The Dead Wife's Handbook

by Hannah Beckerman

  ‘Really, Max, this isn’t about you. It’s about Ellie, and it’s obvious that the reason you’re getting so defensive is because you know I’m right. You know it’s a dereliction of paternal duty not to have stood before that headstone with her and honoured Rach’s memory today.’

  Max has been staring intently out of the kitchen window, his back towards Harriet, as if evading her gaze will ensure the avoidance of conflict, but suddenly he swerves towards her, his eyes betraying a fury I’ve never seen in him before.

  ‘A dereliction of duty? I’m supposed to take this from you of all people, someone who doesn’t even have children, someone who thinks that money and status and having their name mentioned in some stupid lawyer’s journal once in a while is an adequate substitute for real human relationships? Don’t you dare lecture me about how to raise my daughter when you haven’t got a maternal bone in your body.’

  The room erupts into a deafening silence. I’ve never known emptiness so palpable before. Max is hunched over the kitchen sink, spent, depleted, almost certainly reviling himself already for the outburst. Harriet is static, her face rigid with shock, seemingly unsure whether she’s incapable of moving or simply unwilling. A few seconds pass, neither of them speaking, not even the sound of their breath disrupting the atmosphere.

  Suddenly Harriet rushes to grab her bag from the table and all but stumbles out of the kitchen. The front door slams behind her a couple of seconds later.

  Max grabs a cup from the draining board and hurls it into the sink, shattering it on impact. The crash creates a turbulence both in his world and mine; my access disappears in an explosive instant. No gradually assembling clouds this time, no faint tremor of air, no tentative mist to forewarn me of my impending exit. Just an abrupt ending, as though a light had been switched on, bathing the conflict beneath me in unbearable brightness.

  I keep seeing that look of rage on Max’s face, and I fear for whether their relationship will recover. I think about Harriet and where she might have gone – to a bar? back to the office? home alone? – and about how Max’s words seemed to sting her with a sharpness against which she’d normally be able to anaesthetize herself. I think about that decisive ending, about Harriet’s incensed departure, and I can’t imagine what external force will persuade her to come back through that door again.

  I think about how painful it is to watch them argue, how frustrating it is to be impotent to intervene, to mediate a resolution, to ensure that this isn’t a permanent fracture.

  But Harriet’s right. Of course the date matters. And Max’s decision not to commemorate the day with Ellie is his most definitive declaration yet that he’s consigning me to a distant corner of their lives, to the most secluded recess in the ancestral attic, to the final resting place in familial history.

  Since the very beginning, from the moment I arrived here and realized that life, for me, was no longer to be lived but merely to be viewed silently and invisibly, my greatest fear has been not the netherworld’s isolation, nor the possibility of never returning, nor the fantasies about what, if anything, may come after this place. My greatest fear has been to discover one day that I’ve been forgotten. To watch on painfully, powerless, as I view my own demise in the memories of the people I love. To observe the little life I have left, the vestiges of remembrance, gradually disperse like vapour rising from a lake on the coldest of days.

  It’s not the mortality of the body that’s the real tragedy of the dead. It’s the dissolution of memory. For the dead, to be forgotten is as if never to have lived at all.

  But maybe that’s the fate we all face in the end. Not if we’ll be forgotten but, simply, when.

  TESTING

  Chapter 26

  I don’t understand. I’ve surfaced in Max’s bedroom – our bedroom – to the discovery that I’m as alone here as I am in my own world. This has never happened before. I always arrive to people, to Max and Ellie and whomever they’re with and wherever they are. I’ve never descended upon an empty room before.

  I haven’t been in this room for ages, not for about a year I think. In spite of the quietness there’s a nostalgic reassurance to be back here. It’s all pretty much as I remember it: the white painted iron bedstead enveloped by a now slightly off-white duvet cover and the tattered brown leather armchair which was only ever used to house discarded clothes we were too lazy to hang up in the wardrobe. There’s the chest of drawers we bought from a second-hand shop, the one Max thought I was crazy parting with cash for, until I sanded and varnished it and even he had to concede that it had been a bargain. And there’s the Braque print above the bed, a wedding present from my mum, the two blue birds that greeted me every morning for all those years.

  But there, by my side of the bed, is the only unfamiliar object on display. It’s a brown leather holdall, suspiciously consistent with the kind of bag someone might use for an overnight stay. And there’s only one person I can think of who’d be leaving an overnight bag by my side of the bed.

  I hear voices coming from the kitchen and head downstairs with the weight of a thousand rocks sinking in my stomach, painfully cognizant of who I’m going to find before I even get there.

  Eating chocolate ice cream in the kitchen are Max, Ellie and, of course, Eve. She has, quite literally, got her feet under my table.

  ‘So was it today that you had to hand in your art project, munchkin?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, when is it?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘But you’ve worked so hard on it, you must know when it is?’

  Ellie shrugs her shoulders, her eyes fixed doggedly on the dessert in front of her. Max looks at Ellie, frowning, and then at Eve, embarrassed. He seems a bit bemused, leaving Eve to take up the conversational reins.

  ‘Did you find out any more about your end-of-year school trip, Ellie? Have they decided on the seaside or an adventure park yet?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Which one do you hope they’re going to pick?’

  ‘Don’t care.’

  Max and Eve trade a look of concern. It’s a silent, collusive exchange, one that firmly establishes them as the adult group from which Ellie’s excluded. I feel sad on her behalf, for the little girl who, for whatever reason, just doesn’t feel like being chatty with her dad and his new girlfriend tonight.

  They finish their ice cream in silence, Ellie barely raising her head and steadfastly refusing to meet anyone’s gaze.

  ‘Eve?’

  Ellie fiddles with the cuff on her cardigan, her eyes focussed intently on a loose thread at which she’s gently tugging.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘You know where she lives, Ellie. Stoke Newington. Why are you asking?’

  Max’s interjection is abrupt, impatient. I don’t understand what’s occurring between the three of them this evening, but whatever game they’re playing it doesn’t appear to be Happy Families.

  ‘I just wondered. Do you like your house, Eve?’

  Eve smiles at Ellie – an open, trusting smile – and I don’t think she detects any danger in Ellie’s tone yet. But I can see the agitation behind her eyes.

  ‘Yes, I love my house, Ellie. It’s really cosy. It has a lovely fireplace in the sitting room, where I can have real log fires in the winter, just like you can here, and the bathroom has a gorgeous old Victorian bath in it. And I think you’d like my bedroom – I decorated it with floral wallpaper which is really pretty. You should come and see it sometime.’

  I watch Ellie’s face as Eve talks and see an ominously familiar cloud cast a shadow over her innocence. She’s weighing up the pros and cons, assessing the risks, deciding whether the action she’s considering is worthy of the potential ramifications.

  ‘So, if you like your own house so much, why do you have to come and sleep at our house tonight?’

  ‘Ellie. Stop that now. I won’t have you being rude to Eve like that.’

  Max is frustrated but he’s yet to give way to anger
. I can see the petulance and defiance radiating from Ellie’s eyes. In siding with Eve instead of her, Max has thrown down the gauntlet and it looks like a challenge Ellie’s more than ready to accept.

  ‘I wasn’t being rude. I was only asking a question. If Eve doesn’t like it that’s not my fault.’

  Eve opens her mouth to respond, but Max dives in first.

  ‘You’re being rude and you know full well that you are. If you can’t sit with us nicely and be polite then perhaps you should go to your room.’

  ‘Perhaps you should go to your room. With Eve. Isn’t that what you’d rather do?’

  There’s a shocked silence while we all absorb the impact of Ellie’s fury. She’s blinking, fast and frequently, a sign I know all too well as the harbinger of tears.

  ‘That’s enough, Ellie. I want you to apologize to Eve, right now.’

  Ellie jumps out of her chair, as though standing to deliver her next round of ammunition will lend credibility to her argument.

  ‘Why are you being so mean to me? Eve’s suddenly allowed to just turn up at our house and stay the night and do whatever she wants and I’m not even allowed to ask a question about it. Why are you being so unfair?’

  Ellie stands staring at Max, her fists clenched and her breath heavy, waiting to see what he’ll do next. Now’s the moment for Max to prove the point that Ellie so desperately needs validating, to pass the test she’s so clearly setting; that he’s watching her back, that he’ll take her side, that he’ll forgive her her trespasses as she’ll forgive Eve for trespassing against her. For trespassing all over her house, no less.

  ‘I’m not going to ask you again, Ellie. I want you to apologize to Eve.’

  Ellie’s face is crimson with rage now, her bottom lip quivering with restrained anguish, and I want Max to stop, I want him to think, I want him to bury his embarrassment, just for a second, and put our daughter’s needs first. I want to hold him by the shoulders and look him in the eye and remind him that our little girl’s never rude to anyone, that she hardly ever misbehaves, that for her to act out like this tonight she must be unsettled by something. And that it’s more than likely – it’s obvious, isn’t it? – that what she’s upset about is Eve sleeping over. I want to be able to haul Ellie on to my lap and settle her emotional storm and hold Max’s hand and put an end to this rarest of conflicts between the two people I love most in the world.

  But it’s not me, in the end, who’s afforded the opportunity to defuse the situation.

  ‘Really, Max, it’s okay. We’ve all had a long week and we’re all a bit over-tired. Let’s just have a nice evening and forget about it.’

  For once, for the first time ever, I find myself willing Max to listen to Eve’s advice. But the look of determination on his face, so perfectly and ironically mirroring that of his opponent, tells me that he has no intention of backing down.

  ‘It’s not okay. Now, Ellie, for the last time, will you please apologize to both of us for being so rude?’

  Ellie’s face disintegrates. Hot tears erupt like lava from the angriest of volcanoes, burning her cheeks with righteous protest, her eyes scorched with humiliation. She has little option but to storm out of the room and up the stairs, where she slams her bedroom door with a thud of fury.

  Neither Max nor Eve speak. I watch the anger drain from Max’s face as the first, tentative signs of guilt dare to make themselves known in the lines on his forehead. Eve fiddles with the pendant hanging around her neck, watching him earnestly as though awaiting an indication of what’s supposed to happen next. Max appears to be in no hurry to break the silence.

  ‘I’m sorry, Max. It looks like you were right. I honestly thought she’d be okay with it. I’d never have suggested it if I didn’t.’

  Max turns towards her with a momentary look of confusion, as though he’d forgotten she was still in the room.

  ‘Well, I don’t take any pleasure in being right on this one.’

  He averts his gaze again and I detect a fleeting disturbance on Eve’s face – whether hurt or irritation or fear or indignation I can’t tell – as Max leaves her stranded in another loaded silence.

  After what seems like ages to me, and probably even longer to Eve, Max leans across and takes Eve’s hand in his.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. It was my call at the end of the day. I should have listened to my instincts on it rather than be swayed by the fact that Ellie seemed fine when I asked her about it.’

  Eve puts her hand on top of Max’s, her face awash with contrition.

  ‘I’m sorry too. It’s really disappointing. I so wanted tonight to go well.’

  ‘I know you did. I did too. But maybe we were just a bit naive on this one.’

  He’s gallantly used the plural even though all three of us know there’s a singular cause for tonight’s emotional fiasco.

  ‘I have to go and check on Ellie now.’

  They finally look one another in the eye and there’s a heartbeat of tension before Eve replies.

  ‘I know you do. It’s fine. Really. I’ll clear up down here.’

  Max makes his way up the stairs and into Ellie’s room where he finds her, face down, sobbing unremittingly into her fluffy dog pillow. He sits on the bed next to her and places a placatory hand on her shoulder. Ellie shrugs him off with a violent rejection that I’ve no doubt surprises us all.

  ‘Don’t touch me! I don’t want you to touch me! Leave me alone.’

  Max looks perplexed. I don’t think he’d allowed himself to see before quite how upset she was.

  ‘Hey, sweetheart. What’s going on? I’m sorry I got cross with you. I just didn’t like you being rude like that. It’s not like you. Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?’

  He ventures a second attempt at physical contact, this time stroking her back, gently, tentatively, an action Ellie is usually unable to resist.

  ‘Get off me! I don’t want you to hug me. I don’t want you to touch me. I want Mummy. I just want my mummy.’

  She’s hysterical now, tears streaming down her face, her voice choking on angry sobs. I’ve never seen her like this before, never seen her so distressed, never heard her so distraught. And I’ve never wanted anything so much as to take her in my arms, to stroke her hair and kiss her forehead and give her back the security she so desperately craves. It’s the only expectation a child has of their mother, the unconditional love and care and reassurance that should be every child’s birthright, and it’s the one thing I’m failing to give her when she needs it most.

  Max, I can see, is fighting back the tears too. He’s been hit by a tsunami of grief for which he was, today, completely unprepared. His only hope this evening had been the cosy domesticity of sleeping, for the first time, under the same roof as the daughter he adores and the woman he’s now in love with.

  ‘Hey there, munchkin. Can you try and take a deep breath and let it out really slowly for me? I know you miss Mummy, and I know lots of things are really, really hard for you, but please try and remember that I’m here for you and so is Eve and we’re both going to look after you.’

  Ellie suddenly sits bolt upright as if physically assaulted by Max’s words and she struggles to articulate herself amidst the crying.

  ‘I don’t want her to look after me. I don’t even want her here. I hate her. She doesn’t know how to look after children. She doesn’t even have any children of her own.’

  She’s shouting now and there’s not even a sliver of doubt that Eve would be able to hear her outburst downstairs.

  ‘Ellie, sweetheart, you have to try and calm down. I know you’re upset, I can see you’re angry, but I can only help make it better if you let me.’

  ‘I don’t want you to make anything better. I hate you. I wish Mummy was here. I wish Mummy was here and you weren’t. I just want Mummy back.’

  Ellie’s crying so hard now I’m worried she’s going to make herself sick. I’m desperate to be with her, to be the mother she needs, to be
able to hold her and kiss her and let her know just how much I love her.

  I thought there was nothing worse than to watch your child suffer and be powerless to intervene, to help, to remedy. Now I understand that it’s immeasurably worse to know you’re the cause of the very pain you’re unable to relieve.

  Max takes decisive action, pulling Ellie into his arms and holding her so tightly, so securely, that she couldn’t escape the love of his embrace even if she tried. He begins to hum, ever so gently, one of the lullabies I used to sing to Ellie at bedtime when she was small. Over and over he repeats the same few lines until slowly, gradually, her defences soften and, sobbing still, she allows her body to relax into Max’s arms. Eventually, amidst heartbreaking whimpers and the last remnants of tears, she lifts her head from where it’s buried in his chest.

  ‘That’s Mummy’s song.’

  ‘I know, angel. But I don’t think she’ll mind me borrowing it just this once, do you?’

  Ellie’s short, shallow breaths begin to relax as she looks up thoughtfully at Max, her face still stained with the tears and temporary blemishes of her breakdown.

  Max continues singing my favourite bedtime song, ‘Goodnite, Sweetheart, Goodnite,’ rocking Ellie back and forth in his arms where she’s still curled up in his lap. After a few bars, Ellie joins in and I’m amazed she can still remember the words. It’s been over two years since I last sang it to her.

  The two of them sit together, singing the song that’s reminiscent of so many nights with Ellie huddled in my own arms, of evenings bathing her before bed, of reading to her in her pyjamas, of singing to her until she slept. Invisible, inaudible, I hover above them and begin to sing too, the three of us joined together by the same tune from opposite sides of the life divide.