by Jane Green
I remember how surprised I was when Tom was in the hospital, surprised by my calmness, my lack of emotion, my failure to blame. I didn’t have the energy to blame anyone, not then, but now that Tom is fine, now that we are back home and everyone expects us to resume our lives as normal, as if nothing had happened, I find myself filled with a fury that I have never ever known before.
How dare Linda—even the thought of her name makes my blood boil these days—pick up Tom? How dare she deliberately ignore my wishes? If that stupid woman had just left him alone, Tom would have been fine.
I know he’s fine now. I know that’s all that matters, but all I keep thinking about is Linda dropping my precious boy down the stairs, reaching out her hands to protect herself, putting herself before my son.
I know she’ll never forgive herself. Her letters have implored me to forgive her, have said that the fact that she will never forgive herself is surely punishment enough, and I should not punish her further by not letting her see Tom.
I read each letter in the beginning. Now I don’t even open them, just put them straight in the trash bin. I used to read them impassively, snorting with derision when she asked to see Tom. As if I would let her near my son ever again.
She’s worked on Dan too; I know the days he’s been to see her or spoken to her on the phone. He’ll come home and soon thereafter he’ll suggest inviting them over, tell me how much she misses Tom, how this is killing her.
We’ll both be there, he’ll say. Nothing will happen. Will you stop being so overdramatic and ridiculous? Stop punishing her for what was a terrible accident without, thank God, a terrible outcome.
And finally: Will you stop being such a fucking bitch?
“How dare you?” I scream at him, scream, literally, at the top of my lungs, amazed that I have this ability to let out this rage, amazed that I am able to speak to another person in the way I now speak to Dan. “How dare you call me that? How dare you suggest they see him after what happened? How dare you call me a bitch? Get out! Just get out!”
It’s all I can do not to scream “I hate you,” but each time the words threaten to escape, something makes me swallow them. I don’t believe there would be any way back if those words came out, even though I think them every day.
I don’t know what’s happened to us. I don’t understand this anger, this hatred, this permanent sense of injustice. But I do know that Tom and I are happy when we are by ourselves. Happier by ourselves.
Dan has started to leave the house before I get up. I’m always awake, but I lie there pretending to be asleep, my body filled with tension, my breaths short and tight, counting the minutes until the front door closes and I can finally relax.
I get Tom up and we have breakfast together, most of which usually ends up on the floor or squished all over Tom’s face.
“Mama,” he says now. And “A-ee,” for Harry, the name of his stuffed cat. Amy seems to be talking much more, and at sixteen months I do rather worry that Tom’s vocabulary ought to be bigger, but I also know that every child develops at his or her own pace, and Oscar isn’t saying that much more than Tom.
We go to Gymboree, and music class, and meet Trish and Lisa for playdates. Unless it’s pouring, we’re usually in the playground every afternoon, and I love every minute of every day, right up to our giggly bath time and snuggling a wriggly Tom in my arms as I read him a bedtime story and put him to bed.
My day only starts to sour when the front door opens and Dan comes home, bringing all the tension and stress back with him.
We barely talk anymore. When we do, we talk about Tom, perfunctory conversations about what Tom did today, and that’s about it. We’ve become one of those couples that I used to dread becoming: the couples that sit in restaurants all night and don’t say a word to each other.
Because, of course, we still go out. I have neither the energy nor the will to cook, and we still have to present a united front to the world.
We’ll join Trish and Gregory for dinner at least once a week, usually somewhere local, Lemonia or Manna. I like to think that you wouldn’t know there was anything wrong between us, that when we are with other people we do a pretty good job of pretending everything’s fine, that we are just like every other young couple.
Lisa and Andy broke up soon after France. I still see her during the day, but she’s being the single girl-about-town in the evenings, and it’s rare that she’s able to join us for dinner.
I haven’t really spoken to anyone about what’s going on. I’ll make jokes about how Dan and I row, but I haven’t told anyone just how unhappy we are, being too scared to voice what I already know, too scared to set the wheels in motion.
Because I am living in a kind of inertia. I know something has to change. Know that I cannot go on living, or not living, like this, but I don’t know what steps to take next, how to change it.
Part of me keeps waiting for it to pass. Keeps thinking that one morning I will wake up and the anger will have passed and I will look at Dan and feel love again, but then I look at him and the feelings I once had are only a fading memory. I can just about remember how I used to feel, but I don’t feel it anymore. Nothing. Not a shred.
All I feel is anger, and irritation, and the need to push him even further away.
Lemonia is packed, and Dan and I weave through the tables until we spot Trish and Gregory in the corner. I plaster a bright smile on my face, as does Dan, and we wave as we go over to join them.
“How’s the new babysitter?”
“She’s wonderful!” Trish says as she reaches up to kiss me hello. “Oscar’s in heaven. He didn’t even look at me when I tried to say good-bye; he was far too busy playing with Emily.”
“Thank God you’ve finally found someone.” I sit down next to Trish as Dan sits next to Gregory and starts to talk work. “I don’t know what I’d do without Rachel.”
Rachel is my angel of mercy, my current second-favorite person in the world after Tom. She’s a strong, confident, funny Australian who’s been here for eight months, lives in a house in Acton with, from what I can make out, one hundred twenty-four other Australians, and she’s been our part-time nanny for the last four months.
I didn’t think I’d ever be able to trust Tom with anyone, not after what happened, but Calden gave me a big project, and suddenly I was going to meetings again and actually having to shut myself away from Tom to focus on conference calls and read marketing plans.
I had to have a nanny, for two days a week I decided, and three nights’ babysitting too. Rachel works the rest of the time for a friend of Fran’s, which is how I found her, and as soon as I spoke to Fran’s friend, as soon as I heard how wonderful Rachel was, I started to relax.
And then, when she came for the interview, the first thing she did was to scoop up Tom and tickle him with her eyelashes, which made him laugh. She so clearly loved children, was so completely comfortable with them, that I took her on.
Admittedly, the first three weeks were tough. I couldn’t get the thought of Linda’s dropping Tom out of my mind, so I made sure they didn’t leave the house, and I kept a very close eye on them.
They were fine.
Then Trish suggested that she, Oscar, Tom, and Rachel should go to the playground together, and she said she’d keep an eye on them. She reported back that Rachel was amazing, that even Oscar loved her. After that I let Rachel go wherever she wanted.
“Rachel is amazing,” Trish says, “but then again you could leave Tom with pretty much anyone and he’d be happy. Oscar’s much more sensitive. He loves Rachel but she doesn’t have any more nights free for us, so Emily’s the first one we’ve found whom he’s been happy with. God!” She rolls her eyes before continuing affectionately, “Oscar can be such a troublemaker. Why do I end up with the sensitive one?”
Sensitive. What a perfect simile for nightmarish. I feel horribly guilty even thinking it, but Oscar is turning out to be something of a horror. I love Trish, really—she’s become my cl
osest friend—but Oscar I could very definitely live without.
Oscar has no rules in his own house, so naturally he believes the same lack of rules applies in our house too. He’ll grab a crayon and scribble all over the wall as Trish vaguely attempts to stop him while telling me admiringly how artistic he is. He’ll climb up on the sofa wearing his boots, thickly plastered with mud, and Trish will tell him softly to get down and just shrug when he ignores her and carry on chatting as I have minor heart failure. I mean, those sofas cost a fortune.
He’ll point to food and scream if he can’t have it, so Trish always ends up giving him exactly what he wants just to keep him quiet. “I know I shouldn’t,” she’ll say, “but I just can’t bear the screaming.”
And poor Trish has been through babysitter hell. Oscar has clearly hated his mother leaving him with anyone, so thank goodness she’s finally found someone of whom Oscar approves.
“I hope you’re paying her well,” I say.
“If Oscar likes her, I’ll pay her pretty much whatever she wants,” Trish laughs. “Anything to keep the little devil happy.”
I laugh too. Oh, if only she knew.
We have a lovely evening. Lovely because it feels normal. Because it’s loud, and noisy, and barely noticeable that Dan and I don’t really talk to each other.
Sometimes I watch Gregory and Trish, watch how he will squeeze her arm affectionately, or lean over and give her a kiss; watch how Trish includes him in so much of her conversation. “Isn’t it, Gregory?” “Don’t we, Gregory?” “What do you think, Gregory?” And I wonder whether they notice the lack of affection between us.
Every couple is different, I think. They would only notice the difference if they had known us in the beginning, before we had Tom. We used to be affectionate. We used to talk kindly to each other, kiss each other for no reason at all, rest a head on a shoulder or stroke a cheek softly.
That feels like a lifetime ago now. A different Dan. A different Ellie. I wonder what would happen if I did that now? If I reached out and kissed Dan’s cheek? I look at Dan’s face, thinking about his reaction, and he senses me looking at him and stops speaking to Gregory, to look at me.
And for a second, as our eyes meet, I remember how he used to look at me with love. I remember he would turn and his eyes would be warm and sparkling, and I would feel safe, and warm, and loved.
Tonight, as with every other night now, there is only coldness. And possibly a hint of irritation.
“What?” Dan asks.
“Nothing,” I say lightly, and he turns back to Gregory as if I didn’t exist at all.
We pay the bill and stand up, pulling our coats off the backs of our chairs and putting them on. Gregory stretches and lets his hands rest on Trish’s shoulders.
“Oh, good,” he says, glancing at his watch. “An early night,” and he winks at Trish, who smiles and rolls her eyes.
“Oh, God,” she moans. “Do we have to? We had an early night last night.”
“You can’t ever have too many early nights as far as I’m concerned,” Gregory says. “Isn’t that right, Dan?”
Dan shrugs. “Frankly, I wouldn’t know. We haven’t slept together for six months.”
There’s a deathly silence as Gregory looks first at Dan, then at me, waiting for one of us to say we’re joking.
“Dan, shut up,” I say softly, aghast that he’s announced this fact to our closest friends. Aghast that it’s finally out there.
“What? You don’t want your best friend to know that you refuse to have sex with me? Why ever not? Because she might think you’re abnormal?”
My face is scarlet. I can’t believe this conversation. Can’t believe what Dan is saying. “Dan, stop it,” I warn. “I will not talk about this now.”
Dan looks at me and just shakes his head, a disgusted look on his face. “I’ll see you at home,” he says, walking off through the restaurant.
“Um, um.” Poor Gregory. He doesn’t have a clue what to say. “Ellie, I feel awful for saying anything. I didn’t mean to start…”
“My husband is such an oaf.” Trish nudges him. “Go outside and talk to Dan.”
Trish holds me back just inside the door, and when Gregory has left she turns to me. “I know that I keep asking you if everything’s okay and you keep saying that everything is, and if you really don’t want to talk about it, of course I understand; but I want you to know that you can talk to me about anything, and that I won’t judge you, and that I will do my best to understand.”
I nod. I think I’m going to cry. I would say something, but there’s a sob just queuing up in my throat, and all I can do is try to swallow it away as tears well up in my eyes.
By the time I get home Rachel has been paid and has left, and Dan is sitting on the sofa, staring into space. I walk in and shrug my coat off, then sit on the sofa opposite him. I can’t carry on anymore. We can’t carry on anymore. Something has to change, and before I even think about the words, they’re out there, ominously quiet, almost a whisper in the silence.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
Dan doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look up, just continues to stare at his hands clasped between his legs, elbows resting on his knees as he looks down.
“Dan, we have to talk.” I take a deep breath. “All we seem to do these days is make each other unhappy. I think we can’t carry on like this, something has to change.”
Still, nothing.
“Dan, will you look at me?” Slowly Dan raises his eyes until they meet mine, and I’m shocked to see how much pain is in them. He looks away again and then speaks. “So what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.” And I didn’t think that I knew, but then, almost unconsciously, I say, “I think we ought to separate for a while.” And I take a deep breath. Shocked. Dan looks at me, and I can see he’s shocked too.
It feels surreal. And clichéd. And like rubbish. I wish I could come up with something more original, something better than these lines that sound like a bad made-for-television movie. But there isn’t any other way to say it.
“Dan? Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“What do you want me to say?” His voice is flat. Emotionless.
“Tell me how you feel. Tell me what you want. What do you think?”
He shrugs. “I think you’ve made up your mind.”
I keep pushing. This may be the end of the marriage, but I can’t let it go quite this easily. I can’t let the marriage end on this note of silence, on this lack of communication. Suddenly I want to know all the things I haven’t asked him for the last six months; now I want to know.
“But do you agree? Is this what you want?”
“What difference would it make what I want?”
“You’re not happy either.”
“No. But I wouldn’t necessarily throw in the towel just yet.”
“Look,” I sigh. “It’s not permanent. Maybe we just need some space to reassess. I don’t think we should talk about…divorce…or anything.” Oh, God. Divorce. The very mention of the word sends shivers down my spine. “We can hope this is just a phase.”
He doesn’t agree. Or disagree. Doesn’t say anything at all until he looks up and says softly, “And what about Tom?”
Oh, God. What about Tom?
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what happens with Tom? I suppose you’ll want to stay in the flat with Tom.”
I hadn’t thought about it, but now that he has brought it up, yes, of course I want to stay in the flat with Tom. I may only work part time, I may bring very little money to the table, but our flat couldn’t have been bought without the money from the sale of my old flat, not to mention the fact that this is Tom’s home, and the less his life is disrupted the better.
“Well, yes,” I say, “I mean, you’ll obviously see him whenever you want. You can come over any time. Or maybe on weekends. Or…I don’t know. Whatever. I haven’t done this before either. We’ll work something
out.” And I think finally the shock starts to sink in, even though I can hardly believe that this conversation has so quickly become a reality. We’ve spent months screaming at each other, sleeping with our backs to each other, barely speaking to each other, and now that we’re actually managing to have a calm conversation, our marriage is ending.
Just like that. In a few minutes everything has gone. Poof. Another lump in my throat, and again I swallow it away. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe more arguments, more discussions. Maybe just to talk about things and go to bed, then wake up with everything exactly the same.
But suddenly everything is completely different. Suddenly my marriage is over. Because I might have said we’re just separating, that it’s only temporary, but who am I kidding? My marriage is a failure and I’m on my own.
“Do you think we should talk about this more in the morning?” I say, stalling for time, unable to believe how final this has become so quickly.
“No.” Dan sighs and stands up, running his fingers through his hair, and for a second I want to run to him and cling to him. No, I want to cry. Make this okay, make it better. Stay and fight. But of course I don’t. I just bite my lip and look at the floor.
“I’ll go and pack a few things,” Dan says. “I’ll go and stay at my parents’ until things are a bit more sorted out.” He leaves and I hear him go into the bedroom, then the sound of drawers and cupboard doors being opened, the sound of clothes being shoved into a sports bag.
I can’t move for a while. I just sit on the sofa, unable to believe this is real, that we have actually had this conversation, that my husband is leaving me. That it’s really over.
I get up and stand in the doorway of the bedroom, watching him, wanting to say more, wanting us to talk more, wanting one of us to fight for this marriage, to turn everything back to normal, even if normal means those long silences of the past six months, not speaking, not touching, not talking. Anything rather than this.
Dan doesn’t look at me. Just finishes packing some things. When he goes into the bathroom, I turn and walk back to the living room, hearing my own heart pounding in my ears.