Well, what would MrsKnowles, his mother-in-law, say? He often wondered this himself and hoped that she’d thank him for keeping her family safe, for doing his very best for her daughter, for loving her without judgement or pressure, and for working his hardest to ensure his children would have choices he hadn’t.
Not that it was always easy, and this last week, with tiredness lapping at his heels, he was finding things tough. In the past, when the kids were small, no matter how hard his day, with the support of Lisa, the love of Lisa, thejoyof Lisa to come home to, it had made everything feel better. He missed it.
He closed the front door behind him quietly, not wanting to wake the kids. Jake who he knew would have been out with Cassian or on his computer until late, gaming no doubt. And Daisy who had worked her shift at the Italian restaurant in town. He loved her work ethic, knowing it would be the key to her success. He was so very proud of them both. Jake was kind with a whip-smart sense of humour that could defuse any situation. And what he lacked in confidence, he more than made up for in initiative. Not for the first time Marty closed his eyes and hoped that the grades his son needed to take up his apprenticeship would be forthcoming. Electrical engineering ... that was to be Jake’s calling and oh how proud he would be to tell whoever asked what his son was up to. For Marty it was simple: he could toil all day every day in that big old warehouse, with aching knees, a twinging back, and failing eyesight, sorting mail, pressing buttons, shifting blockages on the line, putting up with his moaning colleagues, moving canvas trolleys that bulged with all kinds of packages, ferrying them from one place to another, stopping for two breaks and one lunch, digitally clocking in and clocking out, counting the hours, calculating his bonus, doing overtime and putting in the grind because he saw himself as no more than a conduit that would allow his children to be whatever they wanted to be. Some might disapprove of his role in life as a sacrificial lamb, working hard and saving so his kids could benefit, but he saw it more as a privilege. The thought of their glorious future is what drove him.
And Daisy ... where to begin. Sweet, funny Daisy. He had known she was smart when not yet aged two she had picked upa book and turned the pages, making gobbledygook noises and pointing at the words, as if she knew it should be read, understood enough to turn the pages and scan the images, but was unaware of how to link it all together, to sound out the words. Not that it took her long and by the age of six she was reading Harry Potter, the weighty volumes that some adults shied away from. By eight she was studying maths for fun and asking questions at the dinner table that neither he nor his wife had any hope of answering to her satisfaction.
‘So how do we actually measure space?’ she’d asked with a speared piece of fishfinger on her fork, her little nose wrinkled, waiting and wanting someone to help her figure it all out. ‘I mean, how do we know how much space there is out there? Where does it start and where does it end? I can’t hold it in my head!’ She’d closed her eyes briefly as if even the thought was frustrating.
He and Lisa had looked at each other and laughed, not mockingly, but more that they were so full of joy at their daughter’s smarts, and equally just as flummoxed as how to best answer.
Her grades were matched only by her industry as year after year she pocketed science awards, certificates and prizes that each spoke of and confirmed her promise. She had her sights firmly set on Cambridge and he was determined to help her get there. For her to be given such talent, it would feel nothing short of negligent for him not to do everything in his power to turn that promise into a life she would love. And while he may not, on his rather crappy wage, have been able to provide new shoes, fancy holidays and designer brands, he figured his dedication to her life goals was the best gift of all.
He had been deep in thought when Winnie next door had spied him, thinking about how it was time – time to get Lisa help whether she wanted it or not. He had made enquiries, had uncomfortable, covert, guilt-inducing conversations with helplines andtheir own GP, trying to understand what assistance was available and how much of it required his wife’s approval. The issue was, whilst he would always, always respect her autonomy, her very illness made her an unreliable decision-maker. It was a quandary.
Marty firmly believed, however, that to do nothing was not an option, not anymore. Things had deteriorated too far for that. They needed to find a way out of the dark forest that entombed them because if things didn’t change, he feared Lisa might not be the first to reach absolute breaking point. Unwilling to admit to the feelings of hopelessness that had made him on more than one occasion look at the whisky bottle in the wee small hours and wonder if there were any pills lurking in drawers that he could wash down with the warm liquor ... to slip away, to find peace. He could certainly, when the night was long and lonely, see the attraction in it. Any thought of his kids, however, was enough to snap him out of it, not that it had been any less scary for that.
It was as he mulled over the uncomfortable next steps that he stopped short in the doorway. It was a surprise and shock to see Lisa sitting at the kitchen table at this early hour; in fact, a surprise to see her sitting there at all. Hers was a horizontal life, spent wrapped in a blanket on the sagging sofa, or wrapped in a blanket on their sagging bed. It was a shock, too, that the blind was up and the window open, a fresh breeze whipping around the walls. This one small act was enough to lighten the stagnant air that usually filled his lungs with a lurking weight of anxiety.How were they going to get through the day? How was Lisa’s illness and distance going to affect their kids? Had he remembered to get milk? What time did his shift start?
‘Morning.’ He settled on this as his greeting, rejecting, ‘You’re up!’ and, ‘Well, hello stranger!’ because she might mistake them as something adversarial or goading and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her feelings or fight.
It was wonderful! His wife was up, dressed, awake and present – in every sense, present. The damp hair about her shoulders told him she’d showered and this he knew was real progress. There had been days and days that had gone by without her washing, lifting her head from the pillow or cleaning her teeth. The sour smell of her in the bedroom so strong that he preferred to sleep on the couch. He hoped she didn’t know this, hoped she never knew this, aware that for the woman he loved, personal hygiene was cruelly relegated in the face of her illness, and equally just how hurt she would be to hear it.
It had not always been this way, far from it. Only four years ago, she was the fuel that kept the engine of their lives turning, the one who knew stuff – like the Wi-Fi password, the due dates for insurance policies and dental appointments, what food lurked in the cupboards and exactly what everyone needed or wanted by way of a birthday or Christmas gift. She had been fun: the brightness on a gloomy day, the voice of enthusiasm for any task or suggestion. She had been wonderful! That was unfair, she was still wonderful, but was now wonderful with the veil of melancholy thrown over her. Despite his very best efforts and so many suggestions of how she might seek help, he felt powerless to assist her.
But here she was!
He felt optimism flare in his gut at the sight of her, reminding himself not to expect too much, that lucid moments, engaged conversations, even whole good days had come and gone before. But in a place where gloom and despondency had been unwanted houseguests, he’d take the small signs of hope and hold them fast.
‘Morning.’ Her voice was clearer than he’d heard for a while and again the joy he felt at this one simple thing, which most would take for granted, threw him with the strength of it.
‘You look great.’
‘I washed my hair.’ She held his eyeline as she tucked her long, beautiful hair behind her ears.
‘Ah, that’ll be it.’ He smiled and pulled up the chair opposite her at the table.
‘You’re not off to work today?’ she asked, her gaze narrowed, as if she’d forgotten it was Saturday or was thrown by the fact he was still in his clothes.
‘No, not today. But I fell asleep and then when I got up it felt easier to stay in these.’ He plucked at the polo shirt. ‘It’s the height of laziness, but also the comfiest thing imaginable when your clothes are soft from wear and you’re already warm and you can go outside to smoke without fear of being seen by Old Lady Kelleway lugging the bins out ...’
She laughed, a real laugh, a small laugh, but enough to put a great big chunk of sunshine into his mood. He knew she liked it when he called their neighbour this.
‘I hear ya!’ She tapped the tabletop, and it took all of his strength not to grab her pale hand, crush her fingers to his mouth with kisses, to howl his relief that for this moment at least, he felt whole and not cleaved apart by having to witness the shell of the woman he married, hidden beneath a blanket in all weathers.
‘The kids still asleep?’ He knew they were, but wanted to keep the conversation light, easy and untaxing.
‘I think so.’ She looked up towards the ceiling. ‘Did you hear about Daisy’s tip?’
‘No.’ He leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘What tip?’
‘At work last night it was Winnie and Bernie’s ruby wedding anniversary dinner. They had a big table and a big old supper.’
‘Of course they did!’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Biggest table in the house, the most wine drunk. I can only imagine.’
‘Well, save your judgement, because they gave Daisy a whopping tip.’
‘How much?’ He cut to the chase, thinking it must be around the fifty quid mark to have made such an impact on his wife.
