The Man I Thought You Were

by Leah Mercer

  To open his eyes and to talk.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Mark

  The house is quiet when I awaken, but I can sense someone beside me. I hope it’s not Grace; it’s way too late for her to be up on a school night and lately she’s got in the habit of falling asleep by my bed, as if she’s afraid I might not be here in the morning. Jude and I do everything we can to shoo her off and into her own room. I have to admit I enjoy the company, though.

  I turn towards the chair and my eyes pop as surprise jolts me. It’s Anna, right there in front of me, her eyes closed and her chest rising and falling in deep sleep. For a second I think I’m dreaming . . . I’ve been dreaming about my wife so much lately, as if my subconscious is dying to spend more time with her before shutting down. Have I conjured her up here somehow? I don’t want to move in case she disappears, so I just stare: dark lashes against her cheeks, the puff of air lifting those flyaway strands from the fringe she’s forever pushing away, her breasts moving up and down with every breath.

  Slowly I reach out to touch her – to feel her. I can only reach her leg, which radiates warmth beneath my fingers. Her eyelids flutter open.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, smiling as she blinks awake in the way I know so well. Love swells through me and I long to feel her in my arms.

  ‘Hi.’ Her fingers clasp mine and she meets my gaze. Silence swirls around us, filled with so many unasked questions. How did she find me here? Why did she come? Is the baby all right? And there’s so much I want to say, too, like I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the awful words I threw at her, turning away as she crumbled – that even though I was trying to protect her, I was wrong. I’m not the cruel, harsh man I forced myself to become out of love . . . and fear. Fear of damaging her – damaging me. And although I did try to piece us back together, I should have tried sooner.

  It’s so very tempting to stay silent, in the middle of the night with no one else here but us; to remain suspended in this moment where nothing can touch us – no problems, no troubles, no past. But I can’t, because even if I wasn’t ill, I don’t want anything to come between us.

  I try to sit up, to move closer to my wife, but my muscles fail me and I have to lie back down again. The chair creaks as Anna gets up and I open my mouth to tell her not to go. But before I can she sits down next to me on the bed. I meet her eyes and reach out to take her hands, knowing that now I need to tell her everything. I don’t know where to start but, for once, I’m desperate to talk.

  ‘Anna, I’m sorry.’ Three simple words leave my mouth – words that will never be enough for the pain I’ve caused. Guilt and regret wash over me as I meet my wife’s eyes. I thought I was saving her – saving us – from a world of pain. Instead I tore us apart so brutally it’s a wonder we’re still breathing.

  It’s too late to go back and change all that. She’s removed her wedding ring – her finger is still bare – but it’s not too late to make her understand. I draw in a breath, struggling to fill my lungs. Damn this disease.

  She catches me looking at her bare ring finger and shakes her head.

  ‘I had to take it off,’ Anna says. ‘I had to try to move on – to make a new life, for our baby as much as for me.’ She meets my eyes. ‘And I was so, so angry. Angry that you never told me about your past when I thought I knew everything. Angry that you just took off. And all those things you said . . .’ A tear slips down her cheek and my heart shatters into a million pieces as guilt grips me once again. ‘They were just awful.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. ‘You know I didn’t mean them, right?’ I stare hard at her, as if I can show her just how much those words weren’t true. ‘I was just . . . trying to stop you from witnessing this.’ I gesture to my swollen body, my old-man face, even the bedpan in the corner. This is my reality, and I need to share it with her now – to bring her into my world.

  ‘And I did try to find you,’ I say, anxious for her to know that I tried to set us on the right path – that I recognised how wrong I was. ‘I went to the flat as soon as I found out about the baby, but you weren’t there. I called Sophie and she told me you had some bleeding and it was best I stayed away. I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardise our child, so I planned to wait until the pregnancy was further along.’ I eye her belly, thinking that even underneath her heavy sweater I can just about make out a bump. ‘So . . . is everything okay . . . with you and the baby?’ I glance up at her, holding my breath as she slowly nods her head.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, and I can feel a smile growing on my face. ‘Yes, everything is fine.’

  Happiness bursts inside of me . . . happiness mixed with an incredibly sharp sadness, because I know I won’t be there to see this child. I won’t be around to make sure the baby is okay – I won’t be able to protect it from the world. But I know I’m not abandoning him or her, unlike how I felt with Grace. This time the baby will be surrounded by a wonderful family, with the best mother ever – the strongest mother ever.

  Silence falls, and I reach out and take my wife’s hand, praying she doesn’t move away from me. I curl my fingers around hers, with hope building as she squeezes back. I take a deep breath, knowing that if I want my wife to fully understand why I left, I need to start from the beginning – to tell her everything from my past, no matter how painful. I don’t know if it will bring her back to me for whatever of my future remains or if it will push her away, but I need to let her into that darkest part of me.

  ‘I need to tell you about Margo – my sister.’ My voice cracks. ‘And I need to tell you about Grace.’

  And as the night turns into day, with my family around me, the words spill from my mouth. I can’t change what has happened between us, but from this moment on, my soul is laid bare – my past exposed, my heart open.

  Ready for my wife, if she still wants me.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Anna

  When I open my eyes the next morning I’m not sure where I am. All I can feel is Mark’s arms wrapped around me; all I can hear is the rasp of his breath in my ear. Am I back home, in our old flat? I stare up at the ceiling as children’s voices pierce the air, and the knowledge filters in: I’m at Richard’s house after Grace’s call from the day before yesterday.

  My eyelids sink closed as Mark’s words float through my mind, words about Margo . . . Grace . . . and trying to find her again. I knew about Margo, of course, but I’d no idea that Margo had had a child, or that Richard had adopted her. Mark hadn’t known about the adoption either, and I suppose that’s why Richard never said anything to me about it.

  I’ll always wish Mark had told me about his past earlier – that he’d shared it with me from the start. Perhaps I could have helped him; perhaps we’d have had the strength to make it through the past few months without Mark tearing us apart. I realise now how much it hurt him, too, and my eyes fill with tears of pain and regret for us both.

  Mark’s eyes slowly open and he smiles over at me. I reach over and touch his forehead, smoothing out those wrinkles once again. Then I run my fingers through the wiry bristles of his beard.

  ‘Do you like it?’ he asks, laughing when I say it would look better on a grizzly bear. He takes my hand and draws me in closer, until I’m right up against the heat of his body. I can feel his bones through the thin fabric of his pyjamas, but he’s as warm as ever. It radiates through to the very core of me . . . right to our child.

  Mark’s hand slides down to my bump, his fingers cupping the taut skin. ‘I still can’t believe you’re having a baby. We’re having a baby.’ He shakes his head, his eyes filled with wonder and tenderness. Then his face tightens, and his arms pull me in even closer, as if he’s trying to burrow into the heart of me. ‘Anna . . .’ My name emerges from his lips in an anguished sigh. ‘I wish I could be there for you when this baby is born – to see you become a mother, and for us to be a family. I can’t tell you how much. I couldn’t even begin to tell you how much.’ Tears fill his eyes, spilling over and tracing a
path down his thin cheeks and disappearing into his bristles. He lets them fall with no shame or embarrassment, holding my gaze without turning away.

  A sob tears at my chest and I rest my head in the crook of his arm, reaching up to wipe away his tears. I’ve never seen Mark cry – not once in our ten years together. My husband may have struggled with his sorrow, but there was also a lot of happiness and joy between us. Now, after all this time, it really does feel like we’ve nothing to hide. Not fear, not pain, not sadness.

  ‘Me, too,’ I say, my own eyes starting to fill. ‘You really would be the greatest father ever.’ Grief pulls at me so strongly I can barely stand it.

  Mark smiles through the tears still streaking down his cheeks. ‘I’d like to think I would be. I’ve certainly got the skills down pat. Okay, maybe I’m not the world’s best footballer’ – I nod, remembering the time Flora asked Mark to teach her how to play and he ended up on his arse – ‘but I could learn. And I’ve got styling Barbie’s hair down to a fine art.’

  ‘Well, there you go,’ I say, grinning despite the pain inside. God, I’ve missed our bedtime chats. I roll away from him slightly so I can see his face better. ‘But Mark . . . there’s still a chance you might make it, right? Just another few months?’ I can’t help asking, even though I know that chance is very slim.

  ‘Anything is possible.’ Mark’s face is serious. ‘But I probably have weeks, not months.’ He draws in a raggedy breath. ‘No matter what, though, I hope you know that I love you. I love you both.’ He shakes his head. ‘I wish I hadn’t wasted time, leaving you like that. I wish—’

  I put a finger over his mouth and nestle against him again. He’s right: we’ve squandered enough time, and I don’t want to waste any more lingering on regrets.

  What matters now is that we do have a chance, however long it may be, to be together – in a marriage that’s been battered and bruised, but is still together . . . still together because of love. That’s what brought us back to each other in the end.

  And that’s what will keep us strong through the difficult days ahead.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Mark

  One month later

  My physical world has shrunk to the four walls of this bedroom. I know every inch of the ceiling – I can trace every crack in the plaster with my eyes closed. I haven’t left the room in weeks . . . and I know I may not again. Because with each day that passes, my body is protesting the struggle to live. Despite hardly eating, my belly is swollen, like I’m the pregnant one, while my limbs have shrunk. I haven’t looked in a mirror, but my skin feels papery and thin, my cheekbones hard. When Anna washes me, it feels like the sponge will rub straight through my skin.

  And the pain. Oh, the pain, it wraps itself around my mind, my body like a vice, squeezing and twisting and making me call out. Thank God for morphine. Thank God for drugs.

  But while my physical world has shrunk, inside I feel like I’ve expanded. There are people around me, people I love. My father and his family, Grace and, of course, Anna and my son.

  Because we know now that we’re having a son. My father used his medical connections to bring a mobile ultrasound here – along with a sonographer – since I’m in no state to leave the house. Just seeing my child bobbing happily in his mother’s stomach brought tears to my eyes, even more so when the sonographer happily informed us we were having a boy. I didn’t care either way, and I don’t think Anna did either, but just knowing makes me feel closer to this child . . . this child I’ll never see.

  A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. ‘Come in!’

  Grace enters the room holding a pen and paper. ‘Ready for some more?’ she asks.

  I nod, and she sinks on to the chair beside the bed. Anna’s gone off for her daily afternoon walk around the town to get some much-needed fresh air, and Grace and I have been using this time to write letters: two letters, to be precise. One to my son, telling him all about me and how much I love him.

  And another to my wife.

  But this time the letter to Anna isn’t trying to explain why I had to leave her, driven by a mad urge to make her see that I’m not that terrible man. This time it’s a love letter – to her, to us and to the strength I see in her every day . . . from going to her antenatal appointments alone to sitting by my side for hours. The strength I don’t understand how I missed and the strength that will get her through everything after I’m gone. I know she’ll have plenty of people around her, from Sophie to my father, but I also know that she’ll be fine on her own, too.

  It’s getting harder and harder to find the right words – my brain is foggy and unclear. But Grace sits patiently as I form the sentences, craft the thoughts that will embrace my wife when I can’t. And then, when we get to the end – when there’s nothing more to say – I ask my niece to sign off with ‘love, Mark’, and I close my eyes.

  I’m not seeing darkness though.

  I’m seeing light.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Anna

  One year later

  Sunlight streams from the sky and the spicy scent of cut grass floats through the air as I make my way up the steep hill in Hampstead Heath. Thanks to my daily walks through the park I’ve managed to shed any lingering baby weight and get fit again – I’m not even puffing when I reach the top, despite the chubby eight-month-old in my arms.

  I pause to kiss the fuzzy top of my son’s head, breathing in his fresh, clean scent. It’s been a difficult year since Mark died, a year full of conflicting emotions that I still don’t know how to reconcile. Watching my husband fade – seeing him so very ill – was incredibly painful, and those memories will stay with me forever. But above all that, what I’ll remember is not grief or despair, but love: how he squeezed my hand, and the tender way he looked at me when even clutching my fingers took too much energy. We didn’t need words; we didn’t need actions. We had each other and that was enough.

  In those last few weeks the two of us were cocooned together, but it was a different kind of isolation from what we’d had during our marriage. This time we weren’t trying to protect our relationship, as if one false move would hijack our happiness. This time we were fully aware of what might lie ahead: the harsh reality of life . . . and death. We talked for hours when Mark still could about the future and my fear of raising a child alone – about how I would cope without my husband. We cried together, too . . . at what our child will miss, what we would miss. And, of course, Mark told me more about Margo. He told me so much that I feel like I know her now as well.

  When I let go of his hand on the day his life ended, I knew I’d always be grateful for the extra time we had – even if I did wish it had been longer. For after all our years together, Mark and I finally had a real relationship, the kind that can exist only when you are brave enough to embrace the darkness as well as light. A love that will persevere – that can persevere, despite everything. Through us, and through our son.

  Matthew has brought me so much joy – brought Richard and his family so much joy – when the sadness and pain in the aftermath of Mark’s death threatened to overwhelm us. When I went into labour during one of the wettest Julys on record, Richard was the second person I called after Sophie, and he and the whole family braved the flooded roads to wait at the hospital in Hampstead. I’ll never forget the look of tenderness and awe on Richard’s face when I placed the baby in his arms.

  He and Jude, as well as Sophie, have been by my side ever since Matthew was born, and Grace and Flora are itching to babysit. Even my parents have taken up residence at a caravan site just outside London, popping by to visit their grandson frequently. Mark would have loved to see how this baby has drawn us all together.

  I sink on to the grass and set Matthew down, smiling as he tries so hard to crawl over to a dandelion and fails, falling over on to his side. I set him upright again then reach into my pocket and draw out a letter . . . a letter Mark gave me, to be opened after he died. When he first passed away I w
anted to rip it open then and there, desperate for anything to connect us. But something told me to wait until the pain had dulled, until I could really savour the words . . . and until I felt strong enough to face them without dissolving into grief – to match the strength he had at the end.

  And now, after a year has passed, I tear open the envelope and slide out the pages. I recognise Grace’s wide and loopy handwriting instantly, and I smile just picturing the two of them working together on this. The fact that Mark was so open and willing to share his feelings makes this letter even more special.

  Dear Anna,

  This isn’t a letter to say goodbye; a letter to leave you. I’ve done enough leaving these past few months.

  Tears fill my eyes as I picture the two of us seeking each other out then turning away again. Mark was right: we’d both done more than enough leaving to last us a lifetime. Our lifetime. Sadness twists inside me that it’s over now.

  When I die, I won’t be gone. It’s simply my body that’s stopped working, but the part of me that’s important – my love for you and our son; our hopes and dreams for the future – will always be there. That can’t be taken away, can’t be changed, no matter what happens to me. That will bind us together, forever.

  Tears drip down my cheeks as I scan the rest of the words that are full of love and joy, of admiration for my own strength. I reach out to take our son in my arms, hugging his warm, chubby body close to mine. My world is now a messy mix of joy and pain, but that’s what real life is, I guess. Nothing exists in a vacuum – no emotion, no marriage. Life is complicated, like we both said so long ago. But it’s also easy, too . . . when you open yourself up to it.

  I get to my feet and gather up my son, both of us gazing at the city spread out beneath us.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, not sure if I’m talking to myself or to him. ‘Let’s get going.’ Then I head down the hill and into the world below.