The Dead Wife's Handbook (48 page)

I remember the day Harriet and I graduated, the high heels and lipstick we wore to customize those drab gowns, and the pride on my mum’s face when the head of department congratulated me on my First as we drank Pimm’s on the lawn outside college, the sun beaming as if to welcome us to our adult lives. I remember my first day at work, the anxiety I woke to that morning that I might not be up to the job and the quiet confidence by the time I went to bed that it was going to be okay, that it might even be more than okay, that I might actually have found my niche. I remember the campaign I’d been working on in the months before I died, the campaign that had been the hardest I’d worked on any project since university and which I’d known, long before it was celebrated with an award Max collected in my absence, was the best work I’d ever done.

I remember the Saturday morning Max and I first visited our house, me four months pregnant and still the victim of day-long nausea, us both knowing immediately that this was the home in which we wanted to raise our child, with its butler sink in the kitchen and low autumn sun peeking through the south-facing patio doors and a fire burning with welcoming warmth in the sitting room’s wrought iron grate. I remember the first night we brought Ellie home, and laid her in the middle of our bed between us, marvelling at the miracle of having created something so undeniably perfect. I remember that morning in Aguas Calientes two years earlier, waking up with Max in the dark on the double mattress of our cheap hostel room,
joining our guide and his other foreign wards for the dawn ascent to Machu Picchu, arriving at the top in time to watch the sun rise over the ancient monuments and Max asking me if I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.

I remember them all and they’re all indubitably mine. They’re no longer distant memories, no longer scenes from a life that I have neither the ability nor the courage to watch without an accompanying soundtrack of bitterness, regret and loss. Instead they play out now to a light euphoria at the recognition of a life well lived. Like long-lost relatives returned from lengthy travels overseas, their reappearance is the catalyst for an appreciation of how much they’ve been missed.

They’re memories that have finally found their way back to me, to embrace me, console me, and provide me with the greatest comfort I’ve known since I died. Perhaps only by accepting that the present is no longer mine to live am I able, finally, to engage with the past.

It suddenly occurs to me that maybe my being here today isn’t a simple coincidence. Perhaps the reason I’ve been absent from so many family events, from the anniversaries and the birthdays and the annual festivities, isn’t due to my exclusion by an external force beyond my comprehension or control. Perhaps I simply wasn’t ready. Perhaps it would have been too painful. Perhaps only now am I able to watch these domestic milestones as an observer rather than a participant without feeling that my world – whatever that is – is falling apart.

Perhaps the only person who’s been controlling my access all along is, in fact, me.

Ellie pulls her final present from the sack. It’s a large, oblong-shaped gift wrapped in the prettiest paper, glittering gold stars on a silver backdrop that I’m guessing was Eve’s discovery.

‘Before you open this one, munchkin, we wanted you to know that it’s from Eve and me. We asked Father Christmas if he minded us giving you your big present this year, so we left it out for him to put in your sack with all the others.’

Ellie returns her gaze to the present, handling it now even more carefully than before. She painstakingly peels off the three pieces of tape that form the last remaining obstacle between her and what’s inside and pulls the gift from its wrapping.

It’s a large jewellery box in polished mahogany, the wood gleaming with restorative pleasure. As Ellie lifts the lid, a drawer underneath opens automatically, revealing a labyrinth of individual compartments inside, each dressed decadently in deep red velvet. It really is a beautiful object.

‘Your dad and I felt that now you’re the custodian of all your mummy’s jewellery, it was time you had a proper, grown-up jewellery box of your own to keep it all safe in.’

Ellie beams at her, as if understanding in an instant that this is a rite of passage, a moment of graduation in which she’s been invited to join the world of adult responsibilities.

‘Thank you so much. I love it. And I promise to take really good care of it, and of all Mummy’s things.’

She flings her arms around Eve’s neck and the hierarchy of appreciation is, I’m sure, completely justified. It’s
the most generous and poignant of gestures and one for which I’m sure both Ellie and I have Eve to thank. An act of generosity for which there’s but a single way for me to reciprocate, I know.

‘And that’s not all, angel. There’s one more surprise for you. Hold on there just a few seconds and I’ll bring it up.’

Max disappears and Ellie looks up at Eve expectantly, who’s unable to suppress the broad grin on her face. I think she’s almost more excited than Ellie.

As Max opens the door, Ellie squeals with delight before I manage to catch a glimpse.

‘A puppy! You got me a puppy? Oh my goodness, he’s adorable.’

The chocolate-brown labrador springs out of Max’s grasp and on to the bed where it’s met by the over-excited arms of one very happy eight-year-old girl.

‘Well, actually he’s a she. I take it you like her then?’

‘Like her? I love her! I love her so much already. Is she really all mine? I’m going to take such good care of her, you’ll see. Thank you so so much. But you’ve been saying for ages that I’m not allowed a puppy. How come you changed your mind?’

‘Well, you have Eve to thank for that. Turns out she’s almost as mad keen on dogs as you are.’

Eve takes the puppy into her arms and holds her still so that Ellie can stroke her nose.

‘I always wanted a puppy when I was younger and my mum and dad would never let me have one. So I knew just how you felt. And both your dad and I think you’ve been so grown-up lately that you’re ready to look after her. You are, aren’t you?’

‘Of course I am. But, Dad, you said it wouldn’t be fair to have a dog because we can’t walk it during the day. Are you going to take her to school with you?’

Max laughs as he joins them on the bed.

‘No, of course I’m not. Grandpa has very kindly said that he’ll come and walk her every day while we’re all at school. Although that still means we’ll need to walk her before and after. Do you think you can do that with us?’

‘I promise I’ll do it every single day. And Grandpa can bring her to school when he comes to pick me up. All my friends are going to be so jealous. What do you think we should call her?’

‘Well, I think that should be your decision, sweetheart, don’t you? What name do you think might suit her?’

Ellie studies the puppy’s face intently as if trying to read the name hidden in her warm, cocoa-coloured eyes.

‘Dad, what was the name of that goddess we saw in that museum in Greece? The one who was really cool and really good at loads of different things and I told you at the end of the holiday that she was my favourite?’

‘You mean Athena?’

‘Athena. Yes. That’s what I think we should call her. Because this puppy’s going to be good at loads of things too and I’m going to teach her loads of tricks and she’ll be the cleverest dog in London. We could call her Thena for short, like when we’re chasing her in the park. What do you think?’

Max and Eve exchange smiles of quiet pride over the top of Ellie’s head in a single, silent, affectionate communication.

‘That, munchkin, is just about the best name I’ve ever heard for a dog. Athena it is.’

Ellie thanks Max with a smattering of kisses all over his face before turning her attention back to the most prized possession of the morning. As I watch the three of them romping on the bed with this newest addition to their clan, I finally understand that I’ve been deluding myself about this trio. They’re not the make-shift community I’ve sometimes believed them to be. This is a family, a happy family, a family I’m no longer a part of. But it’s also a different family to the one I knew and loved. And knowing that, seeing it with my own eyes, makes my exclusion from it bearable in a way I never imagined possible.

They were right before, Eve and Max: you can only ever have one mum and you can only ever have one first great love. And those are two achievements that even my untimely death can’t take away from me.

As I watch this newly formed family unit collectively review Ellie’s presents, I think forward to how the rest of their day will unfold.

I know that later on this morning, Max, Eve and Ellie will walk the ten-minute journey to Joan and Ralph’s where Ellie’s grandparents and uncle will shower her with yet more presents, such is the prerogative of an only child. I know that at lunch Ralph will sit Ellie to his left and Eve to his right, with Joan opposite him, and joke about how lucky he is to be surrounded by three such beautiful women. I know that Joan will light the Christmas pudding with only a drizzle of brandy, producing just the faintest flicker of a flame, and that Connor will insist they light it
again, dousing it in so much alcohol that Joan will reprimand him as if still a child. I know that the grown-ups will play party games well into the early hours while Ellie will fall asleep from the excitement of it all, and that later Max will wrap her in a blanket to carry her the short distance back home. And I know that it’s Eve who now has the leading role to play in this familial narrative, not me.

After all these months of worrying about my access – about when it might next be granted and when it might suddenly be denied – I begin to wonder just how valuable it is to me now. I used to feel compelled to watch the world below me, preoccupied during my temporary absences by speculations about what I might be missing. It was unbearable to me, once upon a time, the thought that one day my access might disappear permanently, never to return. But now I wonder whether I wouldn’t be happier to be left alone with my memories, the restored recollections in glorious, emotive technicolour that have returned just in time to reassure me that my life wasn’t, after all, meaningless.

It’s funny really, when you think about it, all the lessons I’ve learnt about life by virtue of being dead.

I’ve learnt that work isn’t about job titles or social status, it’s not about precocious success or external approbation, nor about the acquisition of fame or money or power. Because unless we’re the one-in-a-hundred-million who achieves something so exceptional that we may be remembered for generations – the composer or the playwright, the statesman or the politician, the inventor or the destroyer – it’s about the quotidian pleasures we take in the work that we do, the value with which we
imbue it and the satisfaction that we allow ourselves to take from it, day after day.

I’ve learnt that love isn’t about our place at the centre of it, but about finding the generosity to allow those we care about to discover happiness wherever they so choose, with whomever they so desire, even if – for whatever reason – that isn’t with us.

I’ve learnt that life’s endeavours include the ability to die gracefully, graciously and with gratitude for the life that we lived, however long it lasted.

I’ve learnt that death is no impediment to love and that one of our greatest accomplishments is to be remembered well by those with whom we shared our days.

I’ve learnt that to be replaced doesn’t mean to be forgotten and that even though life may go on without us, we each leave behind a legacy to influence generations to come, however seemingly quiet and inconsequential our lives may have been.

I’ve learnt, ultimately, that what’s important is not what you know nor even who you know, not what you achieve nor even how successfully you achieve it, not the magnitude of recognition nor even by how many you’re remembered. It’s the quality of the imprint each of us leaves behind on those we have loved and who loved us in return.

Because I’ve learnt that the ripples of influence we each bequeath extend beyond the imaginable to people and places and times we cannot yet comprehend. All we can do is trust that those we encounter on our journey through life – the parents and children, the partners and siblings, the friends and colleagues – will transmit little
pieces of us, from the snippets we taught and the things we said to the smallest inventions of our own making, through the generations, keeping the flame of our memory alive long after our bodies have died. And that this, after all, is life’s great immortality project.

When I look back now on my thirty-six years of life what I see is not a catalogue of regrets but a succession of relationships that are each in possession of their own unique legacy.

I see a successful marriage to a loving husband, a marriage which made us both profoundly happy, a marriage in which each of us learnt from the other and from which Max’s discoveries will undoubtedly contribute to this next big love of his life.

I see the beautiful, well-adjusted daughter I brought into the world, the child I taught to walk and to talk, to love and to learn, to play the piano and make roast potatoes and who, with a little help from her dad and her grandparents and the woman whom I strongly suspect will one day be her stepmother, will hopefully take a little part of our relationship with her wherever she goes in the future.

I see the mother whose grief I helped to bear, whose pride I was able to earn and for whom I provided the greatest gift of all in Ellie.

I see a best friend who allowed me into the core of her emotional world, with whom I shared some of life’s greatest secrets and who has taken from my death her own desire to create life.

And now there’s another woman, too, someone I never encountered when I was alive, someone who’s getting to
know me from beyond the grave and who seems to embrace the ripples of influence I’ve left cascading through the family she’s inherited.

It doesn’t sound too bad an existence when I put it like that. It’s ironic, I know, that it’s only in death that I’ve learnt how to live.