – but if we need extra help to conceive again, it’s best we find out now. I hate the look on Zoe’s face, month after month, when she discovers she’s not pregnant. I hate knowing it’s because of me that we can’t complete our family yet, to give Milo a brother or sister. I want Zoe and Milo to have everything, but my body won’t play ball. The weight hangs heavy on me every day, a constant rebuke in the background of our happy life.

  And so, as much as I detest the thought of jerking off into a tube, then handing it over for analysis, I’ve done just that. If there’s something I can do to kick-start my balls into functioning properly, I’m on board.

  ‘Edward Morgan?’

  I follow the doctor into his office and settle into the chair, thinking back to this time a few years ago. It feels like another century, but I can still remember the confusion and uncertainty whipping around my brain as I tried to figure out what to do – and then how it all fell apart when Zoe told me the baby wasn’t mine. I try not to think about that now, because there’s no point recalling the absolute pain, the hurt, and then the relief yet disbelief when she told me the truth. We are happy, life together is wonderful, and dredging up old memories achieves nothing. Besides, Zoe promised never to lie again, and I believe her.

  ‘We have the results from your test.’ The doctor leans back in his chair, and my heart picks up pace. ‘Your sperm count is certainly on the lower side, likely as a result of your illness as a child, but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be able to conceive naturally. I’d say give it another six months, then come back if you’re still having trouble. All right?’

  I let out the breath I hadn’t even realised I was holding. ‘So everything is fine?’

  The doctor nods. ‘It should be, yes.’ He shifts in his chair, a subtle signal this conversation is over.

  I nod, say goodbye, and make my way through the corridors and out into the warm spring day, feeling curiously flat inside. I should be happy: the doctor’s just told me I’m okay; nothing needs fixing. But maybe I wanted fixing, a helping hand to lift this burden. Instead, I’m stuck with a low sperm count and a wife I still can’t get pregnant – at least, not this time.

  I pause on the pavement outside the clinic, picturing six more months of Zoe’s false cheery tone when she tells me no, not this time. I know she’s covering the disappointment she really feels . . . covering it for me, of course, since I’m the one to blame. I’m the one who can’t give her what she wants for the first time in our marriage, and it kills me.

  I envision her face, lit up with optimism and hope as I come through the door, only for me to tell her that I don’t have a solution, I don’t have an answer. All I have is me and my faulty sperm. And how the hell can a man apologise enough for that?

  I turn in the opposite direction of home, away from my wife and son.

  55

  ZOE, SUNDAY, 9 A.M.

  As the taxi makes its way to the hospital, I lean back on the seat and take a deep breath. So many thoughts are running through my mind it’s impossible to even consider closing my eyes, despite the fact I’ve only had a couple of hours’ sleep.

  Is Edward all right? What happened? Is he lying unconscious, or sitting up being polite and apologising for the inconvenience, like he normally would? I shake my head, my curls pinging off my flushed cheeks. If only I knew something about his condition I wouldn’t feel so tense, so cast out into the unknown, flip-flopping between terror and a roll-of-the-eyes at the trouble he got himself into.

  For the first time, I can understand how hard it must have been to be on the other side of Milo’s accident – not as hard as me, obviously, since I’m the one who caused it. I didn’t mean to leave Edward in the dark, of course I didn’t, but I could barely speak myself. Even just finding his contact on my phone took five minutes; the numbers kept swimming in front of my eyes. And I’d hoped . . . I’d hoped that Milo might make it. Hope is su
ch a feeble word to express how I really felt. If I said I’d scald myself, freeze myself, endure any form of torture for my son to live, I’d have done it in a heartbeat. Less than a heartbeat, even.

  That look on Edward’s face when he opened the door to the room where Milo was lying – it’s something I can’t ever forget, like a void had opened up in front of him and he was falling in. I should have moved to comfort him, but I’d already fallen in myself – the only thing keeping me conscious was holding onto Milo’s hand, his chubby fingers gripped in mine, the way they should have been earlier that day. And once I let go, I plummeted.

  When I told Edward what happened, and he hurled those words at me, those words I’ll never forget, then burst out of the room, opening the door with so much force it banged against the wall, well . . .

  Why weren’t you watching him? Why didn’t you stop him? How could you let this happen?

  I shut my eyes now against the sun streaming from the sky. I don’t blame him for his actions, for his words. I would have prepared him if I could, but how can you prepare your husband for his son’s death? I couldn’t even come close to absorbing it myself. I don’t blame him now for his distance either. He tried to haul me out of the pit I was in, but it wasn’t his hand I wanted. It was Milo’s, and I couldn’t bring myself to reach to anyone else.

  But now . . . now, I want to come out of this cave. I need to. If Edward and I can endure two years of what we’ve just gone through and stay together despite it all (‘together’ being relative, of course), then there must be something worth saving. There’s a reason we’ve both hung in there, why we both agreed to come on this trip in the first place. There is an us we need to find again. It won’t be the same – neither one of us is. But maybe it can still be something special, something we can rebuild together.

  I swallow hard. If we’re going to do this, we need to be open and honest . . . no secrets. And that means telling him what happened, that awful day I disappeared a few months after Milo’s death. I can already picture his incredulous expression, the shock I never told him. I cross my fingers, praying he’ll understand, that he’ll be able to understand. I need to take that blind leap of faith and, for once, trust that our relationship is strong enough.

  ‘This is it, Madame.’

  I look up at the imposing stone façade of the hospital, then gasp as I realise I have no money. Shit. I’d followed the receptionist’s command without even thinking about it. I make a big show of rifling through my pockets, pretending to look for notes as the cab driver releases a very Gallic-sounding sigh.

  ‘I’m so very sorry,’ I say, desperate now to be out of this car and into the hospital. ‘I can’t seem to find my money.’

  ‘No money?’ In the rear-view mirror, I can see the driver’s raised eyebrows.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s just, my husband’s in emergency here, and I rushed over . . .’ I cross my fingers he understands English well enough to grasp my halting explanation.

  ‘Go, go.’ He makes shooing motions with his hands, and I slide from the seat before he changes his mind.

  Inside the hospital, the same smell of antiseptic and polish meets my nose and I push away the memories clawing at my mind.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say to a harried-looking older woman with a neat grey bob sitting behind a desk. ‘Do you speak English?’

  She nods quickly, as if her head is on a string. ‘Yes.’

  Phew. My nerves can’t take trying to speak French right now. ‘I’m looking for Edward Morgan. He was admitted sometime last night, I think.’

  ‘One minute.’ The woman slides on her glasses and spends what feels like an endless amount of time clicking on the keyboard. My heart is racing and every muscle in my body is set to ‘twitch’ as I await her response. What unit will he be in? How long will he need to stay? I watch her mouth for any sign of movement.

  ‘He’s just been released,’ she says finally, and relief sinks into every cell of my body. Released. He’s all right. Oh, thank god. I still don’t know what happened, or why he had to go to hospital, but none of that matters. What matters is that my husband is okay.

  ‘Thank you.’ I nod, feeling a smile grow on my face, a glimmer of hope and excitement circling my belly for the first time in . . . well, that night before Milo’s accident, I guess. I turn from the desk then race across the polished floor and through the heavy doors, spinning from left to right as I realise I don’t have the cash for a cab ride back to the hotel. I’ll have to walk.

  My legs churn and I force them faster and faster, unable to wait any longer.

  My husband. God, how I’ve missed him.

  56

  ZOE, JUNE 2013

  ‘More, Mama! More ladybird!’ Milo struggles to sit up in bed, grabbing my hand.

  I lean down and tuck his blue blankie under his arm. If I need to make up yet another story about the ladybird we saw in the park today, I’m going to lose it.

  ‘No, sweetheart. It’s time to sleep now.’

  ‘No . . .’ The protest emerges in a low howl from my son, and I kiss his soft cheek as I try to extricate my hand from his grip. Normally Edward’s on bedtime duty, but he’s off in the wilds of Buckinghamshire on a corporate retreat. After a busy day of park, park and more park, I can’t wait to settle down in front of the telly with a glass of Cabernet – although I may need to rethink the wine. I might be wrong, but my period was due a few days ago, and there’s been no sign of it. I’m also feeling a bit nauseated, the kind of sickness that sits on your shoulder and refuses to budge.

  I say goodnight to Milo and creep from the room, praying he falls asleep quickly. As I pad down the stairs, my hand slides to my stomach. Could there be a baby growing inside me? Another little one to complete our family – finally? I pray to God there is, at the very least to bring back my normally happy, solid husband. Usually I’m the moody one, but ever since he got those test results, he’s become increasingly stressy. It’s as if the doctor increased the pressure on him to get us pregnant, instead of easing the strain of thinking there might be problems. I dread the day my period arrives now, because I know he’ll stalk out the door and walk for hours, returning only when I’ve gone to bed.

  He’s even started asking me if I’m open to fertility treatments. I want another baby, but the cost of those treatments is astronomical, and there is still a chance we can conceive naturally – a very good chance, if my suspicions are accurate. Plus, I’m not keen on injecting myself with hormones day after day, not to mention having my womb ‘harvested’, like it’s some kind of pick-your-own. I want this baby to happen naturally, as if it was meant to be. Not to be coaxed into being with needles and drugs.

  But all this is irrelevant if I am pregnant right now. I take the packet from the Boots bag and rip open the foil. Then I carefully close the bathroom door so I don’t disturb Milo, who I swear has supersonic hearing. As I aim for the stick, I can’t help thinking of that day when I first found out I was pregnant with my son. So much has changed. I’m a wife, a mother, and I live in a small village in the sticks. If you’d have told me then what my life would turn out to be, I’d have said you were crazy – and crazier still if you said I was happy.

  Because I am, I think, sliding the cap on the test stick and laying it on the side of the sink to await the results. I am happy. It’s taken a bit to settle in – both to motherhood and to our home – but I can’t think of another life where I’d be happier. Well, I yawn, maybe one with more sleep.

  I grab the stick off the sink, almost afraid to look. When I see the second pink line meaning I’m pregnant, a funny feeling flutters through me: excitement and hope, mixed with a little worry. What if I can’t cope? What if two is too many? What if—?

  I shake my head. I know from having Milo that you can never be prepared. That somehow, you just do it. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. God, I can’t wait to tell Edward. He’s going to be ecstatic! I’m tempted to pick up the phone and dial him right now, but this isn’t something
to tell him over the phone. I want to see his face, to see the spark in his eyes. He’ll be back the day after next, and I’ll have to try to keep the news under wraps until then.

  In the meantime, I’d better prepare myself for even less sleep. I wrap my arms around my tummy, a smile curving my lips.

  A baby!

  Already I’m in love.

  57

  EDWARD, SUNDAY, 9 A.M.

  I hobble from the hospital, feeling like I’ve aged fifty years. My head stings where the doctor stitched it, the throbbing – while dulled by several strong painkillers – still hasn’t stopped, and my stomach is churning. I don’t smell too great either. What I really need is a shower, some strong caffeine, and a bed, but if I lie down now, I’ll be too comatose to meet Fiona’s train. My heart sinks at the thought of telling her I can’t do this, but once she gets a good look at me, she’ll probably run off screaming anyway.

  I squint against the bright sunlight and climb gingerly into a cab. ‘Hotel Le Marais,’ I say, my mind flipping back to yesterday when I uttered the same address. It feels like a million years have passed since then, that the person who said those words yesterday was someone else, someone who was climbing an endless ladder to escape rising black water threatening to engulf him. And now that it has engulfed me – now that it’s finally caught up – I’ve discovered that I can deal with it. That it’s all right to let in the dark every once in a while; that it can help quell the restless feeling too. And it’s maybe even helped me understand a bit of what Zoe was feeling, that her coldness was nothing to do with me. It was about her, about trying to survive each day with the grief. Shame that understanding is too late now.