The Man I Thought You Were

by Leah Mercer

  Out on the street I pause, unsure which way to turn for the nearest Tube. Anna’s worked in this part of London for ages, but apart from a few faculty parties and the lecture where we first met, I haven’t been here much. The streets are dirty and people rush by, heads down and chins tucked in against the cold, and I struggle to place my warm, friendly wife amidst this cityscape. Her sphere is the university, where she can sink comfortably into the world of books and the ever-present stack of papers to be marked.

  I picture her there now, head bent over her work with that cute little furrow in her brow as she puzzles over what on earth a student is trying to say . . . life proceeding as usual. My gut twists, but I know I’ve done the right thing by leaving. She loves her job, and I couldn’t bear it if my illness took her away from that.

  Wind whips down the street and I yank up the hood of my thick padded parka. I force my legs through the damp, chilly air and then down the Tube stairs for the journey east to Whitechapel. The Underground is clammy and warm, filled with the breath of a thousand commuters and the smell of wet wool. I board a train and, as it rattles through the dark tunnels, I try to breathe through my mouth and will myself not to be sick.

  The train pulls into Whitechapel several minutes later and I stand up gingerly from my seat. Without any food in my gut, I feel so insubstantial, like I’m floating through the air – like I might drift off and stick to the grimy station ceiling above me. Did Margo feel this way most days, I wonder? Like she was struggling to keep her feet on the ground – struggling to focus?

  I go through the turnstile and stand still for a second. I haven’t been here for years, not since that terrible day when Ben called me. I was kicking back, watching a terrible action film Margo always made fun of, relishing having the flat to myself after years of sharing it with my sister. I loved her, but keeping track of her food intake, making sure she was taking care of herself and that she didn’t relapse, well . . . I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I’d been worried about the pregnancy and how she’d adjust to the pressures of motherhood, but so far everything seemed fine.

  Her baby girl, Grace, arrived safe and sound in the middle of one of the hottest days of the year and Margo and Ben were both smitten. Ben was transformed, even staying in and changing nappies. I was thrilled for them, relief filtering through me that finally I could relinquish my role as protector. I’d always be Margo’s big brother, but she had her own little family now – a family that would hold on to her tightly if anorexia came calling.

  I’d been by several times to visit, bringing gifts and laying my claim as the world’s greatest uncle. Margo was tired, naturally, and the baby liked to scream, but apart from that they resembled any other couple with a newborn: happy and in love with their child, but exhausted. Margo was even thinking of getting back in touch with our parents and telling them the news, that’s how proud she was of Grace and how far she’d come.

  So when my mobile rang that night I ignored it, shoving it away from me and hunkering down in front of the screen, luxuriating in the feeling of being able to shut off the outside world. I let the on-screen action play out, switched off the lights then staggered practically comatose into my bed . . . the bed Margo had given up only months before.

  I remembered the phone call when I awoke the next morning. I grabbed my mobile, brow wrinkling as Ben’s recorded voice came down the line.

  ‘It’s me, mate. You need to get over here and sort out your sister, all right? I can’t do any more. I’m done.’

  The message ended abruptly and I stared at the phone, instantly alert. What the hell? I pulled on my clothes, called in sick to the bank and jumped on the Tube to Whitechapel.

  I rushed up the escalator and down the street into the early autumn sunshine, the golden rays illuminating empty crisp packets on the street like jewels. Chicken bones crunched under my feet as I lurched past the window of the chicken shop. I pressed the buzzer to Ben’s flat. Finally, after I’d leaned on the buzzer for what felt like hours, the door unlocked. I opened the door and rushed in, stumbling forwards, the sharp edge of the grimy stairs cutting into my shins, then took the steps two at a time. My heart beat fast and I wondered what I might find, the old worry settling like a shroud around my stiff shoulders.

  ‘Margo? Margo!’ The door was half open and I pushed inside. The small room was rammed with baby gear: a bouncer, a swing, a mat. Bottles and other baby paraphernalia clogged each surface, and bibs and tiny Babygros were draped over the ancient iron radiators, but the place was silent and still, with no sign of the family who lived there.

  ‘In here.’ Margo’s faint voice came from the bedroom and I raced towards it. My sister was an unmoving lump on the bed, her body pressed up against the wall. Despite the heat of the day, she was swaddled in blankets.

  ‘Margo? You okay?’ I put a hand on her shoulder and turned her towards me, my heart sinking when I saw her face: eyes glazed over, cheeks pale. Had she relapsed again? Shit.

  ‘Where’s Grace? Where’s the baby?’ I asked, my eyes furiously scanning the silent room.

  ‘Gone,’ Margo said, her voice emerging creaky and low, as if speaking from beyond the grave. ‘Just like Ben. They’ve all gone away.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I shook my head, struggling to make sense of her words. ‘Margo? What do you mean?’

  But Margo just stared through me, refusing to even answer.

  I dashed back out to the lounge. The baby must be here somewhere, I’d thought, furiously pushing aside clothes, nappies and blankets . . . although I’d never known an infant to be so quiet. Fear coursed through me as it fleetingly crossed my mind that the baby might not be breathing any more – you always hear such horrible things about cot death.

  But finally, after searching practically every corner of the flat, I had to concede defeat. Margo was right: Grace was gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Anna

  I swing my legs off the side of the bed, my mouth stretching in a yawn. It’s still dark outside, but downstairs I can hear Sophie’s voice on the phone as she continues our hunt to find my husband. We start every morning with a vengeance, fuelled by countless cups of tea and multiple slices of sugar-laden carrot cake from the bakery around the corner. Oddly, it’s the only thing I can manage to choke down these days, which is good because I need the energy to match Sophie call for call. Her relentless drive to find Mark pushes me forwards, too . . . partially blocking out the voice that’s taken up residence in the very back of my brain, bleating like a distressed lamb whose volume increases every time I close my eyes. I may know who Margo is now – I may understand why Mark left – but that doesn’t change the fact that my husband has cancer.

  And he’s going through it alone.

  The only thing that will silence that voice is finding him, and every day I cross my fingers that this will be it – that this will be the day that the voice finally stops. I stand now and head to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. In the mirror, my reflection looks more zombie than human: dark circles ring my eyes, my hair is limp and my face is pale. I stare at the woman in front of me, wondering what Mark looks like now. Will the disease have changed him or will he be unmarked? Is it too soon for any effects to show? I hate knowing nothing.

  I open the cupboard below the washbasin to take out a fresh bar of soap, catching sight of a box of tampons. I pause, realising that I haven’t bought any in a while. When was my period due? My foot taps as my brain works furiously, trying to remember. With everything that’s happened, it’s been the last thing on my mind, but I think it should have been a few days ago. Mark had my cycle mapped out on his phone . . .

  I rush to the bedroom and grab his mobile from my bag, flipping through the mostly empty calendars until I see ‘Anna due’ . . . yes, a few days back. I stare at the screen, my heart pounding. Could I be pregnant? I’ve been late a few times, but I’m usually pretty regular. Nothing can throw off your body like your husband’s abrupt dep
arture, though, and things haven’t exactly been normal around here.

  I throw on my jacket and rush down the stairs, then jam my feet into my shoes. If I was at home, I’d have ten different pregnancy tests to choose from. Mark was always keen to have plenty on hand so I could check at any hour. But I’m not at home, my husband’s not at hand and thankfully there’s a twenty-four-hour chemist just down the street.

  ‘Back in a sec!’ I call, then close the door before Sophie even has a chance to answer.

  Outside, a cold November wind whips down the street, biting the tip of my nose and cutting through my thin coat. I shiver and walk faster, bile rising inside me. This is not how I want to find out I’m pregnant; alone, with my husband missing – missing and with cancer. I want to be back in our flat, warm and cosy . . . back in my husband’s arms. I gulp in air and shove away the anger, telling myself that everything will be all right. God, I’m getting tired of that phrase.

  My breath comes fast and my pulse is racing, but I’m not sure if that’s from the exertion or the thought that, finally, I could be pregnant. I have been tired, but mostly because I hardly sleep. And while my stomach’s been off, that could be because of stress and my carrot-cake-only diet. My last period was over a month ago, so that would make me barely one month pregnant . . . if the test is positive, that is.

  The chemist is just down the street, but by the time I get there, my insides are frozen. I barely feel alive, let alone able to sustain another life. In a daze, I pluck a test from the shelf and pay, then shove it into my coat and rush to Sophie’s.

  ‘Anna?’ Sophie’s voice follows me as I head up the stairs. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Fine!’ My voice sounds strangled and, despite the cold, I’m sweating now.

  I close the bathroom door behind me and peel off my jacket. My fingers shake as I unwrap the foil from the test, but I don’t know whether it’s from hope or fear. I want to have a baby. I want to have Mark’s baby, and I know he was just as desperate for a child as me. But would he still feel the same now, facing what could be the biggest challenge of his life? A child is a huge commitment, and when I find him, we’re going to need every bit of energy to fight his cancer . . . even if it isn’t serious. Can we cope with cancer and a child?

  And – I swallow as the thought wraps itself around me like a coil – what if we can’t find Mark? Will I raise this baby on my own?

  We will find Mark, I remind myself. And as for the baby, well . . . there’s no need to worry until I find out if I am pregnant or not.

  I lower myself on to the loo and aim for the stick, holding my breath. I feel light-headed, as if I’m watching all this happen to someone else – as if this isn’t my reality. I pop the cap on the top of the stick and set it down on the sink, forcing air in and out of my lungs as I watch the liquid creep up inside the observation window. The control line appears, and my legs start to shake. I get to my feet, unable to stay sitting, then sink back down again as the room swings in front of me. God, I can’t bear this.

  And then . . . and then another line appears, and I close my eyes.

  I’m pregnant.

  I keep my eyelids closed – that line imprinted on my vision – as emotions tumble through me, each hitting with the strength of a freight train until I feel almost flattened from their force. Surprise that I really am pregnant after all this time. Sadness laced with anger that this Hallmark moment I’ve dreamed of so many times – bursting into the lounge holding a positive test and being swept up into my loving husband’s arms – has been taken away from me so very brutally, in such an unimaginable way . . . taken away by life, yes, but by my husband’s actions, too. And finally, layered on top of everything else, is hope. I breathe in, letting it fill my every pore – letting it push back all the fear and doubt. In the midst of this nightmare, there is light. There’s a baby, a perfect mix of me and Mark. A baby that will remind us both in such tough times that life can be joyous – that it’s not just illness and pain. Mark is sick, yes, but he may not have fled because the cancer is so serious. He may have fled because of what happened with Margo and his urge to protect me. He will recover, and we’ll have a child.

  Maybe the timing is perfect after all.

  I open my eyes as a slow smile lifts my lips. I picture the three of us back in our flat, a Moses basket in the corner and a play mat on the floor. Baby giggles burst like bubbles in the air, showering the place in happiness and joy.

  This is the new life we will build: a world of family. A perfect little trio, and we’ll be even stronger as a unit. We will face the world together.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Mark

  Ben’s flat is only a short walk from the Tube station, but every step feels like death is at my heels, just waiting to pull me under. I could have waited another day, I suppose, until I felt stronger. But right now, a day means everything. Funny how, until just recently, I used to long for the days to pass . . . for the month to pass, so that Anna could take that test and tell me there’s life inside her.

  I pause for a second, wondering what I would have done if she was pregnant. Could I have torn myself away, leaving her and my unborn baby behind? Pictures rush through my mind of Anna sponging my brow, bringing me a sick bucket then dashing over to feed our child, moving from one helpless being to the next – if I even managed to live long enough to see the baby. I shake my head, shrugging off the images. There’s no point even wasting time thinking about it.

  I’m sweating despite the cool temperature and I unzip my jacket, staring up at Ben’s flat. The chicken place has morphed into a smart coffee shop. Even Whitechapel can’t escape the effects of gentrification, I guess. The buzzer to the flats above is broken and the door hangs open, so I poke inside and struggle up the stairs. The air still reeks with the scent of frying chicken despite the shop’s departure, and I try not to breathe in too deeply. I stop at the top of the stairs, listening to a bass drum thump from the flat. At least my journey here hasn’t been in vain – Ben is home.

  I knock on the door, then bang harder when I realise he probably can’t hear me over the music. I guess the artiste doesn’t need silence to work.

  The door opens, and Ben’s eyes widen in shock. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Not exactly a warm welcome, but then I didn’t expect one. Ben and I were never the best of friends, not even from the start. I remember the day Margo brought him to my place in Finsbury Park, a few weeks after they first started dating. She was so excited for me to meet him, and I wanted to like him, I really did.

  At that time, she was doing fine. She was working in one of those army surplus shops down in Camden Market, and he’d come into her shop looking for some combat boots. Alarm bells started ringing as soon as she told me this story – I mean, the kind of man who wears combat boots in their day-to-day life probably isn’t someone you want dating your sister, especially when they’re as fragile as Margo. Funnily enough, Margo seemed to attract the kind of man who would wear combat boots . . . I guess they were eager to scoop her up and fulfil their Prince Charming fantasies or something.

  Anyway, she brought him round for drinks one night. I’d bought a nice bottle of red and he turned up with a bottle of foul white wine he’d ‘pinched last night from the gallery down the street’. Ben’s large frame and scraggy, dark curly hair made him look almost ogre-like next to Margo’s small-boned figure, but it was good to watch her laugh and joke with him as they devoured the white wine while I sipped from my red. She’d always hidden away from men, being too ill to even focus on a world outside of her own internal battle and too insecure about her body and the ravages of her disease. But something about Ben brought her out of herself in a way she hadn’t been even with me.

  Still, I had my doubts. I fully admit I was a little snobby, but she was my sister after all. Ben didn’t have a steady job – I’d no clue how he even made a living with his ‘work’. But Margo didn’t mind. She’d always loved art and painting herself, and Ben’s art
istic nature appealed to her. She liked his easy come, easy go lifestyle, too. The worry-free way he floated through life was completely different from how she’d struggled until meeting him. Within months she’d moved in with him, and then a few months later she was pregnant.

  And then . . .

  I blink to reconcile the image of Ben in my mind’s eye with the man facing me now. His curls are grey and the once-youthful face – with almost-chubby cheeks that Margo had loved to pinch – has sagged. He’s still dressing the same, though: black T-shirt, combat boots and army fatigue trousers. Some things never change, I guess.

  I hold up my hands to show I come in peace. ‘I just want to ask you something, and then I’ll go.’

  He raises an eyebrow, and for a second I wonder if he’ll even let me in. Then he shakes his head and motions me inside. ‘Come on, then.’

  I enter the flat, surprised at its tidiness – in complete contrast to the last time I saw it. A leather sofa graces one wall and an armchair rests in the corner. Fresh flowers brighten the top of the dining table, and there’s even wallpaper on one of the walls. Ben makes a face as he clocks my expression.

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘It’s not exactly my taste, but . . .’ He shrugs. ‘Sometimes it’s easier to just go with it than argue, you know? Anyway, I moved into my own art studio last week, just down the street. Finally.’ He smiles, and I notice a photo perched on a side table of him with a dark-haired woman. ‘So why are you here? After what happened at the funeral, I never thought I’d see you again.’

  I bow my head as memories wash over me. The funeral. Oh, God. I’ve tried so hard to blank out that day. But suddenly it’s clear, as if film has been peeled off a window, letting light – or darkness – stream through.

  My father looking small and deflated, crouched in the corner of a pew beside his new wife, as if the further away from Margo’s body he is, the further removed he could be from this reality.