The Man I Thought You Were

by Leah Mercer

  ‘I need a charger for this phone,’ I say to the man inside the next shop. Sweat beads on my forehead and I wipe it away. Heat washes over me like a wave, and for a second I’m certain I’ll be sick.

  The man takes the mobile from me, turning it this way and that. ‘Haven’t seen one of these for a while,’ he says. ‘Let me check in the back.’

  I manage a nod, then grip the counter with both hands and concentrate on breathing steadily.

  ‘All right, mate?’

  I jerk upright at the sound of his voice. ‘Yes, fine.’

  ‘You’re in luck. I found one for you. At least, I think I did.’ He holds the charger up in the air. ‘Want to give it a try?’

  ‘Sure, that would be great.’ The last thing I want is to get all the way home – well, back to the B & B – only to find out the charger doesn’t work . . . if the phone is still functional, that is. I’m not sure I could manage another journey back here. It’s not that far, but it feels like miles.

  He takes the phone from the counter then unwinds the charger and plugs it in. We both stare at the mobile, and I’m willing it to come to life.

  ‘Have you used it lately?’ the man asks, still watching the phone.

  ‘No, not for over ten years,’ I say. Thirteen, to be exact.

  ‘Ten years?’ The man raises his eyebrows. ‘Well, the SIM card probably won’t work. Mobile phone providers tend to deactivate them if they haven’t been used for a certain amount of time.’

  ‘Oh.’ My heart drops. I hadn’t thought of that.

  ‘But if any information was saved on the phone – like contacts and such – you should be able to access that.’

  ‘Okay.’ I cross my fingers, hoping that Margo had saved something on there. I’m not sure how much help her contacts would be, but something is better than nothing.

  The phone lights up and the man smiles. ‘Bingo. It’s working.’

  ‘Oh, brilliant. Thank you.’ I hand over my debit card and pay, my fingers itching to grab the mobile and see if my sister did save anything on the phone.

  The man catches my gaze. ‘Have a look.’

  I pick the phone up, my heart pounding. The SIM isn’t working and of course there’s no signal. But maybe the contacts . . . I scroll through to ‘Contacts’ and click it open, sighing at the long list of names. When Margo was well she collected new friends like children collect seashells. Well, I have plenty of time to call them all.

  I click through the contacts, hoping to feel a flicker of recognition, but there’s nothing. Until – my father? I blink at the name, wondering why he would be on the list. Whenever I encouraged her to get in touch with our dad, Margo was adamant she’d never talk to him again. I shrug internally, thinking that perhaps she just automatically put his details in there – but then I didn’t do that on my phone, and he’s my dad, too.

  ‘This is great – thank you,’ I say to the man, putting the mobile down again. I can’t wait to get back to my room and start calling those numbers – maybe after a brief lie down, just to regain some energy. My head is throbbing and it’s all I can do to stay upright.

  I watch the man unplug the phone and charger then shove them into a carrier bag. I silently will him to hurry before I collapse. I grab the bag then push open the door, forcing my muscles to move in this strange, numb state that’s descending over me. The edges of my vision start to go black and I blink furiously to try to clear my sight, but the world swings around me and the darkness closes in, and the last thing I remember is the grimy grey pavement rushing up to meet me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Anna

  I sleepwalk through the next week. Days pass, one to the other, and I don’t leave the flat. I hole up inside, unable to do anything but sit on the sofa and stare into space, trying to absorb the fact that Mark really is gone; that even if I had told him we are having a baby – even if I’d revealed I was having twins, like he said – it wouldn’t have made any difference.

  I still can’t believe he meant those words, but then . . . then I think of his hard face saying that he would have left me anyway, even if he didn’t have cancer. I remember everything he didn’t tell me about Margo and his past. I think of him pushing me out of the room and the door slamming in my face.

  As if I was nothing but an inconvenience to be shooed away.

  As if he didn’t love me.

  Did he ever love me? Or is he like Asher, his emotions pulling a disappearing act over time? Anger rattles through me, and it’s so intense I spring to my feet – anger at Mark, yes, but also at my sister for being right about our situation . . . for realising that Mark wasn’t who he’d seemed, even before I did. Why couldn’t I see it? Did his illness blind me to everything else? Was I so desperate for a happy family that I was willing to sweep everything else aside?

  I gaze around the flat at all the things we held dear, an urge to smash everything swarming over me. My mind flashes back to Sophie manically clearing the bedroom of Asher’s things and understanding filters through me. I don’t want any reminders of my life with my husband either. Mark hasn’t cheated on me, but he has betrayed me, heart and soul. Because despite what I thought was a perfect marriage, I really was in the dark. I had no idea of Mark’s tragic past and its lingering effects on his present. I thought our marriage had everything I’d always wanted, but it didn’t – not transparency, not trust, not strength. And in the end . . . not love.

  Mark is ill. He might recover completely; he might have years left or he might have months. I’m pregnant, seemingly about to raise a baby alone. But whatever the circumstances, I can’t think about him any more. I won’t. For my own sanity, as well as for my child.

  Fury rips into me and I grab the nearest object – our framed engagement picture. I lift it high then throw it hard against the floorboards. The glass makes a satisfying shattering sound before splintering into a million different shards that will be impossible to clean up, but I don’t care. I grab the photos from the wall and smash them, too, then sweep my hands along the bookshelves, upending all the knick-knacks we’ve collected through the years and the books we’ve read together. I’ve never been a violent person and part of me can’t believe I’m actually doing this, but it feels way too good to stop.

  A few minutes later I’m standing in the middle of the room and there’s nothing left to dismantle. I stare at the mess in disbelief: cushions on the floor, lampshades askew, broken glass everywhere. It looks like I’ve been burgled and, actually, I feel like I have. I just never thought my husband would be the thief.

  I pause for a minute to catch my breath, then head into the bathroom. I sink down on the toilet and rest my elbows on my knees, trying to get a grip on my whirling anger. But instead of my pulse calming, it quickens when I catch sight of crimson blood staining my knickers. Oh my God. There’s not much, but it’s more than a drop . . . and I can hear it dripping into the toilet, too.

  Panic and fear rush through me as I wonder what this means. I know it’s still early in this pregnancy . . . eight weeks or so, if my calculations are correct. And I know miscarriages are common, but I never even thought about the possibility of losing this child. I suppose I was too focused on finding Mark to really consider anything else.

  Please don’t go, I silently beg my baby. I may want to pack up everything to do with my former world, but I don’t want to lose this child who’s been with me through the horror of the past month, a silent partner in my quest to reunite our family. And even if bringing our family back together may not happen – even if it won’t happen, I remind myself – it feels like my baby and I are a pair now, melded not just by blood, but by love. Love . . . and hope for whatever future we might build together. ‘Please don’t go,’ I say aloud now fervently hoping that somehow my baby can hear me.

  I stay frozen on the toilet for what feels like forever, the tiles chilly beneath my feet and the light burning my tired eyes. My thighs turn purple with cold as time ticks by until I finally dare to
move. I ease off the toilet seat, holding my breath as I glance down at the toilet bowl. Ribbons of blood curl through the water, but there’s not nearly as much as I’d feared. Everything seems all right down below – no stabbing pain; no wrenching ache – and the bleeding appears to have stopped, thank God.

  I bite my lip as I hobble back to the lounge, afraid to move in case the bleeding starts up again. It’s too late to go to the GP now . . . should I head to hospital? Will they do anything for me since it’s so early in the pregnancy? Anger grips me that I’m going through this all alone and I take deep breaths to beat it back. I can’t let it ambush me again, not like that.

  Sophie would know what to do, I think, gingerly lowering myself on to the sofa. Back when she was pregnant with Flora she used to regale me with endless horror stories about labour and birth. She’d studied the baby books so much she could have given the midwife a run for her money.

  But it’s not just her encyclopaedic knowledge I need – it’s her. It’s been two weeks since we’ve spoken – the longest we’ve ever gone – and I’ve missed her desperately. She’s always been there as a protective presence in my life. Can I really fault her for wanting to prevent me from being hurt? Now that I understand the pain she was feeling after Asher’s betrayal, I can hardly blame her for her actions. I cringe, guilt filtering through me when I remember how Sophie asked me for help and I just ran off, completely shutting her out.

  I grab my mobile and dial her number, crossing my fingers in the hope that she picks up. God, I hope she’s all right.

  ‘Hello.’ Her voice is cooler than usual, but at least she’s answered.

  ‘Soph . . .’ I pause, wondering where to start. I don’t have time to waste though, so I launch straight in. ‘I need your help. I’m pregnant, and I started bleeding.’

  Her breath catches and I wait for the torrent of questions, but thankfully she snaps into emergency mode. ‘How many weeks are you? What colour is the blood? And how heavy is it?’

  I answer everything as quickly as I can, so grateful for my efficient older sister. I don’t know how I’ve got through the past couple of weeks without her. ‘Do you think I should go to hospital?’ I ask.

  ‘Probably not,’ she answers. ‘Not if there wasn’t much blood, and the bleeding has stopped anyway. I had a bit of bleeding with Flora . . . it’s quite normal, and it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re having a miscarriage. You should go to the GP tomorrow though, just to get checked out and make sure everything is all right.’

  ‘Okay.’ I let out my breath slowly, my muscles relaxing for the first time since spotting the blood.

  ‘Anna . . .’ Her voice is hesitant. ‘You’re pregnant? Shit. I mean, well . . . When did you find out?’

  ‘A few weeks ago,’ I say. ‘I didn’t tell you because I wanted to let Mark know first.’

  ‘I can understand that.’ Silence falls on the line between us, and then she says: ‘Is that why you were so desperate to find Mark again? Because you wanted to let him know about the baby?’

  I nod, then realise she can’t see me. ‘Yes.’ My voice is hoarse and I wrap my arms around myself as my mind replays the horrible scene when I did find him again.

  ‘God, I’m sorry, Anna. I wish I’d known – I would have kept helping you. I was just . . . so angry – at Asher and at Mark – at how they’d treated us, you know?’

  ‘I know.’ I rub my eyes. ‘And I’m sorry, Soph. I’m sorry I left like that when you needed me, too. I just couldn’t think of anything else – anything but getting through to Mark.’ I sigh, shaking my head. ‘But actually, you were right about Mark, and how he’s changed.’

  Sophie draws in a breath. ‘You spoke to him?’

  ‘Yes. And it was . . . terrible.’ His words are still freshly branded on my heart, stinging every time I remember them. ‘He was like someone else, Soph. He literally pushed me away.’ A tear streaks down my cheek and I swipe it away.

  ‘But did you tell him about the pregnancy?’ Sophie asks. ‘I know I said he’s changed and all, but it is his baby.’

  ‘I tried,’ I say, drawing a blanket up around me, as if it can keep me and my child safe. ‘But he wouldn’t even let me talk. He said . . .’ I breathe in, trying not to let emotions swamp me. ‘He said he was planning to leave me anyway, even before the cancer – that nothing I said would make any difference, not even having a baby. And then he slammed the door in my face.’

  ‘Holy shit.’ Sophie’s voice is low, as if even she can’t quite believe how cruel my husband has been. ‘Holy fucking shit. What an absolute bastard.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s one way of putting it.’ I shake my head, incredulity running through me that those words really do apply to Mark . . . to the man I married.

  ‘God, Anna. I can’t believe you’ve been going through this on your own! Why the hell didn’t you call? I mean, I know we had a bit of an argument, but still.’ She pauses. ‘You’re not going to try to contact him again, are you?’ she asks in a cautious tone.

  ‘No.’ My voice is firm and I mean it. Whatever Mark and I had – however our lives intersected – it is over. ‘I need to focus on my baby now and try to get through this on my own.’

  ‘You know you’re not alone,’ Sophie says. ‘I’m here for you . . . and the baby, too. I can’t believe you’re pregnant.’ I can just imagine her shaking her head. ‘Tell you what – why don’t you come stay with me and Flora again, at least until Christmas is over? I’ve really missed you, and Flora has, too. You can’t knock around that flat by yourself over the holidays.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, without even having to think about it. This place isn’t a home any longer and I can’t wait to get out of here.

  We say goodbye and I put my hand on my soft and yielding stomach. Mark may never be a part of our baby’s life, but I know – with a determination so fierce it echoes in every cell of me – that I will do everything possible for this child. Stay strong for it, take care of it, be its world.

  I glance around the smashed-up flat then throw off the blanket and slowly stand. It’s time to get on with my life – a new life I never imagined I’d be leading, but a life I need to build for myself . . . and for my baby.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Mark

  I toss and turn, lost in a grey haze. Machines beep, needles prick my arm and I feel the tight pull of an IV line packed with drugs to yank me from this dangerous place – caused by an infection, apparently. A silly infection that threatened my life because of my weakened immunity. Cool hands, dry hands, hands that are brisk and efficient come and go at all hours. Through my closed eyelids I see the lights above me morphing from a fluorescent brightness to a dim yellow as the days slide into nights.

  Darkness crouches over me and I try to stop myself from sinking into it . . . into the parade of grotesque masks that invade my sleep, if you can call a tangled, twisted spate of unconsciousness ‘sleep’. Anna’s agonised face, then Margo’s stiff and waxy skin, then Grace, her visage blank and unformed . . . I’d cry out if my throat was working, if something inside me functioned right now. But everything seems dull and blunted – everything except the desire to find Grace, although even that feels far away, a blazing sun swathed in fog.

  And one day – at least I think it’s day as those bright lights are on – someone new grips my hand. Someone who lingers, not like the nurses who come and go at the speed of light. Fingers curl around mine with strength, as if they’re anchoring me here, like they don’t want to let go. I drift in and out of consciousness and they’re still there, a solid presence to soften the blows of my subconscious assault. I can’t help grasping them, a lifesaver in this ocean of sickness.

  I lift my eyelids now, my mind clear for the first time in days. I’m still clutching the hand, and my eyes move upwards to see . . . my father.

  ‘Dad?’

  My father smiles and reaches out to touch my arm. I’m tempted to pull away, to let him see that if I’d known the hand belonged to him I w
ouldn’t have latched on to his strength. But he’s holding my fingers too tightly and I don’t have the power to fight.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I struggle to sit up, an impossible mission in these stupid beds. ‘How did you find me? And does Anna know where I am?’

  ‘Relax,’ my dad says, pressing me back down again. ‘I’ve been calling the hospital every day just to check if you’d been admitted. I knew you might be at some point. That’s just the nature of this disease . . . and no, Anna doesn’t know you’re here.’ He sighs. ‘Although she certainly deserves to, I think,’ he continues in a gentle tone. ‘I didn’t want to cause her any more pain though. She was in pieces after she left the cancer centre that night.’

  I wince and swivel my head away from him, unable to bear the sympathetic expression on his face – sympathy for my wife, the woman I hurt, even if it was for the best. And my father doesn’t even know the worst of it. Shutting the door in her face took everything I had, turning me into a person I didn’t know existed. I thank God that that’s the end of it and I won’t need to do it again.

  ‘I know you told me to stay away from you, and I understand why. But I can’t. I won’t – not this time.’ His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. ‘Please, as soon as you’re well enough, come home with me. Let Jude and me take care of you, help you get well. Let us be your family again.’

  His words curl around me with the seductive warmth of a fuzzy blanket and, for an instant, I long to say yes – to be a part of a family once more, the family that Margo’s disease broke apart. To lean on their collective strength and let them buoy me up.

  But how can I? How can I do that when my sister is dead – dead because of the failure of our family? Because of my father – because of me?

  ‘I . . . I can’t,’ I say, looking up at the ceiling. A jolt of emotion – regret, longing? – jars my heart, but I ignore it. ‘Just . . . just leave me. Please.’ I want to sound strong, but instead my voice emerges thready and weak. I’m so, so tired now, my battery utterly drained. How many times will I have to keep doing this? I wonder. How many times will I need to keep pushing people away?