“I just … I just can’t imagine going through the rest of my life without him,” she cries. “I mean, how is any mother supposed to do that?”
Her shoulders convulse and I move around to sit beside her on the couch.
“Because you have no other choice,” I say, softly but assertively. “You have two other children who rely on you.”
She nods. “If it weren’t for them, I would have done something a long time ago.”
“That may be so, but you have to think about them now. They’re your priority—they’ve already lost their little brother. How will they ever recover from losing their mother as well? You’re their world.”
“But I just can’t … we can’t go on like we are. Nick and I can barely even look at each other. We don’t talk anymore. We certainly don’t laugh. How is that right? We’ve gone from being the perfect, happy family to just existing in two hollowed-out shells, shuffling through life as if we’re on autopilot. How is that fair on the children?”
“It isn’t,” I say. “But you’re all still together and that says a lot about your resilience and strength. Most couples would have buckled if they’d lost their child in such tragic circumstances. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”
“But what are we doing it for?” she asks, her tear-filled eyes looking at me imploringly. “What are we trying to prove? Do we want other people to look at us and say, ‘Ah, haven’t they done well?’ Is that more important to us than being stuck in an empty marriage? Does what other people think mean more than our own happiness?”
“Are you saying you’d be happier on your own?” I ask.
“But I wouldn’t be on my own, would I? I’d have my children with me and they’d be free of the toxic environment that my marriage has created.”
“Do you think the children are conscious of that?” I ask.
She gives a cynical laugh. “We don’t eat together. We don’t sleep together. We don’t do anything together. It’s either him and them or me and them. They’re not stupid. They can still remember when it was the five of us and all the fun and exciting things we used to do.”
Another tear escapes onto her cheek.
“My eldest was just asking the other day why we don’t go up to London anymore,” she cries. “He remembers us going up just after Christmas last year and spending the money his grandma had sent over.”
Anna flinches as a lightning bolt of pain crosses her face, but she quickly pulls herself together.
When she first came to see me a couple of months ago, she wasn’t even able to say Ben’s name, so frightened of the feelings it would evoke. But I’ve spent a long time gently coaxing her into talking about him. Convincing her that the best way to keep his memory alive is to think about him often and talk about him even more. It’s what she’s wanted to do ever since he died last year, but she seemingly hadn’t given herself permission to do it with anyone else, assuming that they too wouldn’t be able to cope with the emotions it would elicit in either themselves or her.
“Tell me about your trip to London,” I say gently.
She wipes her cheek. “It was that period between Christmas and New Year, and we took the children up to the pantomime. It was the first year all three of them were able to enjoy it; Ben was just two, so he was able to sit through a performance and I wanted to do it before the others thought it was too babyish.
“So we stayed overnight in a hotel and went to Hamleys, where they were enraptured by the entertainers on the street outside performing magic tricks and riding unicycles. They had twenty pounds each to spend, which doesn’t buy you very much in that store, but they rushed off in awe, exploring all the floors as if they were in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.”
Suddenly, her soft features become pinched as the flashback takes on a new direction.
“The older two were far too fast for Ben, so I went off with them while Nick stayed with Ben. By the time we came back together again, Ben had the sugary remnants of pink cotton candy stuck to his face and a gleaming red toy car clutched in his chubby little hand.”
I smile at the vivid image playing out in my head, but Anna’s face is still set hard.
“That was his one and only time trying cotton candy,” she says tightly. “And I wasn’t there to see it. And that red car was his pride and joy, right up until he died. He wouldn’t go to bed without it being on the pillow beside him. But Nick was the one who was with him when he chose it and Nick was the only one who got to give him cotton candy.”
“Do you resent him for being there at moments in Ben’s life when you weren’t?”
“It should have been me,” she cries. “I should have been there with him, sharing every single second with him, sharing his joy and excitement as he experienced new things…”
“Perhaps that’s how Nick feels too?” I chance. “Maybe he’s holding in his own bitterness at what he missed out on while Ben was with you. Could you not share those experiences? Open yourselves up and embrace the memories rather than tally up who was there at the time and use it against each other.”
“It’s too late for that now,” she says. “We’ve gone past that point. We’re slowly destroying each other. The only thing keeping me there is the children.”
I immediately think of the misery Jacob endured for fear that it would destroy his relationship with his children. But sometimes the damage caused by staying is far greater.
“It might not always be best for the children,” I moot. “To stay in a toxic relationship.”
“Where else would I go?” she asks, looking at me, wide-eyed.
“I can help you find a place to stay, somewhere you and the children will feel safe.”
“Like a hostel, you mean?”
I nod.
She looks at me skeptically. “I can’t go to one of those women’s refuges,” she says. “As much as I hate being with him, I’d rather stay than subject the children to one of those.”
“They’re not quite the same as they used to be,” I say in their defense. But my mind is already racing through what else I can offer her. If I had my way, I’d give her sanctuary here. We have two spare bedrooms in the house, one set up as a home office for Leon, and the other where I keep all of Mom’s stuff, having inadvertently turned it into a replica of the room I remember her having when I was a little girl.
There’s a cherrywood bedstead and matching wardrobe where I keep the blouses that Aunt Meryl managed to salvage from my mother’s closet, and her red-starred sneakers that I’d refused to leave the house without. And I’d found a vintage bedspread in a flea market in Ramsgate that reminded me of the floral quilt my sister and I used to sneak under whenever we wanted “cuddles with Mom.”
Just the thought of it hurts, the memory of my mother’s comfort and assurance still so close to the surface.
I cough, batting away the tug at the back of my throat, and pull myself back to Anna.
“But we’ve got other options,” I go on. “There’s always the possibility of you staying here for a couple of days—just until you sort yourself out.”
It’s out before I can stop it. Shit. I can already see the look on Leon’s face when I tell him. The look that says I’ve finally lost my mind.
“I can’t possibly expect you to get involved,” she says. “The last thing you need is me and my kids camping out on your doorstep.” She attempts a smile. “Especially when you’ve got children of your own, no doubt?”
“No, I haven’t actually,” I say, feeling like I always do when posed with this seemingly acceptable, yet searingly personal question. I should be able to leave it there, yet I feel expected to elaborate. “We’ve chosen not to have children.”
“Oh,” says Anna, in the same way that everyone else does when faced with this response. “Well, I’m sure your husband could do without us destroying your peace and quiet.”
I offer a tight smile. “He’d be delighted to help out in any way he could.”
“That’s very kind,” she says. “It certainly gives me something to think about.”