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‘Do you know what gaslighting is?’ she asks.
‘What? Oh, come on. I wasn’t gaslighting you.’
Her hand flies up in a stop sign. She still has her back to him; when she speaks, it is to the opposite wall.
‘Gaslighting is when you encourage the belief in something you know to be untrue, to the detriment of someone’s mental health.’
The effect of having only the back of her head to look at is disconcerting. He longs to tell her to turn round, to at least talk to him face to face, but he has, he knows, lost the right to object.
‘Like, say,’ she continues, still in this terrifying, simmering calm, ‘if you tell someone they didn’t post a letter when they know they did, or, to be literal, that the light is no dimmer than the day before even though you know you yourself turned down the flame and that the room is darker. Or, let me think… if you tell someone they left the front door open, a mistake that cost them the life of their daughter, when you know that actually they didn’t do that. When you know that actually it was you. You left the door open. That. That’s gaslighting.’
‘Ava, come on. That wasn’t my intention at all. I didn’t do it to control you or drive you mad. I did it to save us. There was no malice, none whatsoever. I thought if you knew it was me you’d leave and then I’d have lost you and Fred as well as Abi. Andyouwould lose our family too. There was too much at stake. We’d both already lost too much. Ava, I love you.’
She turns, finally, slowly, raises one knee onto the bed. This time she does look at him, she looks right at him, and he wishes she hadn’t. Her eyes are small and filled with scorn.
‘You might not havemeantto drive me to losing my mind. But the fact is, you did. You did, Matt, and you’ve stood by and watched. And the reason you didn’t tell me is much less complicated than you claim. You’re a coward. That’s the reason. I knew you were a coward before we were married, but I thought, with time, you’d get stronger. I thought my love would make you a braver man, but it didn’t. It hasn’t. You lied because you were too scared to admit to your responsibility. I know this is what you do, in life, but I never thought you’d do it to me. You’ve watched me drive myself into the ground with guilt, knowing that you could save me from that at least. You’ve watched me for ayear. You’ve lied to me for ayear, watched me come undone, watched me fight so hard to climb this fucking hill of sand without ever once holding out your hand to pull me up.’ She begins to cry. ‘Don’t you understand? We’re done. There is nothing left of us. I will never trust you again, about anything. And so… there’s nothing, nothing left.’
‘Don’t say that.’ His chest tightens with dread. This is not an argument. This is much, much bigger. He should have known it would be like this. Perhaps he did. ‘Please, Ava. I didn’t lie to you, not like that. We can work through this. Maybe I need help too. I can get help.’
‘That’s up to you. I’ve had help, Matt. A lot of help. I don’t go a day without using my shiny new CBT techniques to argue myself out of a crisis. I’m down to twenty milligrams a day. I’m doing ever so well.’ The sarcasm drips. She climbs onto the bed, shifts herself up against the headboard.
‘Ava—’
‘There is nothing to work through.’ She arranges a pillow behind her, sits back and folds her arms. ‘All the help I’ve had, did you not once think that you,you, could have helped more than anyone? I hate you, do you understand that? I hate you. At some point you have to stand up and take responsibility, be the man you promised yourself you’d be. And you didn’t. Neil has kept your shabby secret for you, but it was so grim, so difficult, he couldn’t even face me. Couldn’t look me in the eye. The moment he did, his compassion was too strong – hislovewas too strong – and hehadto tell me.’
She gives a brief laugh, full of disdain. ‘Didn’t lie to me? Are you serious?Oh darling, don’t blame yourself. We all make mistakes. We need to move on.Youneed to move on, Matt –youdo. It’s your fault. No wonder you’re so keen to bury her. Of course you lied! Of course you did! You’re capable of doing that to another human being, a human being you’re supposed to love, when Neil… Neil had one glimpse and couldn’t bear it and he’s not the one who’s supposed to love me more than anyone else, is he?’ A tear rolls down each of her cheeks. ‘He’s not supposed to love me more than you.’
Twenty-Five
Ava
Fred is moaning, a soft ack-ack. My eyes hurt, my head, my back. I reckon I have about a minute’s more rest. Babies know when you haven’t slept. They know like Darth Vader knows and they punish you.
His cries become more insistent. I haul myself out of bed and lift him from his crib. My limbs are heavy, my eyelids made of stone. I have a memory of birds singing but I can’t remember if this is from falling asleep or waking. But no matter how empty the tank, the sight of my son fills me with relief as it does every morning. I have come to associate love with relief. He is alive, thank God. Today he is alive and I can see him, hear him, hold him, smell him, feel his warmth. He has made it through the night. He is breathing. That’s what the relief – the love – is, even now.
Beside me, the bed is empty.
I remember.
My marriage is over. My now ex-husband is in the spare room.
I cradle Fred to me and weep into his soft hair. I have no idea what to do, what happens next. The only person I want to talk to, to confide in about this terrible thing, is Matt, but he’s not mine, not anymore.
I take Fred with me to the bathroom and hold him to me even while I pee. In the bathroom mirror, my face is a shock. My eyelids are swollen, pink and shiny as boils. I look like I did the morning after that day. No sleep. Hours of crying. This is what despair looks like: it is ugly. It doesn’t smell great. It retains water.
Downstairs, Fred over my shoulder, I make myself a strong cup of tea. My blood pressure is low, I can tell from the dizzy feeling, the stars that circled when I first stood up out of the bed. I didn’t eat more than a handful of crisps last night. Drank too much. I nibble a biscuit and feel the revival of sugar hitting blood. On the sofa in the living room, I sit and feed Fred. The front of our house faces east, so I like to feed him here and watch the sun come up: learning, or relearning, to extract joy from small things.
Is that what I will continue to do now? How does this work? How bad do things have to be before mindfulness is as much use, to coin one of my mother’s phrases, as a chocolate fireguard?
I wonder what Barbara will say to this fresh development, how she will guide me through the loss of my husband, my soulmate, my best friend, a year after my daughter.
Try to slow things down.Is that what she will say?Try to savour simple pleasures. Charge your batteries with moments of pleasure, no matter how small, as best you can. Think only about what’s happening now.Really, will that be enough?
After twenty minutes, Fred lolls back, milk-drunk, dopey. I lay him on his sheepskin on the floor and cross over to the record player. Neil returns to my mind. How can he not? His intensity. His tortured face. Our foreheads touching in the deserted street.His solidity. His compassion.
I flick through the vinyl records, aware of how surreal it feels to do this. This, this now, is something I already know: the human ability to go forward with the most mundane rituals, the making of tea in the midst of a bombed-out house.
The other day I returned to the piano for the first time. Easy pieces for my rusty fingers. The first movement of theMoonlight Sonata, Debussy’s ‘Clair de Lune’, the hooked-on classics everyone knows. It soothed me. I have to believe it will soothe me again. Today, on the day I wake up newly single, I am going to listen to a record. There is almost a sense of occasion, as if putting on the radio will not do. It’s a long time since I have actively listened to music. I gave that up along with the teaching, the evenings out, coffee with friends, eating for pleasure, happiness. What began as a postponement has become all I can’t face.
