by Adele Parks
I suddenly realize that for months every word said between us has had another thought behind it, which confuses an already hideously murky issue. I need some straight talking.
'Elizabeth. You must sit down.'
'You no longer have any right to tell me what to do,' I say and stubbornly refuse the stool he's offering. I feel stronger standing up; sitting down would put me at a psychological disadvantage.
'I have something important to say,' he adds.
'I don't want any more lies or bullshit. Just be straight with me.'
'Why do you always do this?'
'Do what?'
'It's difficult to live with your wife holding a gun to your head, full of emotional bullets that she so clearly wants to shoot. You are always like this. Your way or no way.'
'I just want answers.'
'Elizabeth, this isn't the time to talk about us!'
'When would be a good time for you, exactly? Clearly never in the last five months.' He shakes his head, wearily. He definitely isn't up for a fight, although I'm raring to go.
'It's done, Roberto. We can't go on like this. You are in love with someone else and well, I think that I –'.
'Elizabeth, stop this now. Don't say anything else.'
Thinking of Chuck fills me with renewed confidence.
'I have to say something. We've been avoiding issues for too long. I need to tell you. It's not just you who is in love with someone else.' He doesn't deserve my consideration but thinking about Chuck makes me big enough to give it to him anyway. 'I'm sorry, Roberto, but then maybe this is going to help you, there's Chuck now.' Roberto stares at me as though I have just urinated in his eye and I suppose I have. Quietly I add, 'We should let each other go, Roberto.'
He remains silent. I should by now be expecting his silence. I should know that confrontation isn't his thing. I realize I'm asking a Roman Catholic for a divorce and the notion is probably unthinkable for him, but continuing to live a lie is unimaginable to me.
'Say something, Roberto,' I plead.
'Your father's dead.'
Physically my body responds before my mind or heart can process what Roberto's just said. My stomach dissolves, my nose itches so viciously I can hardly breathe as tears scratch my eyes.
'What?' Roberto is holding my arm. He leads me to the stool and he gently pushes me into a sitting position. Like a rag doll I allow him to mould and fold me.
'Max has called. It happened on Saturday.'
'On Saturday,' I repeat but I still don't understand.
'A heart attack. He did not suffer.'
'It's all over?' I ask.
'For him, yes.'
60
Within four hours of Roberto telling me that my father has slipped off this planet to God knows where, I am sitting on a plane to England. Paolina packed a bag for me when Max initially rang Roberto with the news. Five days ago. I glean that they've been talking every few hours, waiting for me to reappear. Max had a selection of flights lined up for when I finally did. I marvel at his presence of mind. How had he, in this moment of unprecedented turmoil, managed to think about my flights? I wonder at his composure and practicality. It's a good thing he is the oldest. If I was the oldest and I had a younger sibling in a foreign country, I'd probably do something gross and unforgivable like forget to tell them their dad is dead because I'd be too shocked and scared to know what to do next.
Since I heard that my dad is dead I haven't thought about anything. My mind cannot deal with even the simplest of questions Roberto throws at me. Where is my passport? I don't know. The dressing table drawer I think, or maybe somewhere else. Do I want a magazine for the flight? Paolina asks, or a drink? I don't know what, or even if, I replied, but she scuttled off to buy them in any case. I suppose it was something for her to do. I did manage to scribble a note to Chuck telling him what I can hardly believe. I explain that I have to go to England immediately and ask him to phone me tonight. I gave the note to Gina and asked her to take it to him because I can't slip away. I don't think my legs would carry me even if I could find an acceptable excuse. Everyone is busy. They are moving around me so quickly that I'm dizzy. I feel sick. Everyone has motion except my dad. He is dead. Roberto told me.
I can barely remember the car journey to the airport; I know that Roberto and Paolina were there and that it was the longest journey of my life and yet it must have been over in a flash because I can't remember any conversations that may have taken place. The neck of my T-shirt is damp, I can't think why, then I notice that I am crying; I hadn't realized. Paolina gave me a packet of tissues. My body is in shock and my mind is numb. He's dead. Finished. Stopped. I say the words over and over but I don't understand them. How can this be possible? How can he be dead? He was alive when I last saw him. The ludicrousness of that thought makes me spurt out a sound somewhere between a laugh of derision and a howl of incomprehension. I drink a brandy on the plane because the air hostess says it's good for shock. The man sat next to me reads The Times. My father reads The Times.
Or at least, he used to.
61
I arrive into Birmingham airport and Max is waiting for me. I must look terrible because he just hugs me and doesn't ask where I've been since Saturday. What am I going to say when someone does ask? As they surely will. How can I explain my absence? How can I justify it?
We don't get home until after 6 p.m. The house is full of people and yet we all know that it's empty. A couple of neighbours, the woman who does the flowers at the church, my brothers, their wives and kids are already gathered. I suppose they've all been waiting for me.
I hug Mum but she doesn't let me linger. There is no great moment when she flings herself into my arms and collapses. She doesn't hang on to me and rack with sobs. She's never been needy and my father's death can't change that. Thank God. I'm relieved that I've finally stopped crying for the moment so I can meet her dignity with a semblance of my own.
'I expect you'd like a cup of tea, coming all this way. How was the flight?'
Mum makes me a cup of tea and serves it in a dainty cup and saucer, which I recognize as her 'best set'. It normally stays in the dresser. She tries to force a sandwich on me. I'm not hungry, but I let her make it because she's an unstoppable force when it comes to feeding and watering her family, which was one of the reasons Dad was so fat. I breathe deeply and I'm grateful that no one can read my mind. I'm not blaming Mum. I'm just saying he was fat. I'm not blaming him for being fat. I'm just saying. I cease with that line of thought. It's uncomfortable and unnecessary.
'The kids are on school holidays so we had to bring them, no one to leave them with because we didn't know how long we'd be staying,' whispers Sophie, Max's wife. I'm unsure as to whether she's having a pop at me. My disappearing act has inconvenienced everyone. They must be curious as to where I have been.
One of the neighbours compliments me on my tan and asks if I'm enjoying Italy. I nod but can't think of any way to elaborate. It's not the moment to be waxing lyrical about the terracotta buildings and sublime cooking. I shove the sandwich into my mouth to avoid further conversation. It's like chewing sandpaper. The tea is too strong to drink. I sit like a stranger with the tea cup and plate balanced carefully on my lap. Someone asks when Roberto is coming. I glance around the room trying to ascertain who asked the question. I wonder who will answer it. He should be coming. People will expect it. People who don't know that we both have lovers and our marriage is a sham. I consider that he might come anyway; it would be the decent thing to do. My father would appreciate it. My father would expect it. Voices are blurring and blending together – I can't tell if it was Thomas or Mrs Finley who wants to know about Roberto. Everyone is staring at me waiting for a response.
'Not sure,' I mutter.
'She left in such a hurry. I don't suppose you had time to discuss it, did you?' says Mum, jumping to my rescue. I nod and I'm appreciative. I have no idea how she knew I didn't want to answer that question but I'm so grateful. 'Poor Eli
zabeth was on a retreat when her dad died. We haven't been able to get hold of her,' she adds. Ah, so that's what Roberto said. I'm thankful; this isn't the moment to introduce the topic of Chuck. I suppose it was in Roberto's interest too. It would have hurt his pride admitting to his mother-in-law and brothers-in-law that he was clueless as to his wife's whereabouts. Mum doesn't look at me while she furnishes Mrs Finley with this explanation; I somehow sense that she doesn't believe it.
'Really, a retreat?' says Mrs Finley, seizing the opportunity to fill a silence. Her gusto is understandable but cringe-making. Was it a religious retreat, dear? Have you got religion since you moved to Italy? They do have lovely churches, don't they?'
'Yes, but – no, it was more of a health break,' I mutter. I'm uncomfortable with lying but I'm not sure what else I can do now the lie is in motion.
'A spa?' She probes.
Unexpectedly a sound somewhere between a cry for mercy and a squeal of embarrassment escapes from my lips. Three people rush to pass me a tissue and mutter about my being shocked. I start to sob quietly as I think of my dad. He's dead.
A conversation starts up discussing who is sleeping where. Some are staying in the local B & B, someone else is on a mattress in the spare room. There's no bed in there now, just Mum's sewing machine. I realize I don't care. I'll sleep where they tell me to sleep. It doesn't matter.
What was the last thing I said to Dad? I talked to him about installing broadband. I remember I felt vaguely irritated by him because he couldn't get the hang of sending and receiving e-mail and I'd told him a thousand times that it was the easiest way to stay in touch. He asked what was wrong with the good old-fashioned method of talking on the phone. I couldn't tell him that my phone calls were more or less monitored and that Raffaella thought eavesdropping was a birthright.
My dad probably died thinking that I couldn't be bothered to pick up the phone and talk to him.
The doorbell rings; everyone jumps up to answer it but Mum tells us to stay where we are, she'll get it, so we all resume our position like obedient schoolchildren. It's becoming difficult to remember who is supposed to be looking after whom. That is until I watch her leave the room and I notice how slight she is. Was she that thin last January when I came up for the afternoon to say goodbye to them before Roberto and I dashed off to Italy? Or has she lost part of herself since she found Dad dead in front of the fridge? Did she drop a dress size instantly in grief? Shrinking seems more than possible to me, it seems probable.
Mum looks like a very old woman. I whisper as much to Thomas, who shrugs and says, 'She is an old woman, Elizabeth. She's seventy-six.' His response seems brutal. Facts can be. 'Dad was eighty-one. It's a good age.'
'But I had hoped for longer,' I mumble. 'People live well into their nineties now, don't they?'
'Yes, some do, and others die in their thirties,' he points out. As a doctor I suppose he sees much more than I have ever seen and understands much more than I'll ever understand. But if he says Dad had a good innings I might kill him with my bare hands. I sit on my hands and tell myself throttling my brother would not help anyone.
How had I failed to compute that my father was getting so old? That he was so near the end? It shouldn't take a genius. How had I gone to Italy and left him here to die?
People come and go all evening but I don't move from my spot on the sofa. Eventually I realize that there's only Eddie, my eldest nephew, Mum and me left. Eddie is fourteen and pretty much a man now. He's going to sleep on the sofa-bed. I'm glad of his adolescent presence. He's naturally buoyant about everything (other than his own love life) and therefore a great comfort to have around. Mum takes my plate out of my hand. I'm not sure if it's the one she gave me when I arrived and whether I've been holding it for hours or whether I've been given more food during the evening.
From the front room window I can see a pink glow shining up from behind the houses across the street. I've looked out at the same view for years and yet now it is completely altered. Everything seems changed.
'We're having a lovely summer,' says Mum, appearing from nowhere. I see that she has taken her shoes off and has put on her house slippers, a sign that she isn't expecting any more guests, it's just family now. 'It was sunny on Saturday too. He had a beautiful day to die.'
I turn to my tiny mum and put my arms around her. I'm taller than she is, I have been for a while, but as I'm still in shoes I seem to tower above her and it's like holding a child. I gently rock her backwards and forwards and stroke her back like she has stroked mine on a million occasions over the years.
'I'm going to miss him so much,' she says quietly.
I suck on the roof of my mouth, determined not to cry again. 'I know you are.'
She pulls away from me and stretches to her full height. 'Still, we've been very lucky. We've had so many years.'
All at once, she's taller than me again.
62
I crawl into bed at 11 p.m. and reach for my mobile. Despite all the sadness I feel a relief, almost excitement, at the thought of speaking to Chuck. In among all this grief and grimness I'm sure his voice will help. Before I even get a chance to call him I see that there is a text message from him. The love! I open it eagerly, anticipating his comfort.
Got your message. I'll give you space. Sorry.
I think I might throw up. I fling back the covers and jump out of bed only to flop back on to it again in an instant. I reread the text over and over again. How insensitive. How cruel. What the hell is going on? Space? I don't want space. I want him to gather me up in his muscled arms and hold me tight. I realize that it might be unrealistic to expect him to arrive on a white charger, this clearly isn't the best moment to meet my family, but what does he mean he'll give me space?
I call him immediately but only get the engaged signal.
I reread the message again to see if there is any way I could have misinterpreted what he meant, but I can't kid myself, it is unequivocal. I asked him to call me; he's texted to say he has no intention of doing that tonight or perhaps ever.
I press redial. He'll be able to explain himself. I'm sure of it. Bugger, it's still engaged. I can hardly breathe as despair chokes me. For ten minutes I continually press redial, over and over again. The line is permanently engaged. The tone sends shafts of fury through my already horribly tense body. Doesn't he have call waiting? Can't he recognize my number? Is he avoiding my call?
I wonder if I should text back. No. Why the hell should I? It's me who heeds support right now. It's me with a dead father and a dead marriage. Why hasn't he called? What the hell does this text mean? At the first sign of difficulty he's buggered off. Deserted me. At least Roberto stuck around through years of problems before he backed off. I press redial one more time. It's still engaged. Who the hell is he talking to that is this important? Why hasn't he kept the line clear for my call? It is all too much. My despair instantly morphs into rage.
How fucking stupid am I? How could I ever have imagined that I'd persuade Chuck to have babies with me? How could I ever have imagined that he'd make a responsible father? Shame sluices over me. What made me, even for a second, think that Chuck might be more important to me than having babies? I am blind. Obviously, I have no idea about men and am a lousy judge of character. With Roberto, and now Chuck, I didn't want to see the glaringly evident signs. Only yesterday Chuck told me that he had a thing for married women. Maybe the fun is in the chase for him. He's probably already talking to his next victim with a ring on her third finger on her left hand.
But he seemed so sincere.
I fight a flashback. I try not to remember waking up in Chuck's arms and carefully, always reluctantly, peeling away from him. I try not to think of our hot flesh stuck together in a way that made me think I'd found home. Twice in one very, very long day I feel an unbearable sense of loss.
He seemed sincere but he's not. If he was sincere he would be on the phone, hunting for the best words to murmur to console me. His words would have undoubted
ly healed; being sure of that is worse than doubting it. I open my bedroom window and fling away my mobile. It makes a satisfying smashing sound as it lands in the road. I see splinters of plastic spray a foot in the air. I bang the window closed, proud that I have removed any temptation to call Chuck. However sincere he seemed in the past, I will not call and beg him to explain away his cold betrayal at this crucial time. It's crystal clear.
Oh fuck, for a pitiless, vicious instant I wish I'd written down his number.
63
Death comes with many terrible practicalities. For Mum, it started the moment she came home from choir practice and she found Dad dead on the floor in the kitchen.
'I'd been gone about two hours, dear. Maybe two and a quarter, not more.' She found his enormous bulk in front of the fridge; the door was open and there was a hazelnut yogurt spilt on to the floor. She didn't know what to do next. Should she call an ambulance? He was clearly dead – they couldn't do anything to revive him – so was a doctor a better idea? She decided it was, despite it being after 9 p.m. She knew their local GP, Doctor Hudson, a nice man in his fifties who has been looking after my father for years.
'You see, I did realize that I couldn't just lie down and sleep next to him, dear, however much I wanted to. It wasn't something that could be left until the morning, was it?'
'No,' I agree. Although we are both wondering, 'Why not?' There was no rush. My dad was dead. Her husband was dead. He'd still be dead in the morning. But of course she had to call the doctor; it's the right thing to do.
'I didn't know whether to clear up the yogurt so that no one slipped on it. I thought I ought to because I like the house to look nice when guests are coming round, especially doctors, I always make an effort for the doctor, Elizabeth, you know that. But I wasn't sure. On those TV programmes they say not to touch anything, don't they?'