The Dead Wife's Handbook (19 page)

‘I never suggested you should be gallivanting around town every weekend till goodness knows what time and with goodness knows who. A couple of months ago you didn’t even want to leave the house and now it looks like you haven’t been home all night.’

‘Mum, I’m a big boy now. I don’t need your permission for a late pass.’

‘Don’t be silly. You know that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just surprised – very surprised, if you want to know – that you don’t seem to be taking last night’s incident seriously.’

So am I. I’m surprised too. And I’m beginning to feel a bit annoyed as well. I’m trying really hard to put my feelings about last night aside, for them not to infect my thoughts about this morning’s revelations, and what I’m
left with is frustration that Max is so wrapped up in his new relationship with Eve that Ellie seems to have slipped down, overnight, from the top of his priority list where she belongs.

‘It’s one night of bedwetting for god’s sake. I just don’t think we need to be calling in the child psychologists yet.’

‘There’s no need to be sarcastic. Honestly, I don’t know why you’re so irascible today.’

I do, and I know who’s to blame, too.

‘I’m not irascible. I just don’t want to get hysterical about one tiny mishap, that’s all.’

‘What if it’s not only one? What if she gets into a pattern again, like she did after Rachel died? It was awful then, you know it was. I just want to try and nip it in the bud before it gets out of control.’

‘Out of control? Really, Mum, you’ve got to stop over-dramatizing everything. It’s only one night. It’s really not a big deal.’

I don’t know what’s happened to Max, to the Max I know and love, to the Max who used to joke that he’d wrap Ellie up in cotton wool – quite literally – if he thought it would protect her from all of life’s dangers. How can he ignore the fact that her bedwetting is a means of communication, whether she’s conscious of it or not? How can he dismiss whatever it is she’s trying to tell us, whatever feelings she has that she can’t otherwise articulate? How can he belittle the possibility that our daughter might be suffering?

I’ve left him with one job that really matters – one job only – and that’s to make sure Ellie’s okay. That she’s safe and loved and that she’s compensated as far as is humanly
possible through the love and support of everyone around her for the fact that she’s lost her mother. That’s all I want from him. To take care of our daughter and ensure that she makes it through childhood and adolescence with minimal emotional scars. Does he not realize how important – how critical, how absolutely imperative – it is that he should be able to achieve that? For all I know Max may have more children in the future, he may have an entire rabble of them. But Ellie’s all I’ve got. And she’s all I’ll ever have now. She’s my sole discernible legacy to the world, my only link to a future I’ll never have. She’s all the life I have left.

How can Max not see that? Is he really blind to the fact that if he fails Ellie, he fails me? And that if he fails her, I’ll never, ever forgive him.

‘I don’t want to criticize you, Max. You know I don’t. I’m just worried about Ellie, that’s all.’

‘And you think I’m not? Where is she, anyway?’

‘She was upstairs in the spare room just before you arrived. Are you going to talk to her?’

Without bothering to answer, Max charges out of the kitchen and up the stairs, where he finds Ellie sitting on the edge of the pink bedspread Joan bought specially for her. He stands in the doorway, surveying our daughter, her head bowed and her shoulders slumped forward with dejection.

‘Is Granny cross with me?’

‘Of course not, sweetheart. She could never be cross with you. She was just sad that you had a bad night. Are you okay now?’

Ellie nods her head, unconvincingly, unable to raise her face to look Max in the eye. His tone has softened, at least;
he seems to have managed to leave his own frustrations downstairs.

Max sits next to her on the bed and puts a protective arm around her shoulders. Instead of finding comfort inside her daddy’s embrace, Ellie bursts into tears.

‘What is it, angel? What’s the matter?’

Ellie sobs – grave, visceral sobs that seem too powerful to emanate from such a small, fragile body.

‘You weren’t here, Daddy. I wanted you and you weren’t here.’

It’s an accusation that shouldn’t, by rights, land solely at Max’s door and it brings with it a fresh wave of tears. I want to hold her, to haul her on to my lap and rock away her anguish.

‘I’m sorry, angel. I thought you liked staying the night with Granny and Grandpa? You know they wouldn’t have minded at all if you’d woken them up.’

‘But I didn’t want them, Daddy. I wanted you.’

Max draws Ellie’s tear-stained face on to his chest and strokes the top of her head.

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I won’t leave you again until you’re sure you’re ready. Is that okay?’

Ellie’s body begins to relax into the crook of Max’s comforting arm, but the whimpering continues to punctuate her words.

‘Do you … do you promise?’

‘Of course I promise, sweetheart. You know I’d never do anything to upset you. You’re my special angel and I love you so, so much.’

Max pulls her face up towards him and begins kissing her all over, making silly munching noises as he goes. It’s
a game we’ve played with Ellie since she was a baby, covering her face with kisses, counting as we go to reach the magical hundred, making her laugh with the sensation, the repetition, the playfulness of it. And Ellie laughs now too, feigning an attempt to free herself from Max’s embrace while ensuring that some part of her skin is nonetheless free to enable him to reach his goal.

‘Ninety-nine, one hundred! How many times in total do you think I’ve kissed you in your life so far, munchkin?’

Ellie grins into the air, a frown of comical thoughtfulness replacing her tears.

‘A million.’

‘Oh, I think at least a million. More like two million, I reckon. And there’s a lot more where they came from.’

Max begins tickling her and kisses her face some more as she falls back on the bed in fits of giggles.

‘Be careful, Daddy. I don’t want to scrunch it up.’

Ellie sits up and I can see that she’s holding something in her hand, something small and tattered. A cloud eclipses the sunshine in her eyes, and suddenly a lone, fat tear trickles down to the end of her nose and on to whatever it is she’s guarding so vigilantly. With an instinctive, protective response Ellie swiftly wipes it away with the sleeve of her cardigan.

‘What have you got there, munchkin? Can I see?’

Slowly, tentatively, Ellie removes her top hand to reveal what’s underneath, not yet prepared to relinquish whatever it is to him altogether.

It’s a small, passport-sized photo. In it are Ellie and I, our faces pressed close together to ensure we both fit into
the tiny frame, laughing ahead into the automatic lens. It’s a picture of perfect happiness.

‘That’s a lovely photo. When was that taken, do you remember?’

Ellie shakes her long brown curls. I remember. It was when we went into town, Christmas shopping together, the year before I died. We’d been to Hamleys and Selfridges, we’d looked at the Christmas lights, we’d had lunch in her favourite pizza restaurant and we’d carefully and collaboratively selected all of Max’s gifts. There’d been a photo booth set up in one of the big department stores and after we’d posed for the single shot, we’d waited impatiently for the four identical images to emerge and when they did, Ellie had asked if she could keep one to put in her puppy-shaped purse. I can’t believe she still has it. That was almost two years ago. I could cry at the thought of her having treasured that photo, all this time.

‘Daddy?’

‘Yes, munchkin.’

‘Sometimes I really, really miss Mummy. Like last night, when I wet the bed. With Mummy I always knew that she wouldn’t get cross with me, even if I woke her up in the middle of the night. I just really, really wanted her here.’

Max pulls Ellie on to his lap and into his arms. His eyes are bloodshot and I can see he’s holding back the tears too. I’d give anything to be able to cradle Ellie right now, to let her know that I’m here, to reassure her that even though I’m no longer capable of changing the sheets and taking her back to bed I’m still looking out for her, still loving her, still hopeful that there may be some way I can protect her. I can’t imagine there can be any greater torture
in the world – in this world or any other – than to know that your child’s in distress and to be powerless to do anything about it.

‘I know, angel. I miss Mummy too. She loved you so, so much, and she’d never, ever have left you if she’d had a choice. You know that, don’t you?’

Ellie shrugs her shoulders and it’s the most painful gesture I think I’ve ever witnessed. She has to know, surely, how much I loved her, how much I love her still? Max has to make her see, he has to make her know, deep and indelibly in her heart, that I never, ever wanted to leave her.

‘Look how happy the two of you are in that photo. We had some lovely times with Mummy, didn’t we? We need to try and remember those and that way we can hold on to Mummy in our minds, all the time, every day.’

Ellie remains silent. She doesn’t want memories. She wants a real, live mummy, who plays with her and laughs with her and takes her to school and does her homework with her and celebrates her achievements and encourages her endeavours and who tucks her back in bed at night after she’s soiled the sheets.

She wants a mummy like all her friends have. Like all children deserve.

‘Can I tell you a story?’

Ellie sighs at Max’s question and it’s a sound full of the resignation of someone with far greater weight on their shoulders than anyone of her age should ever have to bear.

‘As soon as Mummy knew that you were in her tummy, which was a whole eight months before you were born, do you know what she did?’

Ellie looks up at Max, inquisitive now, and shakes her head.

‘She started talking to you. She’d chatter away to you all the time, telling you all sorts of things about the world that you couldn’t yet see for yourself. She’d talk to you about what she was doing that day and where she was going and what she could see and hear and smell. She’d describe what she was eating so that when it reached you, through the special cord in her tummy that used to feed you, you’d know what you were tasting. She told you about everyone in our family, about Granny and Grandpa, about Nanna, about Uncle Connor, about Harriet, because she wanted to be sure that when you finally came out to join us in the world, you knew about all the people who already loved you.’

Ellie looks thoughtful.

‘Could I hear Mummy, when I was in her tummy?’

‘Maybe not right at the beginning, although that didn’t stop Mummy chatting away to you. But near the end, when you were getting big, we were sure you could hear her then. She’d sing you songs – so many different songs – and sometimes when she did, Mummy would feel you moving around in her tummy. And do you know what? After you were born she kept singing the same songs to you and often they’d stop you crying and Mummy was convinced it was because you remembered them from when you were still inside her.’

Ellie unselfconsciously puts a hand on her own tummy, as if imagining what it must be like to have another person in there.

Ellie, my gorgeous girl, it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world and it’s one I hope – I’m sure – you’ll know for yourself one day.

‘But why did Mummy talk to me if she wasn’t even sure I could hear her?’

‘That’s a good question, munchkin. I asked her that myself once, right at the beginning when she started doing it. And do you know what she said? She said that whether or not you could hear what she was saying, she felt sure that you’d know she was talking to you and she wanted you to know, right from the moment you came into being, how much she loved you.’

Ellie snuggles her head tighter under Max’s arm and I detect the faintest tremor of her bottom lip. Max looks down at her face and I can see he’s noticed it too.

‘Do you know what else? Sometimes she’d even talk to you on the bus, and she said people would give her very funny looks, like maybe she was a bit crazy, because they couldn’t understand who she was talking to.’

Ellie giggles, skilfully brought back from the edge of an emotional precipice.

‘What about when I was born, Daddy? What happened then?’

‘Well, sweetheart, I know Mummy told you this story lots of times, but given that it’s my favourite story in the whole world I’m very happy to repeat it as often as you like.’

Ellie smiles at him, comforted by the promise of a familiar narrative.

‘The day you were born was the sunniest, brightest March day we’d had so far that year. It was a Friday
morning and I was just about to leave the house to go to work when Mummy called me from upstairs in the bedroom and I knew straight away that something important was happening.’

‘How did you know?’

‘I could tell by Mummy’s voice. She sounded excited and breathless and a little bit scared all at the same time. So I rushed upstairs and Mummy told me that she thought you were ready to come out and that we had to get to the hospital.’

‘And did you go in an ambulance?’

Ellie never fails to ask the same question, however many times she hears the story. I think she’s hoping that one day the details will change to comply with the image she has – drawn from TV and films and books – of how people are supposed to travel to hospital. I know it’s always disappointed her that her journey into the world didn’t include flashing blue lights, noisy sirens and an army of paramedics in dark green uniforms working dramatically around us.

‘No, it wasn’t an emergency so we didn’t need an ambulance. I drove us there. When we arrived, we were put in a room and visited by lots of doctors and special nurses called midwives. And although all the signs were in place that you were ready to come out, like Mummy having strong tummy pains, you were a little bit stubborn even then, munchkin, and you didn’t really want to make an appearance just yet.’