by Leah Mercer
I nod and force my muscles to propel me down the street. Every step feels like a marathon in itself and my breath tears at my lungs. Sweat coats my face and I have to pause every few metres to stop from collapsing. But I’ll get there. I’ll get to Anna – to our baby.
Finally, I reach her building. I sink down on a bench inside, remembering how I came here all those years ago to hear a lecture on Hardy and how I walked away with my future wife. I pray that this time will be the same.
I close my eyes, almost hearing Anna’s voice in my head. There’s a loud bang as a door opens and closes and I sit up straight. Wait a second – that is Anna’s voice. I get to my feet, nerves flooding through me as I trudge the few steps towards the lecture room where her voice is coming from.
My heart swells when I see her at the front of the class, nodding as she focuses intently on something a student is saying. She’s wearing a pink jumper – I remember its softness up against my skin. Her cheeks are red and her hair is pushed behind her ears like it usually is. She laughs and nods at whatever the boy is saying, and the class laughs, too, a burst of happiness echoing around me. I can’t see any signs of pregnancy, but she is only four months along . . . and that jumper was too big to begin with. She looks healthy, alive, in a place she loves.
I catch sight of my reflection in the window and I draw back. My face is hollow and my eyes are sunken. I know it’s a trick of the light, but I look transparent and ghostly next to Anna’s solid presence. I move my eyes back and forth – from my wife to me, from my wife to me – and a memory of the woman sobbing in the bay next to me rips into my head.
Can I really do this? Can I reinsert myself into Anna’s world – a world she doesn’t want me in any more . . . if Sophie is to be believed, that is? And even if she does want me, will the upset of my death – because I am going to die, and soon if the doctor is right – be too much for her and the baby?
I stand at the door, frozen, unsure which way to move. And then my eyes catch sight of her hand as she scrawls something on the whiteboard and my heart drops.
Anna’s finger is bare. She’s taken off her wedding ring.
I turn slowly from the window, her voice fading as I walk down the hallway. I’ve finally come to find her, but it’s too late. Too late to start over . . . too late to even be there for her in my remaining few weeks. Sophie was right: Anna really has moved on – made a start at that new life I forced her to have.
I’ve ripped apart my wife’s world once and I can’t do it again.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Anna
It’s been one of those rare warm days today – a day when you can almost smell spring in the air, even though it’s still only February. The air was soft, the sun shining, and I actually cracked open the window in my office. I sit back in my chair, trying to picture this time next year. I’ll have a baby, I think, shaking my head at the thought. It’s still hard to believe, even though I’ve actually seen my child on the ultrasound now. Sophie went with me and we burst out laughing when the consultant assumed we were partners.
In a way, we are partners – albeit not like the consultant meant. Sophie’s helped me move back into the flat, visiting shop after shop with me in my quest for the perfect new mattress and sending me endless emails about the best baby gear. I’ve watched Flora when Sophie goes out with Tim (who she continues to deny she’s dating) and I’ve helped Sophie dissect her wardrobe and analyse Tim’s behaviour. It feels like we’re both on the path to new lives now.
I’m scanning a student’s almost completely unintelligible essay when my office phone rings. Eager to escape the rambling on the page in front of me, I grab the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Um, hi.’ A female voice comes through the phone and I sigh, thinking it’s a student from the tedious first-year class I’ve taken on for this semester. It’s always so depressing when you see that some students can barely form a paragraph, and the last thing I want to do right now is explain the meaning of ‘thesis’ yet again.
‘Is this Anna?’ the voice says, and I glance at the clock, hoping the call won’t take long. I want to finish this paper and make a break for the door.
‘Yes, it is. Can I help?’
‘This is Grace Lewis,’ the voice says. The name sounds familiar – I run my mind’s eye over the class list, then shake my head. I haven’t a hope in hell of remembering which section she’s in.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Can you tell me your class?’
‘No, no, sorry. I’m not in a class of yours.’
‘Oh.’ I’m stopped short at that one. ‘Well, can you tell me why you’re calling?’
‘I’m Mark’s niece,’ she says.
My heart stops beating and everything inside me freezes. Oh my God. Grace Lewis. I don’t know why I didn’t twig at the surname. I guess it’s because Mark feels so far removed from me – so far from my life now. And . . . since when does Mark have a niece?
‘Grace,’ I say, as my mind furiously scrabbles to produce anything to say. ‘Hi.’ I take a breath and try to control my heart rate, which seems to have gone into overdrive. I don’t know what to do – I don’t know what to say. Has Mark asked her to call? Is he okay? What does he want? And why might he want to get in touch now after everything he’s put me through? A million questions flash through my head, but I’m not sure I want to ask any of them. I’m not sure I want to know the answers.
‘Can you come and see Mark?’ she asks, cutting through the silence.
‘Has he asked you to call me?’ My pen taps furiously on the paper in front of me as my head spins.
The line goes quiet and I let out my breath as I realise he hasn’t. I guess it’s easy enough to find me if you know my name. One Google search will bring up where I work, and from there you can track me down quickly.
‘No,’ she says, then she pauses. ‘But, Anna . . . well, the chemo isn’t working, and . . .’ Her voice shakes. ‘He only has a little time left. Please, just come and see him. Please.’
A little time left? My chest tightens, like someone has clamped a band around it, and the corners of my vision darken as if my world is closing in. Mark is . . . dying? His pale, drawn face flashes into my mind, along with Richard’s words that, whatever he has, it must be serious. I knew there was a chance Richard was right, of course, but I didn’t want to think about it. I couldn’t think about it.
But now . . . now I know. Mark won’t live, with or without me. In another few months – maybe this time next year – Mark won’t be here. I try to breathe through the sadness and pain hammering at my heart, questions flying through my mind. Should I tell him about our child? Would he want to know before he dies? I wince at the word, hardly able to get my head around it. Or would he want me to leave him alone now, once and for all?
Can I leave him alone, knowing I’ll never see him again – knowing I’ll never see my husband alive? My gut twists and I swallow back the bile that’s building in my throat.
‘It’s not that easy,’ I answer, pain slicing through me as I remember Mark saying that he was going to leave me anyway. Would I go there only to be pushed away again? ‘It’s—’
‘Complicated?’ she fills in before I can continue. ‘Mark said that, too.’
I let out a low laugh and shake my head. After all this time – after everything – we’re actually on the same page.
‘I don’t know, Grace,’ I say finally. ‘I just . . . don’t know.’ I pause for a second, wanting to explain, but I don’t even know where to begin.
‘Well, he’s at his dad’s house in Berkhamsted,’ she says, and I nod, surprised but relieved that he’s there and not alone. ‘Come soon, okay? They . . . they don’t know how long he has. I’d better go.’ And then the phone goes dead before I can say another word.
I sit in my office until the cleaner starts sweeping the hallway outside. I can’t move – can’t propel myself from this moment in time. My husband – because he is still my husband, no matte
r how far away he feels – is dying. Will die, in a matter of days or weeks, if what Grace says is true. I knew it was a possibility, but now that it’s a certainty it’s shaken me to my core. So many questions still lie between us – so many things are still unexplained. Like did he ever love me . . . ? And, of course, there’s the baby, our baby. I’ve tried so hard to push all of that down and get on with living, but am I really going to let him go without a chance to talk? Will he give me a chance to talk this time?
The questions hammer my skull as I take the Tube back home and interrupt my sleep all night. I’m plagued by visions of Mark calling for me, of me reaching out to him, then him turning away. In the morning there are bags under my eyes, and I trudge through the following day like a zombie.
‘What the hell is up with you?’ Sophie asks as I slump over her kitchen table that evening. I’m on babysitting duty and she’s getting ready for yet another non-date with Tim.
I jerk up and wipe my face. I think I actually drifted off for a bit there. ‘Oh, sorry.’ I don’t think I slept more than a couple of hours last night. ‘Well . . .’ I sit upright in the chair, willing my eyes to stay open. I know what Sophie thinks about Mark – she couldn’t have been clearer on that point – but I need to get this out, as if saying the words will help give me the same clarity. ‘I got a phone call yesterday afternoon,’ I say. ‘From Grace Lewis, Mark’s niece.’
‘Who?’ Sophie raises an eyebrow. ‘Mark has a niece?’
‘Margo must have had a baby at some point,’ I say, realising yet again that there’s still so much I don’t know. Will I ever find out? Do I want to? ‘Grace asked me to come and see Mark. Apparently he hasn’t much time left.’ I shake my head, still unable to believe it.
‘Wow,’ Sophie says, reaching out to touch my hand. ‘And so . . . what did you say?’
‘I told her I don’t know.’ I press my hands to my head, trying in vain to reduce the pounding. ‘I know what you think, but Mark is dying. Things are over between us, but this . . . this really is the end.’ I swallow hard against the emotions rising in me and glance up at my sister. ‘But then it’s not like he asked me to come, you know? If he really wanted to see me he would have called me himself. And I just don’t know if I can take him rejecting me again.’
Sophie’s eyes slide away from me and she bites her lip. ‘Actually, Anna . . . Mark did try to see you.’
My breath catches in my throat. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He rang me up a few weeks ago. He was at the flat and you weren’t there. He wanted to know if you were with me or where he could find you.’ She swallows. ‘He said he’d only just learned about the baby.’
I stare at her, my mouth falling open. Mark came by the flat? But why? And how on earth did he learn about the baby?
‘So what did you say?’ I ask slowly.
‘Well . . .’ Sophie’s face tightens and her leg starts jiggling. ‘I told him that you were happy and that the baby was fine, although you’d had some bleeding, but that he shouldn’t upset you. And he shouldn’t get in touch again.’ She winces. ‘I’d no idea he was so ill – he never said. I’m sorry, Anna. I guess I should have told you, but I couldn’t bear to watch you go through any more with him.’
I nod, trying to absorb her words. Mark came to find me, after all – after leaving me, after slamming the door in my face, after throwing such terrible words at me. He did care that I was having our baby, so much that he stayed away to make sure we were safe . . . even though he was dying.
‘It’s all right,’ I say to Sophie, who’s watching me anxiously. ‘I know you were trying to protect me. But you don’t need to any more. No one does.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I need to see him.’ After everything that’s happened, I don’t know what’s left between us – if there even is an ‘us’ any more. But I do know our journey together isn’t over – not yet. I need to tell him about our baby face to face and to let him know we’re all right. At the very least he deserves that much . . . and so do I. That horrific night at the B & B can’t be the last time I see him. I won’t let it be my final memory of him.
Sophie nods, reaching out to take my hand. I almost expect her to dissuade me, but instead she tells me to go now – she’ll stay in tonight – and to call if I need her.
I feel almost numb as I pull on the baggy coat I bought to cover my growing bump. I make my way to the Tube, then on to the train at Euston. For the first time since he left I know exactly where my husband is, but I’m not sure who I’ll find when I see him. A guarded, silent man holding on to his secrets to the end and still unable to let me in? Or the man who reached out to me and his child, who took a step towards us . . . towards life?
Berkhamsted station is buzzing when I arrive, packed with commuters hurrying home. I step off the train and follow the route that’s burned into my memory towards Richard’s house. I picture all of the kids piled on the sofa watching night-time telly, their giggles and shrieks echoing through the house, with Mark pride of place in the centre of the chaos. He would love that . . . or would he? I sigh as doubt pricks me yet again. I should be used to that now, but I lived our whole marriage in such certainty that sometimes the doubt still surprises me.
The large house comes into view and I slow my pace. I stare up at the windows, every muscle tight with tension. My husband is inside this building . . . my husband who has done everything possible to cut me off. I think of the time he blanked me at the cancer centre and how he shoved me away at the B & B. Am I totally crazy to come here now? To open myself up to more hurt and pain after I’ve managed to pull myself together again?
No, I tell myself. Because this time I’m not doing it just for him. I’m doing it for me, too – for me, and for my baby . . . to have a chance at peace in our lives, at resolution. And whatever lies in front of me, I’m strong enough now to face it.
I walk up the pathway and bang the knocker on the door, trying my best to breathe and stay calm.
‘Anna!’ Jude swings open the door and I almost take a step backwards. Her friendly face is drawn with dark circles under her eyes. ‘What are you doing here? Did Mark call you?’ She beckons me inside.
I shake my head. ‘No,’ I say, stepping gingerly into the warm house in case Mark senses my presence and chucks me out. ‘Grace did.’ In the background I can hear the drone of the telly and the chatter of voices.
‘Grace?’ Jude raises her eyebrows.
‘Yes. She told me . . .’ I gulp in air. ‘She told me that Mark might not have long. Is that true?’
Jude heaves a sigh and runs a hand across her face. ‘Yes. It is. He’s really been declining these past few days. Richard was debating whether or not to call you, I think. He didn’t want to cause you more pain, but he thought you should know.’
I nod, brushing aside her words. I did wonder why Richard never got in touch after that night at the cancer centre, but then I never called him either. Anyway, it’s not important now. ‘Is Mark here? Can I see him?’ I bite my lip, wondering if Jude will tell me he’s banned me from visiting.
Jude nods and beckons me up the stairs. ‘He might still be sleeping – he does a lot of that lately. But you can sit with him until he wakes up.’
‘Should you . . . ?’ I swallow. ‘Do you want to check if he’s okay with seeing me?’ If he really is that ill, then the last thing I want to do is upset him.
Jude puts a hand on my arm and smiles. ‘Anna, I don’t know everything that’s happened between you two – why you’ve been apart until now. But I do know one thing: Mark loves you. Come on.’
My eyes tear up as I follow her up the stairs and down a corridor. Is she right? Does he love me – still? Is it even possible for us to come together now after so much pain?
The door is half shut and a soft glow comes from inside the room. I can hear a girl’s voice reading something aloud and I instantly recognise it as Grace’s. I smile as the words from Jane Eyre, our favourite Brontë book, drift towards me.
‘I think
he’s just gone to sleep,’ Grace whispers as Jude nudges open the door. She slides off a chair in the corner and comes out into the corridor. Even in the dim light her resemblance to Mark is striking, despite the ginger hair and freckles. She catches sight of me and breaks out into a grin. ‘Are you Anna?’
‘Yes.’ I can’t help returning the smile in spite of the emotions swirling inside me.
‘I knew you’d come,’ she says, throwing her arms around me. ‘Mark’s going to be so happy.’
I return her hug, fervently hoping she’s right. ‘Thank you for calling me, Grace.’ If it hadn’t been for her . . . I shudder, thinking that I may never have seen my husband again.
Mark stirs in the bed and Jude takes Grace’s arm. ‘Let’s let them have some time together, okay? Anna, you are more than welcome to spend the night . . . or however long you want to stay, actually. You’re family, too.’
I nod, my heart swelling at her kindness. ‘Thank you.’
The door closes and I make my way across the room and shrug off my jacket, sinking on to a chair. Mark’s eyes are closed and his head is tipped towards the light. I catch my breath, a tear streaking down my cheek as I take him in. His skin is chalky white and air wheezes in and out of his lungs. A ragged beard covers his chin and his hair is thin and wispy. He looks like he’s aged about ten years in the few months since he left me and I swallow back the sobs clamouring to escape.
I reach out to take his limp hand and my heart squeezes as I notice something glinting on his finger.
My husband is still wearing his wedding ring.
Maybe it doesn’t mean anything – maybe he forgot to take it off, or maybe it’s stuck on there – but I can’t help feeling that it’s there for a reason, and that whatever he said, he hasn’t abandoned me – abandoned us – after all. My eyes sink closed and I wait for my husband to wake up.