Echoes of a Life

by Robin Byron

  ‘Ask then.’

  ‘Please don’t answer immediately. Think about it as if for the very first time. Is there any chance – even a one per cent chance, even the tiniest chance that you can’t even quantify – that if Izzy was kept alive, that perhaps there might be some change in her condition or perhaps a breakthrough in medical science, some new development that would restore her brain and allow her to resume her life?’

  ‘Marianne…’

  ‘I said don’t answer immediately.’

  ‘Alright…’

  Marianne lay in silence for several minutes while Edward got up and went to the bathroom. She didn’t doubt what his answer would be but she felt that she owed it to Izzy to make this one last plea.

  ‘The first thing to understand,’ said Edward, coming back into the room, ‘is that Izzy is already dead. Although we use the expression “life support”, what we really mean is that her tissue and organs are being temporarily kept in a viable state by artificial means. No one is going to end her life by switching off the ventilator and disconnecting the feeding tube, or indeed by removing her organs.’

  Coming around to Marianne’s side of the bed, Edward sat down and held her hands in both of his. ‘Brain death is a very conservative diagnosis, Marianne, there is no such thing as being almost brain dead. Like pregnancy, it’s either yes or no. Every possible test has been carried out to confirm the diagnosis. But to answer your question directly: without a sufficient blood supply, the cells in the brain begin to break down – soon there won’t even be the remnants of a brain to restore. Also, without an active brain, it’s not possible to preserve the body’s organs artificially for very long. Everything will soon begin to decay.’

  She put her arms around Edward’s neck and pulled him down towards her, holding him tightly to her chest. ‘Thank you. I love you, Ed – and I’m sorry to go on…’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect anything else.’

  ‘Do you mind if I spend some time alone with Izzy this morning?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can you come back for me at lunchtime? I’m going to need you then.’

  ‘I’ll come back whenever you want.’

  So Marianne went alone to the little side ward in the hospital where Izzy, or whatever was left of her, was being kept in that state which Edward insisted was death, but which to her non-medical mother still looked cruelly like a form of life and she said all the things that she couldn’t say in front of Edward. She begged for Izzy’s forgiveness where she thought she had failed her, and forgave her for the occasions she had disappointed them. She rejoiced with her in all that she had crammed into her short life; she was happy that she had known love and sexual fulfilment; she praised her courage in keeping her child and gave thanks for the satisfaction that motherhood had brought her. She congratulated her on the early stages of academic success and thanked her for the love and happiness she had given to her parents. Above all, she promised she would do everything in her power to ensure the security and happiness of Callum.

  She wished there had been some part of her that still believed in the possibility she could be with Izzy again in an afterlife, but if she had ever believed in that fairytale, such time had long since passed.

  When she had exhausted everything she had to say, she let her tears flow until she was choking with heavy sobs, like a steam train slowly gathering speed out of the station. This time she didn’t hold back; she lay on the bed beside Izzy and howled in anguish at the death of her beloved daughter; a long series of tortured, animal howls came from deep inside her until the noise she was making brought two nurses into the room. Gently they prised her from the bed and sat her in an armchair and wiped her face with a warm cloth while one of them called Edward and told him she was ready to go home.

  13

  When she thought about it afterwards, Marianne would acknowledge the curiosity she had felt when she first saw the hand-written envelope with its Russian stamps. Curiosity, but not alarm. She didn’t recognise the handwriting as belonging to either of her academic correspondents. Who was the mysterious Russian letter writer, she wondered? Perhaps a fan of her novel – but that would normally come via her publishers. Perhaps an invitation to attend a conference or give a lecture? This was certainly possible now that the old Soviet Union had come to an end.

  Dropping the bills and junk mail onto the kitchen table, Marianne opened the envelope and studied the contents. Her first reaction was to laugh – but it was a laugh with a distinctly hysterical edge. I am being blackmailed, she thought. Good old-fashioned blackmail for money. Twenty thousand pounds or the photos go to her husband, her parents and anyone else the blackmailer thought ‘would be interested to see them’. Inside the envelope, folded in a square, was a colour photocopy of one of the pictures Colonel Petroff had shown her nearly twenty years earlier.

  A good thing Edward’s at work, she thought, as she studied the picture carefully for the first time. Although wincing at its pornographic nature and at the long-forgotten images of Larry, she couldn’t help a frisson of self-regard – I was pretty fit in those days, she thought – and Larry wasn’t so bad either. Then she carefully burned the picture in the sink and washed the ashes down the drain. The letter itself she concealed in her study.

  Marianne had watched with growing satisfaction the implosion of the old Soviet Union and the collapse of communism. With every new development, she had felt further removed from any lingering anxiety that the past still had power to harm her. Now, with a sharp constriction in the muscles of her stomach, she realised how naïve she had been. Chaos, economic collapse and wide scale corruption were what characterised Russia under its new president, Boris Yeltsin; what better environment could there be for a former KGB file keeper to make a bit of money on the side?

  Marianne went to her car to drive into Cambridge. She and Edward had moved out of the city two years earlier; it was a move facilitated by Edward’s inheritance from his father, but it suited Marianne to escape the constant reminders of Izzy. Their new house, a strangely shaped piece of Victorian gothic in a village a few miles from Cambridge, had appealed to her; a bit of an ugly duckling, one of her friends had called it, but to her it had already become an elegant swan.

  For the rest of the day Marianne tried not to think about the letter. Holly, her child minder, would be picking Callum up from school. She had two student supervisions in the afternoon. It was absurd, she thought, to be worried about what happened all those years ago. With some degree of success, she ploughed through her day, returning to the house in time to help Callum – now nearly six – make a tower from Lego, practise his piano and his writing and then read to him before he went to sleep. As usual with Callum, the book had to involve machines – this time a submarine called Penelope.

  Edward was working late at the hospital that evening – not an unusual event – so she cooked herself some supper, cleaned up the kitchen and sat down with a book and a glass of red wine. Really, I should cut out the wine, she thought, it’s shocking how much weight I’ve put on since Izzy died. Tonight, however, I definitely need a drink. She forced herself to look down at her book, though without much expectation of being able to read. Christ, this is bad timing, she thought; just when our marriage has regained some form of equilibrium after years of tension over Callum.

  It all went back to Izzy. The agony of her death had rocked their marriage; she sensed unspoken criticism from Edward even though she wasn’t sure why. The loss had fired in Marianne an unspeakable grief but also a fierce determination to hold on to Izzy’s child. The problem was Andy – he had started to recover. He had been moved up to Glasgow to be closer to his mother. What else could she have done? Why couldn’t Edward see it her way? She shut her eyes and found herself re-living those impossible months.

  Every day she is getting bulletins about Andy’s improved condition and every day she fears that sooner or later he will want t
o take Callum away from them. Edward infuriates her with his calmness. ‘We must wait,’ he says, ‘talk to him when he is fully recovered. See what he wants to do.’

  ‘No,’ she insists, ‘we must act.’ Every day the same conversation in different forms.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the hospital,’ Edward says. ‘They say he is still quite confused and certainly not in a position to make any long-term decisions about his future or Callum’s.’

  ‘But his brain is not damaged?’

  ‘They don’t think so, but the accident caused a haemorrhage which has affected the movement of his left side.’

  She decides to visit Andy herself. ‘Fine,’ says Edward, ‘but bear in mind he was in a coma for ten days – you’ll need to treat him gently.’

  Marianne sits in the train as it rattles its way north towards Glasgow. My husband may be a saint, she thinks, but I am not. Why does this wretched boy deserve to be treated gently when he broke his promise and took her on the back of his bike; rode through an icy December night and killed my precious child – my beautiful Isabelle.

  The pain of her loss gnaws at Marianne – a hungry rodent forever feasting on her organs. I will not take any risks with Callum, she vows. I promised it to Izzy – a death-bed promise to care for Callum always. There has hardly been a day when I haven’t held him in my arms. How could I ever contemplate giving him up?

  She finds Andy in a rehabilitation room at the hospital – beige walls only partially enlivened by some naïve oil paintings in strong primary colours donated by friends of the hospital. He is sitting in a wheelchair by a window. ‘Hello Andy,’ she says. He looks at her calmly but without emotion, then turns away. His head has been shaved and now the hair is beginning to grow back unevenly. A thick scar is visible from his right ear to the centre of his crown.

  ‘I am glad to see you are getting better,’ she says. He nods.

  ‘You know that Izzy is dead?’ She knows that he has been told but she has to say it anyway. She looks for a sign of contrition but again he simply nods. She wonders if he can speak – then it occurs to her she hasn’t yet asked him a real question.

  ‘How do you feel?’ she asks. ‘Are you in pain?’

  He looks at her with a mixture of anger and resignation; a lopsided half smile moves across his face but his eyes are cold. ‘Aam feckin’ brilliant – can ye nae see?’

  OK! she thinks. This is more like the Andy I know – except he tended to be a little less Glaswegian when he was in Cambridge. She expresses regret about his injuries. How bad is his paralysis? she wonders. He sits so still it’s difficult to tell. She tells him about Callum – they are looking after him; he is happy and well. Then she broaches the subject of adoption. She and Edward think this would be for the best. Does he agree? She waits nervously for an answer. She has a sackload of arguments ready to deploy if necessary – including financial inducement – but it isn’t necessary.

  ‘Micht as weel. I’m nae much use tae him noo.’

  ‘Yes, well…’ She is confused by his ready agreement and not sure how to respond.

  ‘Noo she’s gone,’ he adds, looking at the floor, and it suddenly occurs to Marianne that Izzy was the focal point of Andy’s existence. She is not the only one who is devastated by Izzy’s death.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, it’s hard for all of us to think of life without her.’

  Marianne talks on for a while, then she moves to the second part of her plan – get him to put it in writing. She knows that in the circumstances it has little value but she wants to come home with something tangible.

  Andy seems indifferent, and under her slow dictation he writes: ‘Dear Marianne, I agree that it will be best for Callum if he is adopted by you and Edward.’ She gets him to sign and date the note then she tucks it away in her handbag.

  For reasons which she can’t fully understand, Edward is furious with her. ‘Don’t you see how wrong it was to put pressure on him when he is still traumatised by the accident?’ he says.

  ‘I absolutely did not put any pressure on him…’

  ‘It’s worthless, what you got him to sign – probably counterproductive…’

  ‘It’s just a start, Ed – don’t you understand? But it’s the right start.’

  But he doesn’t understand. He seems wilfully obtuse in his refusal to comprehend that what she is doing is best for them all: for Callum, for her and Edward – even for Andy. Andy will be free of any responsibility for the child – free to make a fresh start, she tells Edward, but he doesn’t want to listen.

  Under her urging they start the adoption process; social workers visit regularly. Edward cooperates but frequently criticises her: ‘We’re rushing this, Marianne. Andy is getting better – he’ll be a different person in a year or two.’

  ‘Rushing! More like the proverbial tortoise, if you ask me. It could be another two years before we get the adoption through.’ And all the time Marianne frets that Andy will change his mind. She has been told that he has regained almost complete movement on his left side and mentally seems fully recovered. She knows they will be talking to him. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’ they will say. Daily she expects to be told that Andy is coming to visit, or that he is having second thoughts.

  She prepares for this eventuality – her counter-attack. No holds will be barred; she will beg, she will bribe, she will threaten – she will blame him for Izzy’s death. She will raise arguments about his fitness to have anything to do with Callum – his past drug taking, his physical and mental state.

  She worries that Edward’s misgivings will be detected by the social workers, and so does everything possible to ensure that Edward is out when they come. ‘We really must make an appointment when your husband is here next time,’ they say.

  She sighs. ‘You know how it is – marriage to a hardworking and dedicated doctor,’ and they smile in acknowledgement.

  She is sure she is fighting this battle both for herself and Edward. She is determined that they won’t share Callum, that it would not be in his best interest to have two fathers. No halfway house will satisfy her – only full adoption with Andy giving up all rights. And in the meantime, she continues to fight with Edward.

  ‘I can’t believe what you were saying tonight,’ he declares one evening after a dinner with friends. ‘All that stuff about Andy being half paralysed and brain damaged. It was never true, and certainly not now. Why do you have to fucking lie to everyone?’

  Edward hardly ever swears but he has been drinking more than usual that evening. This time she is the calm one. ‘It’s what you have to say in these cases, Ed – explain why the birth parent is giving up the child for adoption. It’s what we’ll tell Callum: “Andy couldn’t look after you.” If I exaggerate a little it’s just to make it easier to explain.’

  ‘And to satisfy your own conscience for stealing his child.’

  ‘God, you talk shit sometimes. I don’t know why you are acting like this.’

  And she doesn’t. She doesn’t understand Edward at all now. He always wanted a son. He loves his grandson – he will be a perfect father to Callum as he was to Izzy, but somewhere in that complicated mind of her husband he can’t accept what is happening. Some kind of self-denying ordinance is at work; he wants to be a father to Callum but not at the expense of someone else – someone whom he thinks has a better claim to love and be loved by their three-year-old grandson.

  Then it happens, the event that she has dreaded. Andy is coming for a visit. She remains calm. What is the thinking behind this? she asks. It seems that the Scottish social workers think Andy should see his child again before making an irrevocable decision. ‘Best if your husband is here as well,’ they say.

  ‘Of course,’ she says, but she deliberately agrees a date when she knows he will be in London. She doesn’t know how he’ll react and she doesn’t want to take any risks.

  When An
dy arrives, he is smartly dressed and accompanied by two social workers: Yvonne, her normal Cambridge visitor, and another woman from Glasgow. He walks with a trace of a limp but otherwise seems recovered. He gives Marianne a sheepish look.

  ‘Hello Andy,’ she says, ‘you are looking very well.’ Her voice sounds a little too loud.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he says, and she notices that this time the Glaswegian accent is largely absent. They stand around awkwardly in the kitchen watching Callum through the window as he plays in the sandpit outside.

  ‘I’ll bring him in,’ she says.

  ‘It’s OK, we can go out,’ Andy says, and to her surprise he leads them all outside.

  ‘Hello, Callum,’ says Yvonne, squatting down beside him. ‘Are you making a castle?’

  ‘Boat,’ says Callum.

  ‘Callum, darling, this is Andy,’ says Marianne. ‘I don’t suppose you remember him, do you?’ Eighteen months ago he had been Daddy but she won’t use that word now – not now Edward is Daddy. Callum looks briefly at Andy then turns back to the sand.

  ‘How you daein’, Cal?’ says Andy. Callum ignores him. Marianne says she will make coffee and returns to the kitchen, watching through the window as the group outside watch Callum – standing around in a self-conscious semi-circle. They are just here to observe him, she tells herself. Yvonne had promised they would not confuse Callum by trying to re-awaken a lost connection, but when they come into the house the other woman does exactly that.

  ‘Don’t you remember your first Daddy?’ she says, kneeling beside Callum and looking towards Andy. ‘Come and give him a cuddle,’ and she takes Callum’s hand and half leads and half drags him towards Andy. Predictably, Callum struggles, falls over and starts to whimper. Marianne shoots an angry glance at the woman, picks him up, puts him on her knee and lets him nibble a biscuit. The visit seems to drag on interminably. She watches Andy out of a corner of her eye. She senses he is feeling less and less comfortable and she also notices how his eyes keep straying towards Izzy’s framed photo on the dresser. Andy’s silence fills the room. Marianne declines to interrupt so the two social workers make small talk and try to interest Callum in a toy car.