The Dead Wife's Handbook

by Hannah Beckerman

  I really wanted to stay longer with him tonight. I wanted to see that he got home safely, wanted to reassure myself that he wasn’t too upset, wanted to remain close to him even though I know there’s nothing useful, nothing tangible, I can offer.

  Instead I just have to wait as I so often do until I can return to see how he is. And hope, in the meantime, that he’ll be okay.

  Chapter 7

  Music greets me for a few tantalizing seconds before the clouds disperse, and I feel the familiar lump in my throat that’s been the spontaneous accompaniment to these lyrics for the past eight years.

  As the scene pulls into focus, I find myself in the darkened sitting room of my house, the flicker of the television screen the only light illuminating the lone figure of my husband on the sofa, Dean Martin informing him, as if Max didn’t already know it, that he’s nobody till somebody loves him.

  And there we both are, on the screen, proving that we’ve found somebody to do just that, Max looking the most handsome I’ve ever seen him, in a charcoal-grey morning suit with powder-blue tie, me in his arms draped in multiple layers of floor-length ivory satin that I’d only that day mastered the ability to walk in, let alone dance. The moment we took to the floor to confirm our status as the newest of formally committed couples.

  I hear a swallowed sob and pull my eyes away from the television to see another version of Max, so different from the beaming, dancing, newly-wed on the screen. He’s sitting on the sofa with tears streaming down his face, his cheeks streaked with the evidence that he’s been here, like this, for too long already. There’s an empty wine glass in his hand, tilted precariously against his leg, the last remaining dregs of red sediment clinging to its sides, the half-empty bottle resting on the floor by his feet. He’s wearing the same clothes that I left him in after his date earlier and I suspect that only a matter of hours have passed since my last visit, that this video trip down memory lane may have been prompted by the disappointment and disillusionment of the evening’s events.

  Max wipes his face with the back of his free hand and I realize that this is only the third time I’ve ever seen him cry, a sight I’ve only ever borne witness to since I died. I want to be able to hold him and for him to feel the endurance of my embrace. I want the love that I have for him – that I’ll always have for him, however far away I am, whatever worlds separate us – to envelop him in security. I want it not to be over, this relationship that neither of us could ever quite believe – even after we’d rented our first flat, even after the wedding, even after creating a new little person together – that we’d been lucky enough to have discovered in one another. We’d often say – in private, never out loud, never in earshot of others for fear of appearing smug – that relationships like ours just don’t happen every day, they don’t happen to everyone. I don’t think either of us ever doubted the rare fortune of having chanced upon one another in that vast sea of human interactions, two lone boats bobbing on the water whose navigational charts just happened to coincide on a day when each of us thought there’d be nothing but empty ocean for nautical miles around.

  As Dean Martin concludes his paean to the merits of romantic love, I turn back to the television screen just in time to watch Max whisper in my ear as the next track begins and a swarm of guests join us on the dance floor. I’ll never forget what he said; I can hear the words right here and now, as clearly as if Max had been wearing a microphone and the cameraman had managed to pick up that most private of triumphant sentiments:

  We did it, baby. It’s just me and you and the adventure of the rest of our lives together now.

  And it was an adventure, a wonderful adventure, however short-lived.

  We’re laughing now, amidst congratulatory friends and upbeat music, but the celebratory tone on the screen does nothing to lighten Max’s mood in the darkness. He chokes back a deep, guttural sob and pours another lonely slug of wine from the bottle into his glass.

  Please don’t do this to yourself, Max. I love you reminiscing about our past but I want those reminiscences to bring you happiness, to reignite our relationship for you so that you can experience it even in my absence, not to reduce you to alcohol-infused heartbreak. Perhaps you’re just not ready to watch this yet, perhaps this is one collection of memories that does need to be stored away a little while longer, perhaps tonight just isn’t the night to be recollecting happier evenings from a life we no longer lead.

  But my silent entreaties have as little hope of reaching him as if I said the words out loud. There’s no possibility of me whispering reassurances into his ear, of wrapping my arms around him, of kissing away his sadness.

  The empty wine glass tumbles sedately, as if in slow motion, from Max’s hand to the rug under his feet. His eyes are closed, his heavy breathing audible above the disco that continues to play in miniature in front of him, where he’s twirling me around the floor with amateur enthusiasm, both of us grinning ecstatically, high on love and adrenaline, in full confidence that this was the first day of the rest of our lives together. Which it was, I suppose. Just not the lives we imagined might unfold.

  Max emits the gentlest of snores, his head tilted back on the edge of the sofa, his face still damp with tears and his lips tinged with the pigment of fermented grapes.

  I’m reminded of all those times I’ve watched him sleep in the past, of all those mornings I’d rouse before him or nights when I’d lie awake after nursing Ellie in the darkness, and I remember how peaceful it’s always made me feel. How peaceful and safe and secure. There’s an echo of that serenity now too, shadowed only by the knowledge that tonight he’s wept – and drunk – himself to sleep, rather than slipped into that unconscious realm at peace with himself and the world.

  As Max continues to snuffle softly in response to whatever netherworld of his own he’s currently inhabiting, the white mist begins to gather and I know that I’ll imminently be back in my own private existence too.

  I savour one last glimpse of my slumbering husband, that familiar surge of love sweeping through me as it always has, as it always will while I watch him sleep, before he’s gone from me altogether.

  Chapter 8

  ‘Oh, come on, mate – there have to be some single women here, surely?’

  Max’s brother, Connor, surveys the scene in front of him: adults politely jostling for position on inconveniently low mahogany benches, colourful plastic equipment of various shapes and sizes being assembled in the field beyond, children in uniform white T-shirts and navy blue shorts chattering impatiently amongst the preamble. It’s an event that’s almost certainly being replicated all over the country this week.

  And sitting on one of those benches is Max, looking incredulously at his brother and laughing.

  ‘Is that why you came? Did you seriously expect there to be a pool of school mums you could hit on? Honestly, you’re incorrigible. Sorry to disabuse you of your sordid little fantasy but we’re here to watch Ellie, not to provide you with the opportunity to meet women. As if you needed that anyway.’

  ‘You underestimate me, little bro. I can do both at the same time. It’s called multitasking. You might like to try it some time.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I think I’ll leave that particular brand of multitasking to you, thanks very much.’

  I sometimes have to remind myself that Max and Connor did actually emerge from the same gene pool, albeit three years apart. I imagine that’s one of the revelations that come with having more than one child; that a shared genetic inheritance can nonetheless produce two such distinctive characters. It’s remarkable that, in spite of those differences, Max and Connor still get on so well. I’ve often thought how lucky they are, not just in the fact of one another’s existence, but in genuinely liking one another as much as they do too.

  If you didn’t know Connor as well as I do, I’m sure it would be easy to caricature him as a walking cliché: a hedge fund manager with an incomprehensible salary, an annual bonus that I’ve no doubt would extinguish h
alf the mortgages on our street, a Farringdon bachelor pad equipped with every gadget imaginable and a string of unfeasibly beautiful – if not particularly long-lasting – girlfriends. On paper, at least, he reads like someone most of us would try to avoid in a City bar on a Friday night. But they’re just the headlines and that’s far from the whole story. He conceals it well, behind the bravura and the status and the steering wheel of his Aston Martin, but there’s an endearingly soft centre to Connor’s self-aggrandizing exterior. I’d known him for years before I saw it for myself. It was seeing him with Ellie, in fact, that helped Connor’s hidden depths first surface for me.

  I remember a friend telling me, after she’d already given birth to her first child but before I’d even conceived of – let alone conceived – Ellie, that when you have children the prism through which you view your friends shifts focus from how you feel about them to how they feel about your child. I’d thought at the time it sounded self-absorbed and slightly crazy and I remember vowing that I wouldn’t become the kind of parent who expected my child to be at the centre of everyone else’s lives. But when Ellie arrived I realized it’s a feeling that surpasses rational thought, that it mines the most primitive of instincts, beyond your control – that feeling of being drawn to people who are interested in, engaged with, invested in your child. It’s primordial, I’m sure, that urge to surround your progeny with people who’ll help them navigate their journey successfully through life.

  That’s when Connor became more than a peripheral, two-dimensional character for me; when Ellie was born he embraced his new-found avuncular role with such joy, such enthusiasm, such unexpected commitment that it gave birth to a new relationship between us too. I can’t think of a single time he’s ever let Ellie down. And that’s why, I’m sure, Max has invited him to her school Sports Day today.

  I spy my little girl bounding across the field towards her daddy and her uncle, where she throws herself on to Connor’s lap and into his arms.

  ‘Hello, princess. You’re looking particularly fetching today, if I might say so. Like a perfectly edible piece of pink candy floss. Much prettier than all those others in their drab uniforms.’

  Ellie frowns, first at Connor, then at Max and then back at Connor.

  ‘I’m supposed to be wearing my PE kit but Daddy forgot to wash it and I couldn’t wear it ’cos it had blackcurrant all down the front.’

  ‘Guilty as charged, m’lord. I’m so sorry, angel. I did explain to Miss Collins, didn’t I, and she was fine about it?’

  ‘But I really wanted to wear it today. Miss Collins says that wearing your PE kit shows that you’re part of the team.’

  ‘Of course you’re still part of the team, princess. Just the prettiest member, that’s all. I bet everyone would rather wear what you’re wearing, given half the chance.’

  Connor tickles Ellie’s tummy, transforming her frown into peals of giggles.

  ‘He’s not going to forget again, though, are you, Daddy? ’Cos now we’ve got the chart on the fridge.’

  ‘A chart on the fridge, huh? That sounds very organized.’

  ‘We can but hope. Ellie’s gone through the calendar highlighting all the days she needs her PE kit so that I have advance warning of when to wash it. Although there are only a couple of weeks of term left now, aren’t there, angel, so we’ll have to remember to do it again in September?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Daddy. I won’t forget.’

  ‘So what’s on the line-up for today, then? Are you going to win some races and make your daddy and me proud?’

  ‘Um, I don’t know. I’ll try. But Miss Collins says it doesn’t matter who wins. She says it’s all just for fun.’

  ‘Well, Miss Collins clearly hasn’t learnt yet that it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there. Just remember, you don’t get one of those nice shiny medals if you come second.’

  Max rolls his eyes and pulls Ellie on to his lap.

  ‘Don’t listen to Uncle Connor, sweetheart. He doesn’t understand that not everything in life is a competition. You just have a good time and enjoy yourself. Do you know who you’re doing the three-legged race with yet?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Collins let us choose so me and Megan are doing it together.’

  ‘That’s great. You two will make a great pairing. And who’s giving out the prizes this year?’

  Now it’s Ellie’s turn to roll her eyes.

  ‘Mr Baxter, like always, Daddy.’

  ‘Which one’s Mr Baxter, again?’

  ‘Aw, Daddy, you know Mr Baxter. He does all our games lessons. He’s my favourite. He’s really funny.’

  ‘Yes, I remember now. Isn’t he the one you say looks like a Labrador puppy?’

  ‘Shhhh, Daddy. What if someone hears you? Then we’ll get into trouble.’

  ‘Oh, I think we’ll be okay, munchkin. If anyone tells Mr Baxter what we said I promise to take the rap and say it was all my fault.’

  Ellie giggles and kisses Max squarely on the lips. I close my eyes and remember the feeling of her soft, plump lips on mine.

  ‘Look, I think Miss Collins is calling you all back over. Hop off, munchkin, and we’ll see you in a bit.’

  Ellie tightens her lithe, T-shirted arms around Max’s neck.

  ‘Can’t I just stay here with you and Uncle Connor for a bit?’

  ‘What, and miss out on all the fun? Don’t be silly, angel. The first race will be starting soon.’

  ‘I don’t want to go yet.’

  Ellie buries her plaintive voice under Max’s chin, tightening her grip further.

  ‘You don’t want to hang out with us old fogeys when you could be with your friends, do you? And if you stay here with your daddy and me you don’t even stand a chance of winning one of those medals.’

  Ellie doesn’t answer Connor, burrowing her face further into Max’s shoulder, an attempt, perhaps, to render herself invisible so she’ll never have to move. Max encloses her in his arms, as if to protect her from the sadness he’d do anything to alleviate.

  I’d been hoping she wouldn’t be plagued today by memories of last year, that they wouldn’t impede her enjoyment this time around. I’d been confident that Connor’s presence might provide enough of a distraction to allow Ellie to experience this annual school ritual afresh.

  Because last year’s Sports Day had been horrendous. I’d been dead for just over two months and Ellie was too confused and withdrawn still to interact with her friends, let alone compete against them. She’d burst into tears spontaneously and repeatedly and no one – not Max, not the teachers and certainly not the other parents – had known how to console her. Max had taken her home early in the end, where he’d tucked her under a blanket on the sofa and watched Monsters, Inc. with her, the film that Ellie had viewed repeatedly in the months after I died. Later Max had confessed to his mum that he’d felt more angry about my death on that day than any other in the nine weeks prior; that he’d been enraged by the lack of empathy from other parents, whom he’d felt had looked upon him and Ellie with silent, detached judgement; that he’d felt overwhelming resentment towards me for casting him as the tragic widower, upon whom all curious eyes were surreptitiously cast; and that, worst of all, he’d hated himself for his own discomfort, for his embarrassment at Ellie’s behaviour and for his wish that she could have abandoned her grief for just one afternoon. He said he’d yearned to be part of a normal, inconspicuous family, whose personal tragedy wasn’t the topic of trackside conversation, where gossip and speculation masquerade as sympathy and understanding. And that, at the end of it all, his guilt about all those feelings had been almost intolerable.

  Max prises Ellie’s head gently from his shoulder and holds her face in his hands.

  ‘It’s fine, sweetheart. You’re going to be just fine. We’ll be right here, cheering you on. We won’t move from this spot, I promise.’

  Ellie looks deep into Max’s eyes with an intensity so much greater than befits her years.

  ‘You promise you’re
not going anywhere? You’re going to stay right there, all afternoon?’

  ‘We promise, angel. Don’t we, Connor?’

  ‘Scout’s honour, princess. Where else could we possibly want to be when there’s our favourite little girl competing all afternoon?’

  Ellie grants them a wistful smile, seemingly more for their benefit than her own. She slips warily from Max’s lap, turns to leave and then circles back for one additional paternal hug before walking across the field to rejoin her classmates. Halfway over she halts for a second, revolves to face Max and Connor and gives them an almost imperceptible wave of insecurity. Her daddy and her uncle respond with exaggerated reassurance, Connor blowing kisses and Max waving enthusiastically back.

  ‘She’s still a bit clingy, then?’

  Connor and Max both keep a watchful eye on Ellie’s completed journey.

  ‘To be honest, she hasn’t been too bad lately. No bed-wetting for ages now and she generally only comes in with me just before the alarm goes off. I thought she’d been a lot more settled until just now.’

  ‘One day at a time, huh?’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I just don’t like seeing her so insecure again.’

  They lapse into a respectful silence, as if in honour of Ellie’s adversity.

  ‘She’ll be okay, Max. It’s going to take some time, but she will.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. I suppose, if I’m honest, I knew today might trigger something in her. It’s hard enough for me not having Rachel here for events like this so I can’t really imagine what it’s like for Ellie.’

  And it’s hard for me too, to be here but not be here, to hear you but not be heard, to see you but not be seen. To want to make things better for you and Ellie but being powerless to do so.

  ‘It’s tough, there’s no doubt about it. It’s no surprise she’ll have moments like that, given everything she’s been through. Two steps forward and one back, I reckon.’