Who We Were Before

by Leah Mercer

The train rattles off, and I lean back in my seat. Life can be shit – that’s putting it mildly. I shift, catching my reflection in the window. Life can be shit, but I’m still here, despite it all. I’m still alive after everything that’s happened, after two years of pain that have lost me my husband.

  Am I going to lose myself, too? I can’t bear to think of what was happening back on that platform. What I almost did . . . or not.

  Be good to yourself. The words echo in my ears, and I remember person after person uttering that phrase for months after Milo, so often I could predict the end of any conversation. They made me cringe; made my insides knot with guilt. How could I be good to myself when I’d done the worst thing a parent could: failed to protect their child – or, in my case, children?

  Be good to yourself. As if.

  The train pulls into another station, and the doors open. Before I know what I’m doing, my legs carry me onto the platform, where I follow the people up into the streaming sun.

  I blink as my eyes meet the spires of Notre Dame Cathedral, then spin to take in a very familiar-looking façade: Hotel Dieu. Somehow, I’ve made it back to the same place I was this morning. I shake my head. How many times did I retrace my route over the past day, believing I’d finally intersected with Edward, only to see him with someone else?

  I make my way to the river, gingerly stepping down old stone stairs to the edge. Couples mooch by, hand in hand, and I sink onto a bench, watching the sun glint off the water. I think of Edward’s ring in my pocket and pull it out again, placing it on the bench beside me while I jimmy off my band, too. It slides from my finger easily, without resistance.

  I flex my finger, thinking how strange it looks, how naked. It feels strange, too – like I’m uncovering a place that’s been hidden away for years, a foreign patch of skin that hasn’t seen the sun. Who was I before Edward, I ask myself? Even though we’ve barely spoken these past couple of years, we’ve still been bound together by everything that happened. It’s hard for me to think back to the woman I was before we met.

  But I don’t think that matters. What matters now is finding a new way forward, a way to live despite the past. A way to let me be me again, whatever that means – and being good to myself, despite the guilt and mistakes of the past.

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

  I shake my head as the words ring in my ears. I’ll always blame myself for what happened with Milo. I could have stopped that accident. As for the baby girl I lost, well . . . I don’t know. Maybe it was because of Milo’s death, the universe denying me another chance at motherhood. Or maybe it was just one of those things, like the doctor said. But whatever the reason, I need to find a way now not to forget – because who could ever do that? – but to forgive myself enough to carry on. To live, even if everything else has been taken away.

  I place my wedding ring beside Edward’s on the bench, then look at the river. Part of me is tempted to fling them both into the Seine, shoving forever back in the universe’s face. But that would be like trying to erase our relationship, and I don’t want to do that. We might be finished, but he’s always going to be part of the fabric of my life, and trying to tear him out would only do huge damage. I think I’ve been damaged enough.

  I slide the rings into my pocket and get to my feet. A final walk along the river, and then I’ll head to the Gare du Nord. If Edward’s not there with my ticket, I’ll call my parents and ask them to send money. This time tomorrow – hopefully sooner – I’ll be back in the UK and starting again. My gut clenches momentarily at the thought of leaving the house with so many memories, but I know the memories are inside me, not in a physical place. I don’t want to bury them with guilt or drown them with drink. There’s been a lot of good in my life, too, and I want to hang on to that.

  I gaze up into the sun, its warmth soaking through my skin and into the heart of me.

  65

  EDWARD, SUNDAY, 12.45 P.M.

  I jerk awake at the sound of two small girls scampering by on identical blue scooters. The sun is high in the sky, and I can tell by the stiffness of my body that I’ve been passed out here for a while. I raise my hand to check the time, every muscle protesting at even that small movement.

  Shit!

  I better get a move on if I don’t want to be late for the train – and if I want to find Zoe at the station. I pray she’s still there. Hopefully the journey home will give me a chance to explain exactly what Fiona was doing here, along with the fact that I never knew Zoe was missing.

  I get to my feet, unable to believe I’ve only been here for a day. It feels more like a century. So much has happened: getting separated from Zoe, calling Fiona, going clubbing and ending up in hospital . . . then Zoe seeing me with Fiona. I don’t know where things are with us or where they will be, but at the very least, my wife needs to know I never cheated. I shudder when I think how close I came.

  I quicken my pace towards the bridge up ahead, the set of stairs leading up to street level. Just ahead of me is a woman walking quickly, too, her pace matching mine. Something about the way she moves is familiar, jogging a part of my brain. I narrow my eyes against the sun, tracing the outline of her body as my heart begins to beat fast. Could that be Zoe, or am I just imagining things? Her body isn’t as familiar to me now as it used to be, her curves eroded away by the past few years, but as I walk even faster, her dark curls and the familiar baggy T-shirt come into focus.

  ‘Zoe!’ My voice is husky, and I clear my throat. ‘Zoe!’ My call is swallowed up by the hum of a huge tourist boat gliding by, and I break into a run. I’m not letting her get away. Not now, not after everything we’ve been through.

  My head pounds, my stomach churns, and I feel like I’m about to fall over, but finally I catch up with her.

  ‘Zoe.’ I touch her arm, and she wheels around, her eyebrows flying up with surprise. Close up, she doesn’t look much better than I do. Her hair is flying everywhere, her T-shirt clings to her, and her face is sweaty with a streak of dust across her cheek. But right now, quite honestly, she’s never looked better. There’s something about her eyes that looks . . . different. Less pinched. More present somehow. A streak of emotion goes through me, so strong it almost powers me to the ground.

  I found my wife, a voice inside my head says over the pounding. I found her again.

  I reach out to take her hand. Then I notice she’s not wearing her wedding band, and everything inside me goes cold.

  66

  ZOE, SUNDAY, 12.45 P.M.

  I’ve been walking by the river for almost an hour now, I guess, and it’s time for me to make my way back to the Gare du Nord. Just the thought of the long trek makes my feet throb painfully, but this is the last leg of the long journey I’ve been on this weekend. One more time, and then it’s over. I’ve done more exercise today than in the past two years combined.

  I spot a set of stairs leading up to a bridge and I quickly make my way towards them. I’m eager to traverse the Marais for the last time, to get on that train and head back . . . although I’m not sure the word ‘back’ is the right one. I’m going forward, finally, with the past inside me.

  A touch on my arm makes me whirl around, and my mouth drops open. There, right in front of me, is Edward. I blink to make sure I’m not imagining things – I have been out in the sun all weekend, I haven’t eaten and I’ve barely slept – but when I open my eyes, he’s still there. I do a quick scan to see if Fiona is anywhere in sight. He goes to take my hand, but stops suddenly, letting his arm swing down by his side.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask when I’ve recovered from the surprise. Christ, he looks absolutely dreadful – and he doesn’t smell so great either. His shirt – one I don’t recognise – is stained, and his eyes are bloodshot. My eyes widen as I notice the stitches on his forehead. ‘Are you all right?’

  He nods, grimacing at the movement of his head. ‘I’m fine. It’s a very long story. Well, not
that long, actually. I went out to a club, I got drunk, I hit my head.’

  Edward? Clubbing? I try to keep my face neutral, reminding myself that I really don’t know this new Edward at all.

  ‘Look, about Fiona . . .’ He tries to take my hand again, but I move it firmly behind me.

  ‘You don’t need to tell me anything,’ I say, stepping back in case he tries to touch me again. I don’t think I could take it. ‘I understand.’

  ‘You do?’ His eyebrows shoot up.

  ‘Well, sort of.’ I force a shrug. ‘I mean, we’re not together, are we? We haven’t been for ages. I know you tried to get through to me after Milo’s death, but I . . . I didn’t want someone to get through to me.’

  There’s a silence, and we both stare out at the river. ‘I don’t think my way of coping was much better,’ Edward says finally. ‘I wanted to make a new start and forget everything. But I realised you can’t forget everything; it just keeps coming back. It might have taken a knock on the head, but I finally got it.’

  A half-laugh burbles out, and I reach up to touch his stitches. He sucks in his breath and I jerk back, realising what I’m doing.

  ‘Sorry.’ I glance down at the ground, thinking how weird this all is. I feel like we’re really talking, finally, but it’s too late.

  ‘So what now?’ Edward holds my gaze, his eyes boring into mine. I stare back, feeling that familiar connection spark between us for the first time in years.

  I shrug. ‘We head back to Cherishton. We put the house on the market, and we go our separate ways. I think that’s the easiest thing.’ It won’t be easy at all, but I don’t want him to see that. He’s moved on to other women, and even if our relationship can barely be qualified as one, I can’t say that doesn’t hurt.

  ‘The easiest?’ Edward takes my hand, and this time, I let him. I don’t have the energy to pull away. ‘Since when have we ever done things the easy way?’ He shakes his head. ‘Nothing happened with me and Fiona. I thought you’d taken off, and I was angry. I’m not saying it was the right thing to do, but I called Fiona to come. Her train was delayed, so I went out and partied . . . and got so drunk, I fell into a wall.’

  I can’t help a small guffaw escaping, and Edward shakes his head. ‘I know, I know. Pathetic, right? That’s when I realised I was just running, trying to escape from everything.’ He squeezes my hand. ‘I don’t want Fiona, or anyone else in my life, for that matter. I want you.’ He takes a breath. ‘Can we . . . maybe . . . try to be together again? I don’t think we’ve done that since Milo.’

  I look down at our hands, entwined together without our wedding bands, and I think how marriage doesn’t have the power to bind – only the actions of two people can do that. ‘Forever’ and happy endings aren’t a given, and life can be shit, just like the woman on the train said. But perhaps you do need to have faith, too. Faith in yourself, and faith in your relationship.

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘I have something I need to tell you,’ I say. I don’t know how he’ll react that I’ve kept the pregnancy hidden from him for so long, but I know I need to tell him – for me, if not for us. I’ve enough guilt and blame inside of me, and right now I feel like he can help me carry it. I trust him to help me carry it.

  ‘Okay.’ He motions me over to a bench and we sink down, side by side, my mind flitting back to how we used to sit by the river for ages, back in London. Edward turns to face me and takes my hand. ‘What is it?’

  I meet his eyes, scanning the face I know so well. Without his beard, he looks naked somehow, and vulnerable. I fill my lungs, and push out the words.

  ‘I found out I was pregnant the day before Milo died.’ Even as I speak, a cloud inside of me releases a tempest of grief. I can’t even look at Edward as I carry on. ‘I lost the baby,’ I say in a whisper. ‘I lost her three months after Milo’s accident.’

  My words hang heavy in the air between us. I glue my eyes to his again, wondering what’s going through his head. His face is frozen and he shifts his stare to look out at the river – away from me. He lets my fingers go and they slide limply from his grasp.

  ‘Edward?’ I say, when the silence has stretched too long and I can’t take it any more.

  He turns towards me, and I flinch at the shock mixed with hurt in his eyes – a look that says I betrayed him. Again.

  ‘Three months? Three months you knew, and you didn’t tell me?’ His voice shakes, and my heart starts banging in my chest. ‘How could you not tell me something like that?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my mouth going dry. ‘I should have, I know, but after Milo was gone, I couldn’t cope. Couldn’t talk. I was afraid – just so afraid. And then when I lost the baby, well . . . it was too much. Too much to even think of getting out the words.’

  Edward jerks like I’ve slapped him in the face. ‘Too much? Too much to tell your husband you were pregnant? Too much to let me know you had a miscarriage?’ His leg starts jiggling. ‘I wanted to be there for you. I tried to be there for you – all those years we were together. But once again, it’s about what you want, isn’t it? What you can deal with. Never mind what it might mean to me. Never mind that not getting you pregnant was eating me up inside – has been eating me up inside. Never mind that just knowing I could would ease the pain a fraction.

  ‘I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,’ Edward continues in a cold voice. ‘You weren’t even going to tell me you were pregnant the first time, either, were you?’

  I struggle to breathe as his words hit me like bullets, trying to grasp the words clawing at my throat. But they slide away and more pop up faster than I can grip onto them, and all I can do is sit in silence.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Edward stands, towering over me. ‘The sooner we get back, the sooner we can put an end to all this.’ He strides off towards the stairs and I’ve no choice but to follow. Bitterness and resentment cloud the air behind him, and I turn my head to gulp in oxygen. I should have told him, yes. I knew it was hard for him, that he took my not getting pregnant as a personal failure. Perhaps I didn’t know how much, but still.

  I trusted him. I took a leap of faith. I fell on cold, hard ice, and everything inside me rattled and jarred.

  But I haven’t cracked.

  67

  EDWARD, SUNDAY, 1 P.M.

  As I cross the bridge, fury propels me forward. I’m not even tired any more – at least, I can’t feel it. All I can feel is a blind, burning rage. How could Zoe not tell me she was pregnant? How, for three hideous months after Milo’s death, could she keep that to herself? Sure, we were in a daze, barely managing to hold it together. I couldn’t slow down to sit for a second, let alone talk to anyone. But news of another baby – of a glimmer of hope, in the darkest time of my life – would have helped, would have given me something to briefly hang onto, even if it came to an end.

  And it’s not just that. This whole time, these whole two years, I’ve been beating myself up for not being able to give us another child before Milo died, for my body failing us. Nothing would make Milo’s death easier, of course. But knowing my body didn’t cop out – that I did give us a chance at life – might have kept my heart from hardening. Because that’s exactly how I feel right now: hardened. I picture Zoe going through a miscarriage alone, and my only emotion is anger. Anger that she didn’t let me in; anger that she went through that alone, rather than leaning on her husband. Does she hate me that much?

  So much for her promise never to lie. This is the worst kind of lie possible – again.

  I spin to where she’s trotting behind me, words forming then dying on my lips. There’s so much more I want to say, but I don’t have the energy to begin a conversation. There’s no point, anyway. I must have been mad to think we could start over.

  I flag down a taxi and wave Zoe in, then ask it to take us to the Gare du Nord. Everything feels like a strange déjà vu, except I know this won’t be happening again. We’ve come full circle, right back to the place where we started the
weekend, and I can’t keep on cycling any more. Once we get home, I’m finished. We’re finished.

  Forever, happy endings . . .

  Fuck that.

  68

  ZOE, ONE WEEK LATER

  ‘Are you certain you want to do this? I’m sure your parents would be happy for you to stay with them as long as you need to.’ Kate wipes a hand across her brow as she helps me pack the last box of clothes.

  I nod, thinking how good it is to have her back in my life. I rang her up as soon as we returned from Paris, and even though she was surprised to hear from me and has a million things of her own going on, she was only too happy to help – the sign of a true friend. ‘I’m sure. And yes, they did say I could bunk in with them. And Edward said I could stay here as long as I needed to.’ I tape the box closed and sit back on my heels. ‘But honestly, I need my own space, you know? Where I can try to build a life again.’ I sigh, gazing around the room as memories hit me at every turn. ‘It’ll be hard to leave this house, but I have to.’ I’ve rented a studio flat back in North London. It’s tiny, but I can’t wait to make it home. This place hasn’t been home for years.

  Kate nods and reaches out to touch my arm. ‘I get it.’ She shakes her head. ‘But I still can’t believe that after everything you both have gone through together, this is the end.’

  ‘It’s because of everything we’ve gone through,’ I say. ‘It’s just too much for one relationship – well, for our relationship, anyway – to carry.’ Edward’s face when I told him of the pregnancy flashes into my mind, and I shudder. The anger and coldness reminds me of when he first saw Milo after the accident, as if I’d devastated him twice. The whole way home, in the taxi, then the train, then another train, we didn’t exchange a word. He didn’t even look at me, but this time was different. This time, there was no cold indifference. This time, I could feel the fury coming off of him in waves.