‘No.’ Her voice a little firmer now, and he got the message.
‘Do you want me to open the window, Gemma?’ The room was, he felt, a little stuffy, the air stagnant, less than fragrant, as particles of misery gathered in the corners and settled on the windowsill and the top of the white IKEA chest of drawers that sat by the door.
‘Please, Mikey, just…’
She shifted in the bed, like a sea creature breaching the surface, taking air, and disappearing again beneath the duvet, the arc of her waning hip the only recognisable outline.
‘Okay,’ he took a step into the hallway, ‘but if you need anything. I’ll keep my phone on all day…’ he let this trail and pulled the door almost closed, wanting not to miss it if she calledout, and wanting her to hear the sound of life, the chatter on the TV, the click and whistle of the kettle. Him, running taps, flushing the loo. He figured it was important, a reminder that life went on.
Whether you wanted it to or not.
Turning on the narrow strip of landing, he trod the stairs slowly, trying not to let his eyes stray to the box room that had become the spare room when they’d saved enough money to put a bed in it, then Aaron’s room when he’d arrived. One day, he guessed, it might return to a spare room, but not yet, no time soon.
Just the thought of tidying away his things, more than he could stand.
Friday morning, and the atmosphere in their two-up two-down in Thornton, Liverpool, was fraught. It was the anniversary. One year. It seemed to have passed quickly now it arrived, yet also could have been a decade or more if you looked at how Mikey’s face had aged, etched by grief and a lack of restorative sleep, Gemma’s too, not that he’d be cruel enough to ever mention it.
He would say they’d rallied a little this summer. Some days were even pleasant. Not happy, but bearable. His sister, Pat, and the kids had come over for a barbecue one time and Gemma’s brother, Ian, and his wife popped in on the way back from town. They’d drank a beer or two in the garden, Gemma put crisps in bowls and rummaged in the freezer for ice cream. It was easier to forget somehow when they were in company. Not entirely, never that, but having a conversation, hearing news, sharing a laugh, reminiscing, it all helped dilute the sticky syrup of loss that ran sluggishly through their veins. Helped them paint on a mask, to present like they were coping.
When it happened. Mikey thought he’d never laugh or feel steady again, expecting to fall flat on his face every time he tooka step. He thought Gemma would never stop sobbing, thought they were finished because staring at a face that mirrored your own, tear for tear, horror for horror, was almost more than either of them could stand. They found themselves plunged into an icy pool of grief with such speed and ferocity they didn’t have time to take a breath before it was over their heads. In that icy pool they bobbed, cold and adrift in the darkness, searching for something to cling to, their cries of help echoing into the abyss.
They came close to going their separate ways. She might even have packed a bag, spoken about going to her mum’s, and honestly? He’d have let her, without the strength to lift a hand, raise an objection, or form a coherent counter argument. He couldn’t recall now why she had stayed, but was very glad she did.
He loved her. Gemma, his childhood sweetheart.
Aaron’s mum.
She was the only other person on the planet who felt the same way about Aaron, someone who not only shared so many vital memories of their son, but also the only other person on the planet who knew what he was going through.
It wasn’t solely the anniversary of his death that was a marker, a dip, but also Aaron’s birthday was approaching, a reminder that he was going to forever be twenty-four. His birthday just a week after they’d lost him. Christmas, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Mikey’s birthday, Gemma’s birthday, the day Pat’s daughter, Amy, got married, so many times when there was an Aaron shaped gap in a photograph, a chair without him sitting on it, his quip missing from the banter. God, he missed him! Missed him with a pain that was physical, like there was something sticking in his chest. A wound that he didn’t want to heal – not ever – as every minute of every day it reminded him of his boy.
He figured it was a price worth paying and would pay it gladly for a thousand lifetimes, just for the privilege of being Aaron’s dad for twenty-four years.
The lads at work had stopped mentioning Aaron. Life moved on, and he understood. It was both a sadness and a relief, as each mention of him, every well-intentioned enquiry raised the image of his son on that morning. His face almost grey. Lips blue. Eyes open. The weird tilt to his neck and the cool touch to his alabaster skin. Mikey knew he’d never get over it, not ever. It was the first thing he saw when he woke in the morning and the last thing he saw before he fell asleep.
Mikey was only thankful it was he who had found him and not Gemma, able to cover him up, warn her as best as he was able, while screaming in a high-pitched voice, that he didn’t know he possessed, for her to dial 999.
‘Now, Gem! Right now! Call the police! The, the ambulance! Do it now! Oh Jesus! Oh my God! My God!’
His panicked words carried urgency, but in his heart he knew there was little point in calling anyone.
Aaron had gone.
His lad, just twenty-four.
The coroner’s report confirmed a cocktail of pills, most likely ingested intentionally despite a lack of note. Not that it mattered what they wrote in their report, as Mikey knew it was his fault.
The first days and weeks were strangely both the hardest and the easiest. Locked in a tormented loop of retrospection, he found himself repeating in his head.This time last month we went to the pub for supper. This time two weeks ago he sat in the car with me, as I drove him to Georgia’s house. This time last week he called his Nan, she was so chuffed to chat.His thoughts tumbling and shifting as he tried to reconcile the fact that Aaron’s life, his presence, his routine, and his future had just stopped. But also, it was a time when there were the mostpeople around, a constant stream of loved ones bringing food, flowers, cards and warm, warm words of condolence to their door.
It was when that ebbed, and the drama faded, that Mikey felt as if he was being sucked into a black hole that had no beginning or end. A sorrow-filled tunnel in which he might tumble for eternity. He had been happy before the loss of his son, a happily married, family man. Content. All he had ever wanted.
For he and Gemma, their grief became a secret thing. They’d smile when in public and at night sit on the sofa in silence. Faces collapsed. Shoulders slumped, spines softened. Each staring at the wall. Lights off. The sounds of the street filtering through the window; calls, greetings, dog barks, music, even laughter, all of it as if Aaron had not gone and the world was just the same as it had been before. But it wasn’t. They were changed, wounded, hollow, and all the colours of the world had faded to grey.
On occasion they’d howl. A visceral call of distress as pain left their bodies in audial form.
This morning, Mikey had to focus. Sinking down into the soft leather sofa that he was paying off monthly, he ran his hand over his face and closed his eyes briefly. He was tired, so tired. Sleep had been evasive for the last couple of weeks. He toyed with the idea of calling in sick and crawling into bed next to Gemma, but it was his dad’s words that came to him now, ‘Those bills aren’t goin’ to pay themselves, kidda!’
It was true, and the push he needed to get on site and start digging.
