‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Terry, stroking his chin.
We talked to Matthew, and worked out ways to help him, and things did improve, for a while. Working in a second-hand furniture shop, Darren’s Den, Matthew seemed to relish his visits to the gym. If he was taking his health seriously, surely his mind was now on living? He took driving lessons, and his mood lifted.
He was out a lot, the life and soul of the party; a real Romeo with the girls. Always surrounded by friends, the centre of attention he seemed happy. We were close; I could tell when he was masking his sadness, and he had, surely was happy.
I didn’t relax. I couldn’t, because I knew, from experience, that his emotions were on a roller-coaster, and what goes up, must surely come down. I waited, in trepidation, for the next dip. How could I make it less scary not just for Matthew, but for the girls, and for me?
In July, Bronagh phoned and dropped a bombshell. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.
Matthew agreed to provide for the baby but said he didn’t want to get back with her. What he didn’t say, to me, or to Bronagh, was that he was thinking of getting back with Shanice. He was aware that Shanice was bad for him, that the two had an explosive relationship; but his attraction to her was stronger than any drug.
He was good to Bronagh. He accompanied her to the scans, but as the pregnancy progressed, she wanted more. ‘She’s said, again, that she wants us to get back together,’ said Matthew. ‘Or as she says, ‘she wants the father of her child with her.’’
‘And what do you want?’
He shrugged. ‘I want to see the baby, but I don’t want us to get back together.’
He didn’t tell me that to be true to his heart he had to be with Shanice, and at the time, I didn’t know it.
Meanwhile, I felt, inside myself, that something wasn’t right. I remember driving along towards Belfast, when I was overcome with a sense of death. It was such a strong sensation that I shared it with the kids.
‘If something happens to me, there’s a wicker basket in the cupboard in my bedroom’, I said. ‘I keep all the important paperwork there. Things like passports, birth certificates, all that sort of thing.’
‘Mum!’ Natasha laughed. ‘You’re not even forty! Why are you telling us that?’
I shrugged. ‘I’ve just a sense of death,’ I said.
Nobody took me seriously. In fact, the wicker basket became a bit of a family joke.
‘You can laugh,’ I said, ‘but you need to know these things. My will is in there too.’
Not even Terry took my fears seriously. ‘Your will’ he said, rubbing his hands together in mock glee. ‘What are you leaving me, then?’
As for Matthew, he said if I was going to die, could I please do it soon. ‘I’m a bit broke right now,’ he said. ‘I could do with a bequest.’
‘Very funny!’
Did it occur to me that the death might not be mine? That Matthew might successfully complete suicide? I think not. The thought was simply too horrendous, and, whilst doing everything I could to help Matthew, I pushed it from my mind.
5
The Last Night
I was feeling such a sense of hope. Matthew’s mood was good; it had continued to improve since the early summer. And although he and Bronagh hadn’t got together again, they had largely resolved their difficulties. And when, on 10th October 2012, she came over to the house, I felt that his life had taken on some normality. All seemed well.
Bronagh came over to our house to talk about the baby, and of Matthew’s part in it, after its birth. He was now pleased at the prospect of being a father and was determined to take his role seriously. And, as his job was steady, that seemed a real possibility.
I sat with them, delighted that they were on such friendly terms. I was happy for them both. After all the problems of the past year Matthew was physically fit and mentally stable. Life was good!
At 10.0’clock, wishing them goodnight, I went upstairs to work. I’d recently completed my Masters in Community Youth Work, and had started my dream job, supporting young people with behaviour problems within Special Education, and I had some paperwork to catch up on.
When I left, all was calm. The two of them were flicking through the DVD’s to find one to watch. But no sooner had I sat down and turned on my computer, then I heard a piercing scream. I ran downstairs, to find Matthew kneeling beside his bed, his head in his hands, crying.
‘What’s the matter? Where’s Bronagh?’ He was in a terrible state.
‘Bronagh’s gone.’
‘Gone? Where? Why?’
‘She answered my phone,’ he said, staring at his mobile, nestled in his palm. ‘Why would anyone answer someone else’s phone?’
I shrugged.
‘I went to the toilet. I’d been gone two minutes, and when I came back, she hit me.’ His voice was distorted with tears.
I said just one word. ‘Shanice?’
He nodded.
Would that girl ever stop causing my son problems? Wasn’t it enough that she accused him of rape, and dragged him through the courts before admitting that she’d been lying all along? Not enough that she’d dated his friends, and his cousins; not to mention having a baby of her own. Would my son continue to be bewitched by her; however, she chose to treat him? Did she enjoy the power?
It seemed that way. Even though they had long since broken up, apparently for good, Shanice seemed incapable of leaving Matthew alone. I don’t know what she had said to Bronagh on the phone, but whatever it was, the other girl was not happy. ‘Bronagh’s only effing calling the police,’ said Matthew, visibly shaking. He was terrified of the police. He always had been.
‘Will you ring her back? Will you ring Shanice?’ He handed me the phone.
‘Me? Ring Shanice?’
He nodded. ‘She might listen to you. Could you tell her to stop contacting me? It’s doing my head in.’
I saw his point. I thought back to that time when I’d first met Shanice; when I thought she would be really good for Matthew. I wondered how it was that she had this strange hold over him. Shanice didn’t want Matthew. That was clear. But it appeared that she was damned if anyone else could have him. Shanice knew my thoughts on the matter. And I really did not see how a phone call from me would help the situation
‘Matthew,’ I said, handing the phone back to him. ‘Enough is enough. I think it’s time to get an order from a solicitor to tell her to leave you alone.’
He nodded. Then he flung his phone across the room, as if he was bowling it with the intention of knocking out a cricketer. Hitting the wall, it smashed, and fell to the floor in pieces.
He slumped, and dropped to his bed, as if, in breaking his phone, he had released all the tension from his body. It was like watching a balloon deflate. Looking at me, shrugging, he said, ‘Why do I bother?’
I couldn’t answer him.
‘I do try, Mum.’
‘I know you do.’
‘What more can I do?’
The doorbell rang. Matthew looked at me with scared eyes. ‘Will you get it, Ma?’
I nodded, and left, leaving Matthew pacing the room. And there she was, Bronagh, standing on the doorstep, arms crossed, protectively, across her chest. She was calm, but there were tears in her eyes. ‘I won’t be taken for a fool,’ she said.
‘Of course not, love.’ She came in, making for Matthew’s room, and, following her, I sat down beside her. ‘Are you all right now, or would you like me to run you home?’
‘I’m fine. I’ll stay here if that’s ok.’ She moved away from me and pulled Matthew down beside her.
She said that she hadn’t called the police – that it was only a bluff, when the doorbell rang again. Matthew jumped up, looking for all the world like a frightened rabbit. Instead of answering the door, he ran up the stairs. I thought he was overreacting and was surprised to see two burly policemen on the doorstep. ‘Can we come in?’
I nodded and stared hard at Bronagh. Following my gaz
e, the policeman said, ‘Was it you who called 999?’
Her face went white. ‘I hung up,’ she said. ‘I didn’t speak to anyone.’
The larger man nodded. ‘But you did dial 999?’
She nodded, miserably.
‘We traced the call. We must take these things seriously. Can you please tell us what this was all about?’
‘Nothing.’ She fiddled with the sleeves of her jumper.
‘It was a simple row,’ I said, muttering that I’d get Matthew down to talk to them. I took the stairs two at a time, calling his name, but he didn’t answer. The landing window was wide open. Oh my God, I thought, the idiot has jumped out. I ran downstairs again, and out into the garden, and found him white faced and shaking. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ he said.
‘I know. So, you’ve nothing to worry about.’
‘But Bronagh…’
‘Bronagh’s explained. She said she over-reacted, so you’re not in any trouble. At least you’re not, if you come with me now, and talk to them.’
He hung back, but let me lead him in.
The policeman turned, and said, ‘This young lady needs to come with us.’
‘But I want to stay with Matthew,’ she said, half smiling at him. ‘I told you. He’s done nothing wrong. We want to watch a movie.’
‘You heard her,’ I said. ‘Let her stay. I can run her home later.’
‘Sorry.’ The policeman was firm. ‘She made a complaint. She’s coming with us.’
‘But I don’t want to.’ Bronagh was close to tears.
‘You have a choice.’
She looked up.
‘You can come with us; we’ll take you home safely, or, we can charge you for wasting police time.’
Bronagh paled. Picked up her coat, and, with a backward glance, she followed the police to their car.
When they’d gone, Matthew meandered out to the kitchen and I followed, to find him staring at the contents of the fridge. ‘Are you all right?’
He nodded, so I said I had to go upstairs and work. I was distracted, because not only had I the new job with the local education authority, I had also to cover a shift for one of the youth workers, and I had some planning to do.
Before climbing the stairs, I gave Matthew a hug and told him I loved him and I would see him in the morning, just as I did every night.
‘Can I get a new phone tomorrow?’
‘We’ll see,’ I said, and he smiled, knowing that when I said, ‘we’ll see,’ what I meant was ‘yes.’
As I worked until the small hours, I was aware of Matthew pottering around downstairs, but I hadn’t called out to him. I cursed myself for that now. Because that was the very last time that I saw him alive.
PART TWO: AFTER
6
The First Day
How do you cope when your firstborn dies? How can life continue? My mind shut down on that first morning, unable to process what had happened. My body took over, as if on automatic pilot.
After I had found Matthew; after I had called 999, my legs took me outside. I slumped down beside the garage, my mind blank, as I waited for the police to arrive. After a while I saw a police car speeding past the house. A minute or two passed before it came back again. I watched, as the doors flew open, then slammed shut, and two policewomen came running towards me. The older one, taking charge, shouted, ‘Where is he? Where is your son?’
‘He’s out the back,’ I said, pointing. ‘He’s in his room.’ I had built the garage conversion especially for Matthew, as a bedroom separate from the rest of the house, sitting back into the garden. Wanting to keep him safe, under my roof, it was a way to give him the independence he so craved without the necessity for him to move out. It had proved a good compromise – or so I had thought.
Standing up, my legs feeling unsteady, I led the policewomen into his room. I hugged myself hard and tried not to look towards his bed. It was the first time, since I had found him, that I had ventured into his room. As the women checked Matthew over, I noticed the disturbing string, or cable tie, wrapped around his neck.
I was distracted by a fluttering noise and noticed a bird in the corner of the room.
‘Look!’ I said to the officers, pointing upwards.
The words had no sooner left my mouth, then the bird flew out, into the garden. I thought, how bizarre! I have witnessed birds flying into windows, banging off the glass, yet this one was able to fly through the narrow opening between Matthew’s bedroom and the patio door. It had absolute precision. I watched, mesmerised. The bird, I strongly believe, was taking Matthew’s soul to heaven. I had read that this is an Indian belief, and the thought gave me a little comfort. Later, remembering this, I researched all kinds of things on Google, looking for meanings in everyday occurrences.
I didn’t want to look at my dead son; I couldn’t bear to, but however much I resisted, my eyes were drawn to him. And it seemed that those eyes stared right back at me. I lost it then. I fell at his feet, sobbing; begging the policewomen to help him. And, noticing how traumatised I was, the older woman said to the younger, ‘Take her back to the house. Stay with her. Stay with the mother.’ She said this in such a matter of fact way. As if I was in the way – hampering her work. As if I was no one.
Tearing my eyes away from Matthew’s, I stared at the older woman. I thought, sod you, you don’t even care. You can’t show real empathy. Then I followed the younger woman. I glanced back for a last look at Matthew as I left the room. ‘I can’t help you now,’ I said, and the younger woman gave my arm a squeeze.
She led me back into the house, and followed me, then dropped back, staying a step behind me, like an obedient lapdog. She didn’t let me out of her sight, following me from room to room, giving me no privacy. I complained, and she said,
‘You’re not to be on your own.’
I’m not sure what my girls were doing, but assumed that they were in Natasha’s room, dressed and ready for whatever the day was about to throw at them. I wandered upstairs and saw them sitting on the bed looking white faced. They were good girls, I’d told them not to go outside, and they’d listened… or had they? I really hoped they had.
I thought of Matthew, downstairs. Dead with staring eyes, a dark blue mouth and protruding tongue. It was like a scene from a horror movie and was not something the girls should ever see.
I rang first. Our beautiful baby, Daniel was teething. This made him fretful, and Terry had taken him the night before so that I could get a decent night’s sleep. He didn’t pick up. When I rang my sister, she answered cheerily. But when I said, ‘Matthew is dead,’ she fell silent. After a few seconds, I wondered if she had hung-up. ‘Hello?’ I said. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Oh Sharon,’ she said. ‘I’m in the car. I’m taking the boys to school – you’re on speakerphone.’ She paused. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
But, how could she? There were no words.
Trying to retain a little normality, I went for a shower. ‘Don’t lock the door,’ said the policewoman, hovering behind me, and I thought, oh, you care now, do you?’ I don’t know how long I stayed there, in the shower. It felt good, letting the hot water stream over my hair and my body. I turned it up, wanting the water to scald me. As if physical pain would take away the deeper agony. And as long as I was there, I didn’t have to face the truth. The questions. The sympathy.
My sister’s brother-in-law was the first to arrive. He came in and, putting his arms around me, said how sorry he was. I’m not an emotional person and I was thinking, why are you hugging me? I’d been taught, as a child, that showing emotion was a sign of weakness. I’ve learned to wait until I’m alone to cry, with just God as a witness.
I tried ringing Terry again. I left a message and cursed him for not being there when I needed him. Then Natasha tried him; she dialled again and again, but it went to voicemail each time. After that I phoned James. Before I could say a word, he said, ‘What’s Matthew done now?’ He sounded distracted, and said he w
as on the way to work.
‘Your son is dead,’ I said, and there was silence on the line. Then, almost whispering, he muttered, ‘I’m on my way.’
He arrived with his brother-in-law Gary. They came into the kitchen, and before I could say a word, muttered that killing yourself was an idiot thing to do. I saw red.
‘I don’t know why I even bothered to ring you,’ I said. ‘You did fuck all for him in life.’
‘That’s not fair, Sharon,’ said Gary, giving me a sharp look.
‘Come on Gary,’ I said. ‘You didn’t even let the boys hang around together.’ His son, Stuart, and Matthew were best buddies, but Gary thought Matthew was a bad influence. Had he only known it; Matthew had dug his cousin out of trouble on more than one occasion.
James’s expression darkened, and I saw him clench his fists. For a minute I thought he was going to hit me, but Gary pulled him away and the moment passed. The two of them went outside and sat in Gary’s van, talking, but making no move to drive away.
The phone rang. It was Darren, Matthew’s boss from the furniture shop, asking why Matthew was late.
‘He’s not answering his phone,’ he said. ‘Would it help if I came and picked him up.’
‘I don’t think he’s coming to work today.’ I said it calmly.
‘Why not?’
‘Matthew is dead.’
I put the phone down, not wanting to have to say how he died. And before I knew it, Darren’s van drew up. I went outside to meet him, and he ran towards me, threw his arms around me, and sobbed on my shoulder. Why was this grown man crying? I looked at him dispassionately, thinking, why are you so distraught, when it’s my son.
He walked into the house joining my brother in law, and my sister, who, having dropped her children at school, had rushed over. I continued to inform friends and family, working through my mobile from A-Z. Then I walked in, meeting Darren on his way out. But almost immediately, there was a knock on the door. I was delighted to see Wilma, my wonderful and supportive next-door neighbour, back from her walk with the dogs. Taking my hands between hers, she said, ‘Sharon, what’s happened? I saw the police car.’
Forever Young: A mother's story of life after suicide Page 5