The Dead Wife's Handbook (6 page)

When Max and I were first dating I was surprised and, occasionally, irked by just how often his mobile phone would ring only to reveal his mum’s name flashing up yet again. I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t allow her boys to be men, to fly the nest without wanting to ride on their wings, to acknowledge that she was feeding her own desire for closeness, not theirs.

But I didn’t have Ellie then.

Because then Ellie arrived to turn our own lives upside down and I realized that I’d known nothing about motherhood until that moment, nothing of that deep, primal, inarticulable drive to safeguard your child and ensure their happiness. And I’ll never know now what kind of parent I’d have been to Ellie in her twenties, thirties, forties, whether I’d have encouraged her independence as Max and I always vowed we would, or whether I’d have given in to those urges towards protectiveness too.

But our return to Max’s old stomping ground swiftly transpired to be the best move we could possibly have made given that Ellie’s birth brought with it the realization that there’s simply no overestimating the importance of a family network for first-time parents. We relied on Joan and Ralph more than I’d ever imagined. And then I died and their presence three streets away gained a value that none of us could ever have predicted.

Because here they are, in my sitting room as they’re so often to be found, on a day when Max and Ellie need them most.

Ralph moves from the sofa to the armchair, an action which may be motivated by the fact that it’s the seat closest to the television or it may be because it’s the chair furthest away from where Joan is grilling Max about his current state of emotional well-being.

‘So, love, how was it today? Did Ellie cope all right? She seemed fine this evening, all things considered.’

‘I don’t know, Mum. We ended up having quite a tough conversation. Ellie was asking about whether Rachel was ever coming home so I explained everything to her again. But if I’m honest I felt like a bit of a fraud. Even I still fantasize about Rachel coming back one day so I don’t know how I’m supposed to convince Ellie she’s not.’

‘I’m sure you did just the right thing. You mustn’t be too hard on yourself.’

‘But that’s just it. I feel like I never know whether I’m doing the right thing any more. I’ve no idea if going to the cemetery was a good idea, whether it’s right to keep reminding Ellie or whether it just emphasizes the fact that Rachel’s not here any more.’

‘Of course it’s right, Max. It’s about honouring Rachel’s life, and that’s exactly what you did today. I’m sure Ellie will be grateful for it in years to come. How long did you stay?’

‘About an hour in the end. I got Ellie to tell Rachel about what she’d been up to at school. I just felt like she needed something … I don’t know … active to do. But I think it might have confused her even more, the idea of talking to someone who’s not really there, who can’t talk back. She did it though. You should have seen her, Mum. She was so sweet, holding on to my hand, chatting away. She really is amazing.’

‘She’s a treasure, Max. And you’re doing wonders with her. I know you don’t like me telling you, but I’m ever so proud of you.’

Max’s humble gratitude is conveyed with one of his goosebump-inducing smiles and I’m transported back in an instant to the very first time I saw that smile, grinning at me across the table at a friend’s wedding, one of those tables tucked away in the far corner of the marquee reserved exclusively for singletons who come without even the hint of a plus-one to accompany them. Max had caught my eye pretty early on, that smile drawing my attention towards him despite the littering of flowers, glassware and rapidly depleting wine bottles between us, the two of us exchanging the kind of silent, visual communications usually reserved for husbands, wives or – at the very least – lovers, an unspoken flirtation all the more exciting for its surreptitiousness. Max had been the life and soul of that table of strangers, delivering wry observations on the day’s events, cracking jokes and creating an atmosphere of inclusion to an occasion that can so often leave one feeling like nothing more than an extra on a film set.

It was only later, when we knew one another infinitely better, that I learnt how out of character it had been for him, how Max would never willingly place himself centre stage at a social gathering, how he’d done it purely in the hope of attracting my attention.

I think I’d fallen a little bit in love with him there and then.

‘It’s just a suggestion, love, but have you thought about taking up a hobby, something to get you out of the house
a bit? Why don’t you do some photography again? You used to be so good at taking photos.’

It’s true. Max is a brilliant photographer. He never used to go anywhere without his trusted Canon. He must have taken thousands – literally thousands – of photographs of Ellie and me over the years. I haven’t seen him pick up his camera once since I died, not even to take a picture of Ellie.

‘I don’t think so, Mum.’

‘Why not? Think of all those lovely pictures you took of Rachel. Some of those are good enough to be professional.’

‘Because they’re pointless, Mum. They’re pointless, pathetic lies.’

‘What do you mean? Don’t be silly. They’re lovely memories, those photos.’

‘But they’re not going to bring her back, are they? If you want the truth, I can’t stand to look at them these days. It’s as though the more I look at photos, the less I can remember Rachel as a real person. I hate them for reducing her to nothing more than a hollow image on a piece of paper. I’d burn the lot of them if it weren’t for Ellie.’

There’s a ferocity in Max’s voice that I suspect has shocked Joan as much as me. I wish I could be real for him once more, to stroke his warm naked skin, skin that never seemed to chill even on the coldest day, and to kiss the lids of his eyes which he once said was like me kissing directly into his soul.

‘I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just thought it might be … I don’t know … therapeutic for you to do something you were so good at, something to
take your mind off things. I just worry about you, you know I do, and I think it would do you good if you got out and about a bit more. Maybe you could see some of your old friends? You haven’t had an evening out for ages.’

Twice in one day. There are provocations that not even Max’s legendary calm can withstand.

‘Really, Mum? You really want to have this conversation, today of all days? What is it with you and Harriet? I’ve had her on my case all lunchtime haranguing me with unsolicited advice about moving on. I promise you, both of you, when I’m ready to start doing whatever it is you think I should be doing a year after the death of my wife, you’ll be the first to know.’

Joan looks taken aback. I’m not surprised. I don’t remember him ever raising his voice to her before. She’s touched a nerve rawer than any of us knew it to be.

‘There’s no need to jump down my throat, Max. I’m only trying to help.’

A wave of guilt washes over Max’s face.

‘I know, Mum. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have got angry. I suppose I’ve just had my fill of uninvited suggestions today, what with Harriet and now you.’

A look of irresistible curiosity peeks above the parapet in Joan’s eyes.

‘So what’s Harriet been saying now? Don’t tell me – she’s been meddling in things that don’t concern her yet again.’

This is a conversational opportunity I wouldn’t expect Joan to relinquish lightly. I’ve never quite understood the mutual enmity between my best friend and my mother-in-law, whether it emanates from a simple generational
misunderstanding or a deeper disapproval of each other’s life choices: the conventionality that’s so unpalatable to Harriet, the childlessness that’s incomprehensible to Joan. There’ve been many a family get-together when Joan’s comments have veered just an inch too far over the line of social acceptability, or when Harriet’s barbed retorts have threatened to shatter the veneer of collective harmony, forcing Max or I to intervene. I wonder whether their paths cross at all these days.

‘Believe it or not, she was saying exactly what you just said: that it’s time I started thinking about moving on, that I need to get out more, that I need to find new friends. She seems to think I should join a website where I can meet new people – a dating website, basically. It’s okay – I’ve made it crystal clear to her that she’s barking up the wrong tree.’

Joan looks thoughtful for a second before patting a maternal hand on Max’s knee.

‘Max, I know Harriet can be a bit tactless, but I don’t think her suggestion’s complete nonsense. I mean, would it do you any harm to meet some new people and have a bit of fun?’

I’m not sure what’s more shocking: Joan actually agreeing with Harriet or my former mother-in-law advocating that my husband join a dating agency on the first anniversary of my unexpected departure from their lives.

‘Are you being serious?’

‘Well, why not? It’s not good for you, cooped up at home every weekend.’

‘I’m not cooped up. Ellie and I get out and about plenty at weekends.’

‘I don’t mean with Ellie. I mean by yourself, with other adults. You’re still a young man, you know. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.’

‘Honestly, I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I can’t believe anyone’s suggesting I so much as contemplate dating again, least of all Harriet and least of all you. I’ll say to you what I said to Harriet: I’m not ready and I think it’s much too early – for me, for Ellie and for Rachel.’

Joan raises a defensive eyebrow.

‘Well, since you’ve brought her up, do you think it’s best for Ellie, you shutting yourself away like this? I worry about her, really I do, Max. It’s hard enough that the poor little mite hasn’t got any siblings to share all this with. I think it would do her good if you had some friends over now and again.’

For the few seconds it takes Max to respond, I panic that he’s going to tell her, that he’s going to divulge the story I most want him to keep sacred. It’s our secret, one I don’t want him to share with anyone, ever. The fourteen months of trying and not succeeding, of deluding ourselves, month after month, that this would be the time. The plotting of dates and the obsessive observation of a sign, any sign, that this month we may not have let one another down. It was never the recurrent defeat that depressed us, it was the continued hope. Towards the end I’d spend hours on the internet, frustrated that no one could give me a simple remedy, berating myself that our decision to delay a second child, to allow Ellie time to savour us on her own, might now result in her never having siblings at all.

And so now there’s that guilt too, to add to the guilt about deserting Max and abandoning Ellie, the guilt that I’ve left Ellie not only without a mother but without a brother or sister with whom to share this burden. I’ve been an only child dealing with my own grief alongside the premature responsibility for a parent’s well-being and I wouldn’t have knowingly inflicted it on Ellie for anything.

‘Fine, Mum. If it’ll get you off my case, I’ll have a think about it.’

He’ll have a think about it? Surely he’s just saying that to placate her, to bring the conversation to an end, to minimize the opportunity for further disagreement? He can’t actually mean it. Can he?

‘Really, Max, will you? Because I think it would do you good. I wouldn’t be pushing you if I didn’t think so. Maybe Harriet’s right, maybe one of those online websites might be a good idea. I mean, it can’t hurt to meet some new people, can it?’

That depends. It depends on whether you’re the dead wife of the man everyone’s cajoling into dating other women under the auspices of him making some new friends. Then it might hurt a bit.

‘Honestly, Mum. I’m not going to pretend I’m ready yet but I will think about what you’ve said. For goodness sake, if you and Harriet are agreeing on something then there might actually be some truth in it.’

The shock destabilizes me with a vertiginous blow that leaves me desperate to hold on to something but in the full knowledge that there’s not a single tangible object within imaginable reach.

How can Max even begin to contemplate moving on in that way? How can he even suggest he might think about it? How can he not know that it’s much, much too soon?

His words course through me like an electrical charge, straight into the chest that used to house my faulty heart. I never imagined that the dead could feel pain, physical or emotional. I feel like I never knew anything until now.

I close my eyes tightly, willing myself away, and for once the worlds cooperate.

For the first time in a year, I understand the full horror of dying. It’s not just the guilt and the abandonment and the loss. It’s the realization that I’m on my own. That my loneliness isn’t imagined or exaggerated but is fuelled by the absence of the glue that secures each and every human bond: the bond of empathy. And it’s the knowledge – the shocking knowledge that’s only just hitting me now – that my life, love and relationships won’t be preserved in aspic just because I’m not there any more.

It turns out that the only thing more unexpected than dying prematurely is the unpredictability of the life you leave behind.