The Man I Thought You Were

by Leah Mercer

  I can hardly believe I’ve finally found her, right here in the heart of my father’s family. The place is a madhouse, with constant noise and chaos, but it’s a madhouse filled with love. I couldn’t think of a better place for Grace to grow up, and my father and Jude are doing a fantastic job. My father’s happy to have Ben, Grace’s biological father, come out for a visit, too, if that’s what Grace wants.

  My first impressions of Grace were right: she’s a quiet, thoughtful girl who’d prefer to curl up in her room with a novel or her sketchbook . . . more like me than her mother, who used to talk so much we always threatened to put in earplugs.

  When I’m having a low-energy day, Grace creeps into my room and reads aloud for me, her voice carrying me off to the worlds of her favourite books like Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights – she’s very into the Brontës at the moment, thanks to my recommendation. Grace’s high, lilting voice reminds me of Flora, and I often wonder how my other niece is doing. Does she know I’m ill, or is she looking forward to our annual play-day on New Year’s Day, when we spend hours together testing out her Christmas haul? Apart from Christmas, it’s one of my favourite days of the year – hers, too, I think. I wince, guilt flooding into me when I remember promising her we’d play games on the new tablet she wanted. I knew it would be hard to cut Anna from my life, but I never realised how difficult it would be to shut out others, too.

  Grace’s visits are the highlights of the days when all I can do is breathe in and out – when the pain threatens to swamp me; pain from my cancer, yes, but also pain from the past. Because even though my life with Anna is in the past, and no matter how much I try to block it out, I just can’t. I still dream of her every night – still ache when I think of the awful things I said. I still miss her with every part of me.

  And now, waking up on Christmas morning, she feels closer than ever, like I could reach across the time and space of the past two months and pull her up against me.

  As I watch the kids tear open their gifts with gleeful expressions, I think about the family we tried to have – the family we never will have. I did the right thing letting her go, I tell myself yet again, so she can go off and make another life. And I’ll make sure that, when I’m gone, Jude sends her the letter I wrote in what feels like forever ago. Hopefully that will help her understand.

  The day passes in a haze of turkey, mince pies and the excited cries of children who’ve consumed too much chocolate. I head up to bed early, drowsy on my half-glass of wine and wanting to be alone with my thoughts . . . alone with my memories of Anna. I wonder what she’s doing right now. Is she thinking of me, too?

  I change into my pyjamas and get into bed with my book for company.

  ‘Uncle Mark?’

  Grace’s voice comes through the door and I set down my book.

  ‘Come in!’ I call.

  Grace pokes her head inside the room. ‘Hi!’ She’s decked out in a garish Christmas jumper with stripy leggings. With her hair in bunches and chocolate smeared around her mouth, she looks about five rather than thirteen.

  ‘I just wanted to give you this,’ she says shyly, handing over the package in her hands almost reluctantly, as if she’s not sure she wants to part with it.

  ‘Oh! Thank you,’ I say, raising my eyebrows. ‘I thought I’d got all my presents already.’

  She ducks her head down, her cheeks colouring. ‘I wanted to give you this on my own.’

  I smile to put her at ease and gingerly remove the tissue, trying not to rip what looks to be some kind of drawing or sketch. I slide out a canvas, my heart filling up as I stare at the painting: it’s our family, with Dad and Jude standing smack in the middle and the three little ones in front of them. Grace is sitting in a chair to the side, and above her . . . I squint at my image, swallowing hard as emotions rush in, then glance up to meet Grace’s eyes watching me eagerly.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ I say, putting an arm around her. ‘But how—’

  ‘I asked everyone to pose for a photo,’ she explains, ‘and then I did the painting from that. You were a bit trickier, but I managed to get you in there!’ She grins. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Like it?’ I shake my head. ‘I love it. It’s brilliant. You’re very talented.’

  Her cheeks go even redder, but I can tell she’s pleased. ‘I hope it’s okay that I haven’t put your wife in there,’ she says, her voice tentative. ‘I asked Mum, but she wasn’t sure . . . she said it might be best to leave her out for now.’

  I draw in a breath as my gut squeezes. ‘Yes, maybe it is for the best,’ I manage to say. Grace has never asked about Anna; I wasn’t even sure she knew I was married. Automatically I twist the heavy ring on my finger – the ring I still haven’t taken off. I suppose that it’s a bit of a giveaway.

  ‘Mark?’

  ‘Yes?’ I brace myself for whatever she might ask.

  ‘Where is your wife?’

  ‘Well . . .’ I meet her inquisitive gaze. ‘We’re not together just now,’ I say, trying to be as vague as possible.

  ‘Why not?’ She fixes me with a laser-like stare, and I pull up the duvet like a shield.

  ‘Things are a bit complicated,’ I say, knowing that’s such a cop-out, but unsure of what to say. How can I explain what really happened to a teen?

  ‘Do you want to be together?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’ The answer comes to me instantly. Despite what I kept from my wife, we did have a wonderful marriage. I want us to be together – I always have, throughout all of this. It was never a question of wanting to or not. It was a question of stopping her from having to go through what I did.

  ‘Well, you should be, then,’ she says, like she’s made a final verdict. ‘Right, more Christmas pudding?’ She rubs her tummy, and despite all the emotions tumbling through me, I laugh. ‘Come on, let’s go and get some!’

  I groan. ‘I don’t know how you have any room left in there! I’m stuffed!’ Secretly, I’m pleased that she doesn’t seem to have inherited any of her mother’s food aversions. I don’t know if it is inherited, but I can’t help but worry . . . and I notice Dad and Jude watching carefully, too. I give her another hug. ‘Thank you so much for this,’ I say, gesturing to the painting.

  She smiles and closes the door behind her, and my eyes return to her present. After so long I’m finally part of the family – my family, the family I’d pushed into my past. But I can’t take my eyes off the space beside me in the painting, the space where Anna would be if none of this had happened.

  Then again, if none of this had happened I wouldn’t have found Grace . . . nor forgiven my father and met Jude and the kids. I close my eyes now, picturing the quiet cocoon of our marriage miles away from this crazy house. It was safe, yes, and I’d thought that was what I wanted – protected from the past; protected from the pain. But the pain was inside of me, and no matter how much I tried to shield myself from it, I couldn’t. I’m only seeing that now that my soul is starting to heal.

  I catch my breath, wondering if Anna is starting to heal, too – starting to make a new life. Is she spending tonight with Sophie’s family, surrounded by people who care? Raising her glass in a toast to good health and cheer? Or . . . I squeeze my eyes shut against the image of her eyes glistening with tears, staring at the empty space beside her as my terrible words continue to tear through her.

  I hope she’s all right, but there’s nothing I can do now . . . nothing except wait for time to pass. Next Christmas, life will have moved on. I’ll be gone, and this nightmare for us both will be over.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Anna

  Christmas Day passes in a haze of food, presents and sleep. Thankfully it couldn’t be more different from the quiet ones I’d spent with Mark. Sophie blares out Christmas carols and the three of us hold a dance contest. A huge turkey with all the trimmings emerges from the oven with military precision and Flora’s mountain of presents has taken over the lounge. It’s noisy, it’s chaotic and I’m loving
it. It’s such a whirlwind that when the silence descends after Asher picks up Flora the house seems empty and sad. Sophie plucks the whisky from the kitchen cupboard and throws back slug after slug while I sink towards sleep. I guess you can only maintain the noise for so long before memories work their way in, and I can see the sadness pulling at my sister’s face.

  As for me, well . . . I’m still waiting for the past to fade, for Mark’s painful words to lessen their grip on me. I’m getting through the days all right – filling Flora’s time with trips to the zoo, pantos and skating at the ice rinks dotted around the city – but the nights, when the lights fade and the darkness comes in, are sheer torture. I have stopped trying to find Mark and I will make a new life, but still my mind keeps working, struggling to find the man I thought I knew, endlessly sifting through memories and desperately trying to latch on to something positive.

  It’s New Year’s Eve and Flora and I are watching cheesy films on the sofa as rain batters the windows. Sophie’s determined to hit the South Bank to watch the fireworks and she’s gone off to buy us ponchos.

  ‘Auntie Anna?’ Flora turns towards me.

  ‘Yes, munchkin?’ I smile as she curls up against my side, thinking that if my child is even one-tenth as cute as Flora is, I’ll be happy.

  ‘I know you said Uncle Mark was a little poorly, but he’ll be okay for tomorrow, right?’

  Oh, shit. Sophie still hasn’t told her about Mark – at least, not the full story. ‘Tomorrow?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, our play-day. Uncle Mark promised he’d be here like always.’ Flora shakes her head at me like I should have remembered and my heart sinks.

  Of course, the annual play-day. I should have remembered. Every New Year’s Day Mark and I make the trek across the Heath to spend the day with Sophie’s family. I’m not quite sure when that visit turned into a play-day, but soon Mark was spending the whole day with Flora, playing board games, combing Barbie’s hair or – more recently – playing games on her collection of electronic gadgets. Sophie, Asher and I would sit back and relax, listening to the two of them laugh and yell as the day unfurled. I think Mark looked forward to it just as much as she did.

  I thought he did, anyway. Did he really enjoy it, or was it all an act? How could he promise a child something, then completely renege on it? A child he loved almost as if she was his own?

  But then . . . this is a man who told me he didn’t even care if I was carrying his child. Surely I can’t be so surprised he’s abandoning his niece?

  ‘I’m sorry, Flora,’ I say, putting an arm around her. I don’t want to hurt her, but it would be even worse for her to wait in hope. I know what that’s like. ‘Mark won’t be able to do that this year.’ Or the next, or the next . . . Anger floods through me as tears streak down Flora’s cheeks and her chin trembles. ‘But I’ll play with you!’ I say, wiping her tears with my fingers. ‘I’ll play with you as much as you want.’

  She jumps off the sofa, her features bunched. ‘I don’t want to play with you! Uncle Mark promised. He promised! I know he’ll be here. He will!’ She stares at me defiantly and I sigh, slowly shaking my head back and forth.

  ‘I’m afraid he won’t, Flora.’ God, I wish I was wrong, but I know I’m not. Mark is gone from all our lives.

  ‘I hate him!’ she cries, then she runs up the stairs before I can even grab her for a hug. I hear the bang of her door slamming shut and I sink back on to the sofa, flicking off the telly as my restless mind finally stops working. It doesn’t matter if I saw the real Mark that day or if he was just pretending. He’s gone, like I told Flora, and that is that. I may never fully understand what happened in our marriage because it wasn’t just up to me, but I can control myself now – I can do what makes me happy and start to heal.

  And for the first time I know I’ll be okay.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Mark

  The house has returned to normal after the chaos of Christmas, thank goodness. The older kids have gone back to school and the younger ones rotate between Jude, the nanny and nursery. I love the silence during the day, but I also love the way the house comes to life at around three when they’re all home again. I lie in bed listening to the chatter and clatter as they canter around, and I drink in their energy.

  I haven’t much energy myself these days. I’m due for my third and final chemo cycle next week, but I don’t think the treatment is helping: my pain is increasing, appetite has become a distant memory and my muscles feel more uncertain every day. The doctor has booked a scan in for a few weeks’ time, so I’ll know for sure how I’m doing then.

  I’m lying in bed one afternoon when there’s a knock on the door. ‘Come in!’

  Jude pokes her head around the door. ‘You okay? I found something for you.’ She’s holding a package in her hands. ‘Another Christmas gift, I think.’

  ‘A Christmas gift?’ My brow furrows as I wonder what she’s talking about. I reach out to take the slim box wrapped in blue and pink tissue.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot to put it under the tree – I found it ages ago when I unpacked your things from the B & B.’

  The B & B? I jerk as a memory flies at me: Anna standing at the door with this box in her hands. But . . . how did it end up amongst my things? I flinch remembering how I shoved her away before she even had a chance to speak.

  ‘Well, are you going to open it?’ Jude is standing there, watching me.

  I shake my head. ‘No, not now. Maybe later tonight.’ Truthfully I’m dying to open the gift for a momentary connection to my wife, even if it is just a bar of chocolate. But I want to unwrap it alone. I want to savour the moment.

  ‘All right.’

  I wait until the door clicks closed and then I tear the tissue from the box, setting the card aside for later. The cardboard is plain, giving nothing away. I jemmy under the tape on one end and slide out . . . a tiny T-shirt?

  The fabric is soft under my fingers and I carefully unfold it to reveal the words ‘Mummy + Daddy = Me’. I stare at the lettering, trying to make sense of it. Anna wouldn’t give me something like this unless . . . she’s pregnant? I grab the card and skim the words inside, my heart squeezing inside my chest.

  Oh my God. She is. She’s having a baby – our baby. I gulp. And I told her that nothing she could say would make a difference – not even having twins – then shoved her away.

  What have I done?

  My chest starts heaving as questions fly through my mind. How many months along is the baby? Is everything okay with Anna and the child? Anna’s been through so much, and then my rejection . . . My heart misses a beat as a thought enters my mind. She wouldn’t get rid of it, would she?

  No. I shake my head with absolute certainty. Whatever I’ve done to her – however difficult life has been – I know she is strong . . . strong enough to be there for this child.

  And I need to be strong, too.

  I ease myself into an upright position. It’s not about protecting Anna. Not any more. It’s about being there for her – being there for our child. Love and tenderness swell inside, and for the first time in weeks, energy courses through my muscles. I may only have limited time left. I may never even meet my child. But it’s time to focus not on pain and tragedy, but on hope.

  I’ll go to the flat right now, I decide, excitement building inside me. It’s late afternoon and Anna should be back from work by the time I get to our home. I can’t wait to see my wife – to put my arms around her while I’m still able and to tell her that I’m sorry. The words are feeble, I know, but I need to say them. I need to explain everything: that I thought I was protecting her and that I do want to be with her – to let her play a part in deciding our future. And I need to play a part in the life of our child, too.

  I slide from the bed and pull on my jeans and a proper shirt instead of the battered old T-shirt I’ve been living in. It’s been wonderful living here, I think, running a brush through my thinning hair. I’ve had a chance to really get to know the kid
s, Grace, Jude – and to rekindle my relationship with my father. But suddenly I’m itching to get home again, to be surrounded by all our treasured possessions that formed the foundation of my life with Anna . . . and to start adding new things to our life, too.

  There’s a knock on my door and Jude sticks her head in. ‘Sorry, just seeing if you want a little snack . . . Oh. Where are you off to?’ she asks, looking at me in surprise.

  ‘Well . . .’ I draw out the word, anticipating her happy response. ‘I’m going to see Anna.’

  She throws her hands up in the air. ‘Oh, thank God. It’s about time! I know you didn’t want me and Richard to say anything – well, you know how we feel about it anyway – but seriously!’ She crosses the room and gives me a quick hug. ‘Good luck. You’re doing the right thing.’ She pulls back. ‘But maybe . . . maybe you should shave first?’

  I run a hand over my face. I’d almost forgotten my beard was even there. ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘This is part of me now. I kind of like it.’

  ‘Okay.’ Jude shrugs. ‘Want a ride to the station? I can get your father to run you over in a few minutes.’ She glances at her watch. ‘If memory serves from back in the day when I actually had a life and went places, there’s a train in half an hour. Come down and have something to eat, and then I’ll get Richard to take you.’ She eyes me closely. ‘Are you all right to make it into London on your own?’

  I nod, knowing I look like death warmed up. ‘I’ll be fine. Thank you.’

  Half an hour later I wave Dad off and head towards the platform where the train is pulling in. My breath makes clouds in the air as I hurry down the packed platform and on to the train. Luckily I manage to find a seat and I collapse into it, watching as we zip past fields and trees, winter-bare branches gleaming in the setting sun. I left Anna in the dark . . . the dark of the night, the dark of my soul. And despite the evening closing in, it feels like I’m returning to my wife in brightness, no matter what the future holds.