The Man I Thought You Were

by Leah Mercer

  ‘What are you doing here?’ My voice emerges as a rasp and is swallowed up by the buses revving past us.

  My father takes my arm and tries to pull me over to the side of the pavement where we won’t be blocking the way and might actually have a hope in hell of hearing each other. But I won’t let him. I stand still, rooted to the spot.

  ‘I’m so glad we found you,’ he says, gripping my arm despite my attempts to escape his grasp.

  ‘We?’ Oh, God. My pulse is racing so fast now that I feel even more light-headed. Who is we? Does he mean Anna?

  He seems to read my mind and gestures towards the cafe. ‘Anna’s inside.’

  My heart plummets. Shit. Do they both know about my cancer? They must do if they’re waiting here just across from the centre.

  ‘She’s done everything possible to find you – to tell you that she wants to be with you.’ My father draws in a breath. ‘And so do I. Whatever cancer you have – whatever the prognosis – I want to be there for you and help support you through this. I need to be.’

  Anger swirls through me like a tornado, almost lifting me off the ground with its intensity. ‘You need to be?’ My voice cuts through the noise of the traffic whooshing past. ‘I don’t give a fuck about what you need, Dad.’ I try to breathe, to steady myself. ‘Where were you when Margo needed you all those years ago? Where were you when I needed you to help me with her?’ Fury makes my legs shake as I picture all the days – the endless days – pleading with my sister to eat, to just get well again, to do whatever she could to beat the disease back into submission. Her fevered cries that I had to get her baby back – that she needed the child to be with her . . . a child my father still knows nothing about. I was alone; I’d felt all alone. And so had Margo, I’m sure, despite my useless attempts to help her.

  My father recoils as if I’ve struck him, but he still doesn’t let go of my arm. ‘I made a mistake,’ he says. ‘Your mother and I . . . we made a mistake letting you deal with it by yourself. We know that now. But we thought she was doing all right, getting on with her life . . . finally recovered. We’d no idea how far things had gone. Until it was too late.’

  ‘You’re right, Dad,’ I say, barely able to get out the words. ‘You did make a mistake and it is too late. Too late for Margo, too late for me.’ I finally manage to wrench myself from his grasp and step backwards. ‘I don’t want your help, not now. Go back to your life. Enjoy living – the same way you have for the past thirteen years.’

  My father’s face crumples like I’ve punched him, but I don’t care. All my rage, all my fury and grief and pain is focused on him as if he’s the cause of everything that’s happened: Margo’s disease, her death, her missing baby . . . and in a way, he is. If he’d just stepped in – tried harder to help – maybe the anorexia wouldn’t have consumed her. Maybe she wouldn’t have died.

  Maybe I wouldn’t be in this hellish place right now.

  ‘And what about Anna?’ he asks, his voice now low and tight. ‘What should I tell her? She loves you. She wants nothing but to be with you. Are you really going to turn her away?’ He touches my arm again and I jerk away. ‘This isn’t the same as you taking care of Margo,’ he says. ‘You don’t need to protect Anna from this.’

  For a second I feel my legs buckle – my will buckle. It would be so easy to go inside that coffee shop, to let myself fall into my wife’s arms and drink in her warmth and love. But I can’t – of course I can’t – because my father’s wrong. Taking care of me – a weak man battling a deadly disease – is like taking care of my sister. He doesn’t know that because he wasn’t there. His life wasn’t hijacked by the whims of disease. He didn’t find Margo that morning when she’d finally given up. He doesn’t know she relinquished a child – a child she loved yet seemed to have lost all hope of seeing again. He didn’t have to pack up her possessions, then struggle to move on. He doesn’t know the despair, the dark desolation. If he did, he wouldn’t be asking me to inflict such things on my wife.

  Pain flashes through me and I gulp in the diesel-scented air. Knowing that my world with Anna remained untouched by sickness and fear kept me moving through this strange and awful place. But now . . . now my father turns up, telling me they know I’m sick. They know everything, and that wonderful idyllic life we’d had – the life I left to protect – has been invaded. I swallow, seeing mould growing over it, turning it dark and damp just like Margo’s rabbit.

  ‘Tell Anna . . .’ I swallow, bitterness and heartache propelling the words from my mouth. ‘Tell her to forget me. Tell her to move on.’ I meet my father’s eyes and laugh, barely recognising the sound emerging from me. ‘You should be able to advise her on that one.’

  And then I rush across the street, not even caring if any cars are coming – I just need to get away. The doors of the cancer centre slide open and I race through them, my chest heaving.

  This is my world now. This world of sickness, of poison, of death. I’m starting to feel like I really belong here.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Anna

  I head out of the loo and back upstairs just in time to see Richard settling into his seat.

  ‘Did you grab something to eat?’ I ask, before noticing there’s nothing in front of him. ‘Oh, God. Don’t tell me they’ve run out of food again. Honestly, you’d think they’d have a better stock here.’ I can’t count the number of times I’ve forced down a stale croissant because the shop ‘had no delivery today’.

  I slump into a chair, exhaustion ambushing me. How I wish I was home stuffing my face with pickles or whatever bizarre pregnancy craving might hit, with my feet up on our coffee table as my husband buzzes around me. Soon, I tell myself, straightening my spine. Just give it a little more time.

  But Richard doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he shakes his head. I raise my eyebrows, noticing his pale and stricken face. ‘What happened? Is everything okay?’

  He runs a hand along the table’s scarred surface, as if he’s trying to get a grip on his emotions. Then he looks up at me, his face carefully arranged into a neutral expression. ‘I just saw Mark.’

  ‘What?’ Instantly I’m on my feet, the chair tipping over backwards and rattling on to the floor. ‘Where?’ I swivel left and right, my heart beating so fast now it feels like it might break out of my body. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Anna, sit.’ Richard waves a hand, motioning me downwards, but there’s no way I can relax. How can I? How can I, when my husband who I’ve been trying to find for what feels like forever is somewhere nearby? My eyes swing wildly around the cafe. But . . . where is he now?

  ‘He’s across the street, probably getting treatment,’ Richard says, and I sink into my chair. Oh. It’s strange that Mark wouldn’t wait to talk to me, but Mark does hate being late for anything – I’m the same. He always says it shows disrespect for the other person’s time. And treatment is the top priority now so we can conquer this thing.

  ‘Well, come on then.’ I grab my coat and shove my arms into the sleeves, not even caring that the collar is all twisted. ‘Let’s go over and see him.’

  ‘Wait.’ Richard takes my arm. ‘He says . . .’

  ‘What?’ I shake my head. What could he possibly say? He knows that we’re aware of his illness – that we want to be there for him. No other barriers can separate us.

  ‘He says he wants you to move on. To forget him.’

  ‘What?’ Mark wouldn’t utter those words . . . would he? My thought from just a few days ago flashes into my head: he had to know I’d try to find him. And now that I have, surely he can’t expect me to head back home – to give up on us. If he thinks that, then he doesn’t really know me at all.

  I gulp, thinking of all the things I didn’t know about him. I’ve always been open and honest with my husband, but is there a chance he never understood just how much I love him? He must not, I realise . . . not if he could say that to Richard. But I’m here now, and he’s just across the street. And if ever there
was a time to tell him how I feel – how we’re going to be a family – then this is it.

  Richard sighs. ‘He doesn’t want either one of us to help him, it seems. Me, I can understand. He’s angry because of the past, and I can’t say I blame him. But you . . . well, I—’

  I don’t let him finish. I grab my bag and leap to my feet. I push open the door of the cafe and head on to the street, my unfastened coat flapping behind me like broken wings. Cold air sears my lungs and skin, but I barely feel it. All I can see are the lights in front of me – the lights of the place where my husband is lying.

  The doors of the cancer centre slide open and I rush over to the reception desk. ‘Hello, I’m here to see my husband, Mark Lewis.’ I can barely hear my words over the pounding of my heart. ‘He might be having chemotherapy?’

  ‘Go on up.’ The woman nods towards the lifts. ‘All our chemotherapy services are on the first floor. You can check with reception there.’

  I hurry to the bank of lifts and jab at the ‘Up’ button. It seems to take forever, but finally the doors open. When I reach the first floor, I run over to another reception desk situated in front of a wide glass panel. Through the panel I can see a vast room. A small waiting area with treatment bays is on one side, while the rest of the space is taken up with large padded chairs, potted plants and shelves with books and magazines. It resembles more a hair salon or mall than what I’d imagined a chemotherapy centre would look like. I strain to catch a glimpse of Mark, but—

  ‘Can I help you?’ A man behind the desk appears in my line of vision.

  ‘Um, hi. My husband is here.’ I gesture to the room behind us.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Mark Lewis.’ Come on, come on, I think as the man taps so slowly on the keyboard. How on earth do you get to be a receptionist if you can’t even type?

  ‘Okay, yes, he’s waiting to see the nurse. Go on through . . . oh, just a second. There’s a note here.’ He slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose and scans the screen, and it takes all of my willpower to hold back a scream.

  ‘Sorry, it says here he doesn’t want anyone to accompany him.’ The man looks up at me.

  ‘No, no, you don’t understand.’ My voice is shrill, so I take a deep breath, sensing that this is the kind of man who simply shuts down at women’s hysterics. ‘I’m his wife. I need to see him. Please. Please let me.’

  But the man shakes his head. ‘Sorry. We need to abide by our patients’ wishes, I’m afraid. We can’t—’

  But I’ve already made a break for the door. I’m just about to grasp the handle when the man positions himself in front of me, blocking the door and any access to it. Out from behind the desk, he’s much bigger than he appeared, and his bulk dwarfs me. There’s no way I’m getting through him – or that door. Instead, I lunge to the left and start hammering on the glass.

  ‘Mark!’ I yell, hoping my voice is penetrating this shield. ‘Mark! It’s Anna. I’m here! Please, I need to see you. I have to tell you something!’ I’m almost tempted to scrabble in my bag, rip open the gift and hold up the baby T-shirt, but there’s no way I’d want to do that in front of an audience.

  Heads swing around, eyes wide as they meet mine, and a nurse scurries over to the door. The receptionist grasps my arm and starts pulling me away from the glass, and there’s nothing for me to grip on to – nothing to prevent him from hauling me away.

  ‘Madam, you need to stop right now or I’ll have to call security,’ he says, but I barely even hear him, because my eyes are locked on those of my husband, who’s staring at me through the glass. I catch my breath and smile, certain that everything will be all right now that we’ve finally made contact. For just a moment I can see him – the man that I love, the man who will love our unborn baby with everything he has in him. Excitement courses through me as I realise I’m just seconds from telling him about our child.

  But then . . . Mark blinks and turns away. My smile fades and I stare at the space his face inhabited, unable to believe what’s happened. He can’t have dismissed me just like that. He must be getting up from the chair, putting down his magazine – something.

  I stare through the glass as I wait for Mark to approach the door, but there’s no movement, and panic slices into me like a knife. I try to breathe – try to find the air to scream his name, to make my shout pierce the glass and reach him. But the man is dragging me further and further away until there’s nothing I can do but silently stare through the glass separating me from my husband, willing Mark to face me.

  To come back to me once again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Anna

  After the receptionist frogmarches me from the building, I cross the street in a haze of hurt and confusion. Richard is sitting in the same chair at the cafe, as if he knew I’d be returning soon. I lurch through the door like I’m staggering home from war, and he stands and holds out his arms. I fall into them, my eyes tearing up when I smell his cologne: it’s the same fresh, clean scent that Mark wears. Richard tightens his grip and for a split second I feel like I’m back in my husband’s arms.

  But then . . . pain rips into me and my chest heaves as I struggle to hold back the emotions building inside, because all I can see is Mark’s face, so pale and drawn, and his stare piercing through me, like he didn’t even know me. The way he turned away, leaving me standing alone on the other side of the glass, with no chance of bridging the gap between us. I shudder, picturing his hollow cheeks and bloodshot eyes . . . an echo of how I’d imagined him in worst-case scenarios. Is that because of the chemo or because he’s very ill? Will he be all right? I collapse into a chair, bile rising in my throat. For God’s sake, I still don’t even know what he has.

  Richard brings me another coffee despite the fact that the staff are mopping the floor, keen to head home. The memory of how Mark and I met flashes into my mind, and tears spring to my eyes. Those two people seem like another couple.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I whisper, staring down into the coffee I can’t contemplate drinking. ‘How could he not even talk to me?’ Richard sits across from me and touches my arm, his eyes full of sympathy.

  A few minutes pass in silence, with each of us lost in our own tortured thoughts. Then Richard sighs heavily. ‘Did Mark ever tell you how Margo died?’

  I shake my head, thinking that Mark never even told me about Margo’s existence, let alone how she died.

  ‘She was anorexic, from around the age of thirteen,’ he says, fingers gripping his mug so hard they turn white. ‘I was a GP and I should have spotted it sooner, but I just never thought . . .’ He clears his throat. ‘Well, I thought it was because of all the training she was doing. She was a talented runner, and she and Mark would go on long runs for hours. Mark got her into running, actually – she idolised him, and anything he did, she wanted to do, too. They were only two years apart, and Margo was constantly trying to show him she was his equal. I was happy she was so interested in staying healthy . . . I’d seen so many obese kids who hated anything to do with exercise. But then she started eating less and less and exercising more and more, and we got worried. We’d take her to counselling, she’d get better and then it would start up again.’

  I nod, but I still don’t say a word, watching as the staff stack chairs around us. Neither of us move, like we’re locked in this terrible time and place.

  ‘Of course, we all begged and pleaded with her to eat,’ he continues, leaning forward as if he can’t get the story out fast enough. After everything that has happened tonight, his words have a sense of urgency about them. ‘Sometimes she would take a few bites for Mark. And sometimes nothing we did or said would make any difference. She’d end up in hospital, then a recovery centre, and for months at a time she’d be well.’ He pauses as if he wants to stop there but can’t. He shifts on the chair.

  ‘After she turned eighteen, things really went downhill. Margo refused to see any more counsellors, and of course we had no control over her or access t
o her treatment plan at that point. We tried everything – we talked for hours, spoke to nearly every specialist in the country . . . we even offered her money if she’d just commit to something. My wife and I practically ripped each other apart, arguing non-stop about the best thing to do.’ He shakes his head. ‘Nothing we said made any difference, and Margo just kept getting thinner. So . . .’ He winces. ‘We told her she’d need to continue getting help or she’d have to move out.’

  I bite my lip, trying to imagine parents asking their child to leave – their child who’s ill, who’s depending on their strength. How does that happen?

  ‘We didn’t think she’d really go,’ he explains quickly, as if he doesn’t want me to condemn him. ‘She was so weak that she rarely left the house. We thought it would jolt her into actually doing something. But I guess we underestimated her, because she did go – straight to Mark, who had moved out and was working on the bank’s trainee scheme at that point.’

  Richard sighs, then sips his coffee. ‘I didn’t want that burden on him, but what could we do? If we went back on what we said – if we took Margo in again without agreeing to follow a plan – we knew she would almost certainly die. She had to find her own way, without family to enable her. And I told Mark as much, the few times we spoke. It sounds harsh, I know . . . it took my wife and me years to come to that point. But we really believed it was the only way.’

  He meets my eyes, and I flinch at the pain in them. ‘Mark couldn’t be that tough, though. Looking back, we never should have asked him to be. He became the one who lived with Margo, supported her, managed her illness and cared for her . . . until she committed suicide.’

  I cover my mouth. ‘Margo killed herself?’

  Richard nods. ‘Mark was the one who found her. Like us, he’d tried everything – he practically gave up his life to care for her. But in the end . . . well, she just couldn’t fight the disease. Mark was furious we’d taken such a tough line with her. He felt we’d abandoned her. And maybe he was right.’ Richard winces, as if he can hardly bear the turmoil going on inside him. ‘I’m telling you this to help you understand why my son will do what he can to push you away – why he’ll try so hard to protect you. If you know the horror of watching someone die . . .’