I wanted to vomit. Sure enough he had booked a flight to Perth for Poppy’s 9th birthday. He assumed he’d be coming to stay with us—but he’d have to still be insane if he thought that was happening. I told Ben I’d call him tomorrow for all the details. Translation: when Poppy was out of earshot.
The following day I called Ben bright and early, and my eyes felt like sandpaper from a completely sleepless night. I hated being stern with him, but I told him that under no circumstances was he to stay with us, that he would need to find a backpacker’s or some other option. He was hurt and surprised, but reluctantly agreed.
About three weeks before Poppy’s birthday Ben called late in the afternoon. I was juggling preparations for a complicated dinner party and was resting the cordless phone precariously on my shoulder.
‘Annika,’ he said, ‘they took all my money.’
‘Who did?’
‘The Casino! I gave them six hundred dollars in cash, then they gave me some chips to play with, and by the end of the night they had all their chips back, but they won’t return my money.’
What do you say to that?
‘I’m sorry to hear that Ben. You win some, you lose some. That’s life.’
‘But that was my money to come and see Poppy with,’ he said.
‘Look, Ben, I am up to my eyeballs in cooking at the moment, can I call you later and we can discuss our options?’
There was the longest silence on the other end. ‘Sure. Goodbye, I love you.’
I felt an ominous feeling come upon me, like the world had suddenly stopped and I was the only one moving. I shook it off and got on with my dinner party.
As usual, Poppy tried to call her dad the moment she walked in the door to no avail. My mind was reeling, I knew something was wrong.
I tried to call Ben all the next day, but there was still no answer. Then the next day, even in the middle of the night knowing he’d be home sleeping. But they all went unanswered. By the second week of being unable to reach him, I started to call the police and the hospitals.
By the third week I called the morgue. They had no record of Ben, but somehow I knew he was there.
I described him and explained his history of mental health issues. ‘Please find him for me?’
The following day two police officers arrived at my door. I know what I should have felt—sad, lost, grief stricken—but all I felt was relief. The officers soon told me what part of me already expected to hear. Ben had taken his own life.
It wasn’t a surprise that when I later went to clean out his flat I found a suicide note he had left for me. When Ben had called me he had come to a realisation. He was incurably insane. He couldn’t live like that, but more importantly he couldn’t burden us.
I didn’t cry. For me my Ben had died when Poppy was two, not when she was nearly nine. I had had seven years accepting that I would never see that school boy again, the champion swimmer, the professional pilot, the handsome, sexy smooth talker, great dancer, chef and the life of every party. He was long dead. Ben couldn’t live in the shadow of that man.
I was brought back to the moment with the dreadful reality. I would have to tell Poppy that her dad was dead—again.
Without thinking I looked at one of the police officers and said, ‘How do I tell my daughter?’
I knew they couldn’t answer that question. There was nothing the police could do for me so I showed them to the door.
Poppy would be home soon, but I didn’t want to delay the inevitable, so I called her nanny and explained the situation and asked her to bring Poppy home.
The nanny was already in tears when I opened the door to greet Poppy, so I’m sure my daughter knew something was up.
‘Poppy, come sit down, darling. I have some bad news.’
She came to sit beside me.
‘One of our loved ones has died,’ I said.
Before I could go on, she started firing names at me. ‘Nonnie?’
‘No, sweetheart, Nonnie’s fine.’
‘Uncle Dieter?’ I knew this could go on all night, so I swiftly brought her questioning to an end. ‘It’s your dad, sweetheart. He committed suicide.’
‘But he was all better now, he was cured, he was going to be a rock star and take me on tour and we were already writing songs together!’
What do I say to an ever optimistic, father loving, nine year old who has now lost her father twice?
‘Babe, I know you are hurting, I know, and more importantly he knew you loved him, but he made his choice and now we have to live with it. He was just tired of being sick. He couldn’t live with it anymore.’
42
Cable Tie Man