Simon's Choice (17 page)

Melissa hadn't felt much in control recently. Sarah’s rapid decline had forced them to make decisions for which she hadn't been prepared. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

She’d planned to be ready, to have conditioned herself to a point when she was prepared to accept Sarah’s final days. But the prognosis had changed so quickly, the disease had taken hold again so unexpectedly, so viciously, that Melissa was left floundering, unable to cope with being flung back into the whirlwind of medical decisions, practical decisions, emotional decisions ….

Emotional decisions!
Hah!
Simon had taken that one from her. They hadn’t even planned how they were going to tell Sarah that she was going to die. She’d tried to, but nothing seemed good enough. It was never the right time. She tried speaking to Simon, but he just wouldn’t talk about it. She tried desperately to get him to talk, both to hear how he was feeling and to use him as a sounding board. She needed more than anything to open up and tell the only other person in the world who could completely understand how she felt. But he wouldn’t talk. He’d walk off, turn the telly up or rattle his newspaper in irritation. More recently, he’d slope off to the sitting room, bottle and tumbler in hand.

Then she had learned that he, that
Simon
, Simon who refused to discuss the situation, who blocked her
every
attempt to bring the subject up, had leaped in and told their daughter that she was dying. That changed everything. She had been trying to contain a dangerously simmering rage for a long time. His callous act brought it to a boil, so that it erupted over the surface of her usually staid demeanor.

Melissa came to the end of another length and noted with further exasperation that the pool was filling with slow swimmers. She climbed out, took her towel and made her way to the steam room. A blast of eucalyptus scented steam hit her as she opened the door and she settled into a corner of the room, pleased that she had it to herself.

Simon would hate the steam room, she thought, and then frowned, irritated with herself. She had told Simon she wanted a divorce. Now she had to stop this habit of thinking of him all the time.

Except she couldn’t help it. He had been the most important person in her life for so long. The old cliché that he was part of her felt entirely apt. Wherever she was, the supermarket, the library, a sodding steam room, her thoughts always settled onto what Simon would think, what Simon was doing, how Simon would react.

But he never, it would appear, thought of her. Oh sure, he used to. He used to bring little treats home for her, used to ring her during the day with funny little stories or just to see how she was. Many was the time he’d called her at the florists at 7 a.m. in the morning when she’d gone in early to prepare for a wedding, just to check that she was okay. Just to say hello.

But all that changed when Sarah got ill.

It wasn’t that Melissa didn’t understand. She of all people could comprehend the all-consuming terror that filled Simon’s every waking moment. The immeasurable stress caused by having to continue to live whilst their daughter’s life came to an end. But for Melissa, Sarah had not been the only person in her life. It was always Simon, Sarah, and her. They had been a team. A trio. She divided her love equally between her daughter and her husband.

The past few months had shown her something truly painful. He did not feel the same way as she did. He did not distribute his love between ‘his girls’ equally. It hurt terribly. She was angry.

She wondered if she should call him. The note had been childish. Overly dramatic. She couldn’t quite say why she had done it. Leaving it in the fridge was snide and silly. It's just that she wanted him to know how hurt she was. She wanted him to hurt too.

Clearly he hadn’t been hurt. She’d tried to call but there had been no answer. In the pub, no doubt. Just another aspect of Simon’s life which didn't include her. She’d tried to accompany him to their local, but her cut glass accent had stood out. She felt uncomfortable and alien amongst the regulars.

Melissa dabbed at her sweating nose with the towel, glad that there was nobody present to witness this melting of her normally perfect façade. The truth was, Melissa thought miserably, she had lost Simon a long time ago. Perhaps the moment Sarah was born. Because there was no doubt in Melissa’s mind, that the problem was Simon's. He simply didn’t have the room or capability to love both of them. And so he had chosen Sarah.

She took a deep breath, feeling the eucalyptus cleanse her lungs. Perhaps she should call Simon. See if he was alright. They could go for a Chinese – that one on the high street he liked and she didn’t. She imagined them sitting at the table, him ordering duck and her trying to remember the name of the chewy pork thing she liked. Just thinking about seeing him smile across the table at her felt right. Yes, perhaps she should call and make it up. She stood up and let herself out of the steam room, just as a pair of laughing women around her age came in. Giving them a strained smile, she made her way back to her locker, weaving past a number of naked elderly bottoms, pockmarked with cellulite.

Melissa took a warm dry towel from the pile by the door and peeled off her swimming suit, then stood frozen, suddenly filled with self-loathing. Was she jealous of her own child? She supposed she must be, a little. What a dreadful person that must make her. To be envious of a dying child. She felt nothing but love and protective instinct towards Sarah, but her husband’s heart lay with his daughter and not with her. She was jealous.

And she felt so alone. So alone. Here she was, attempting to deal with the worst thing that could ever happen, and her husband refused to talk to her. If he was there, he was drunk, or hung-over and monosyllabic. He wouldn’t talk about the future, wouldn’t acknowledge the present. Somehow she had to present a solid, responsible image to the world. Be a mother, be a grown up. She couldn’t care less that their friends didn’t talk to them anymore. She didn’t need them. She needed her husband. And she had lost him.

It was as if Simon had nothing left to say. It was as if, as his daughter died, a part of Simon died with her.

Melissa patted herself dry and hopped on one leg as she pulled Juicy Couture tracksuit bottoms on, wondering, not for the first time, why chlorinated water seemed stickier than normal water. Before the leukemia, Simon always took talcum powder when they went swimming, and Sarah loved to puff the clouds of talc onto her body, giggling as her father patted it down, soaking up the moisture and making dressing easier. Even then, she mused, she had been separate from them. Always on the outside looking in. The whispered jokes, the father-daughter trips to the park, the bedtime story that she particularly wanted her daddy to read. Never mummy. Always daddy.

And now, whilst pulling away from Melissa, whilst refusing to discuss how they would handle the hardest conversation that they would ever have in their life, he’d gone ahead and told Sarah she was dying. Not just that. He’d decided to tell her that he would ‘go with her to heaven’. My God. That had been a shock. Her parents had been disappointed in him, angry at his immaturity and lack of judgment, but they didn’t share the horror that Melissa felt. Because Melissa realized that Simon could do it. Why not? Because what else did Simon have if he didn’t have Sarah?

She slammed her locker door harder than she had meant to, drawing enquiring looks from the other members in their various states of undress. One woman, obese and completely naked, stood calmly in the centre of the locker room, filing her nails. How could people do that, wondered Melissa? How could they display themselves like that? Looking away from the woman, Melissa tied her damp hair back into a tight little bun and smudged a little clear gloss onto her lips.

“Go with her to heaven”. What the hell had he meant? Did he mean that he’d die with her? Or that he’d ensure they died together? Melissa frowned as she dabbed mascara onto her eyelashes. Surely he wouldn’t hurt her, but Melissa knew how much he loved his daughter. Enough to end her suffering? Melissa narrowed a newly painted eye.
Was Simon a risk to Sarah?

Melissa shrugged her swimming bag over her shoulder and pushed her way out of the locker room, dumping her towels in the laundry bin on her way out.
No. Not a Chinese. Maybe she should go over and find him at the pub … no.

She threw her bag onto the back seat of her Range Rover and slid into the driver's seat. Resting her head on the leather steering wheel, she shut her eyes, willing herself not to cry. Dinner with Simon was just a daydream, an indulgent fantasy of what could never be. The truth was Simon had made his choice clear over the past few months. There was only room for one of ‘his girls’ in his life – and that girl wasn’t Melissa.

Chapter 20

Simon flicked a lump of dog turd into the wheelie bin and returned the shovel to the garden shed, resolving to take Porridge for a good long walk after he had seen his parents that afternoon.

Back in the house, he scooped instant coffee into a mug and settled himself at the pine table with the weekend newspapers. He supposed he had better call Melissa. There had been four missed calls on his mobile when he checked it that morning. He had already spoken to Madron House and Sarah was comfortable and well – or as well as she could be - so Melissa’s call could not be urgent.
Perhaps she’d left something out of her notelet
, thought Simon grimly. He picked up the phone and punched in the familiar number.

She answered on the third ring. “Yes, what is it?”

“Oh God, Melissa. Is this really how it’s going to be from now on? You end our marriage by leaving a note in the fridge. Apparently you want us to stay ‘friends’, but you answer your phone like that. Could we just grow up and be sensible about all of this for a minute please?”

“I was perfectly ready to be sensible last night, when I phoned you to check that you were okay. Oh, and when I rang again at 9 p.m. and then 10 p.m. and again at 11 p.m.. I suppose you were propping up the bar in The Whippet, were you?”

“Melissa, as we no longer live together, I can’t really see why this is your business. But yes, on hearing – no, sorry,
reading
- that my marriage was over, on top of the fact that my little girl is dying and even, yes even that the custody of my
dog
was going to be up for discussion, I decided, on a whim, to go to the pub and get utterly
wankered
. I’m sorry if I wasn’t in to take your call. Our lives, as you so dramatically put it, have taken separate paths. My path, joyously, happens to have a pub on the corner. Now. How can I help you?”

There was a long silence. “So you’re okay with this?”

Simon paced up and down the garden, needing to quell the adrenalin pumping around his body. “No, Melissa. I am not ‘okay’ with being ousted from my own house during the worst weeks of my life. However, you have apparently made a decision, and as much as you lambaste me for being weak, you may remember from our twelve years together that I am remarkably staunch when it comes to taking things on the chin, so to speak.”

“There’s no need to be so angry. I’m hurting too, Simon and …”

“Don’t try to play the victim in this, Melissa.” Simon snarled. “It’s your split. Your decision. You don’t get to be hurt.”

Melissa’s voice when she spoke again was quiet. Childlike. “What have your parents said?”

Simon let out a bitter-sounding snigger. “Oh, I’ve been saving that conversation for when I see them this afternoon. Seeing as it’s going to tear my mother apart, I thought it would be more thoughtful to discuss it in person. I’ll be sure to say you said ‘hi’.”

“Simon don’t …”

“Goodbye, Melissa.” Simon hit the red button on the digital phone, wishing he had an old fashioned phone that he could slam down with theatrical vigor.

* * *

As his parents' front door opened, Simon was hit with the familiar scent of home, along with the fug of semi-tropical heat in which his mother insisted on keeping the house. Barbara had been a determined and vocal detractor of central heating, claiming for years that it caused everything from eczema to cystitis. Her beliefs changed dramatically when, after decades of being able to see her own breath in the morning, she had finally been talked into having central heating installed. It was an epiphany - her Damascus moment. The thermostat had been stubbornly turned to maximum ever since. It was no wonder her ferns and potted palms thrived.

Barbara cooed as she opened the door, her delight at seeing her only son obvious. “Simon! How lovely to see you, pet. Get
down
, Porridge. No Melissa? How’s Sarah? Oh God – is everything alright?” Her features rearranged themselves quickly into a vista of panic.

“It’s okay, Mum. Sarah’s fine. Well, not fine. You know. It isn’t
that
. Porridge, if you jump up
once
more you’re going in the car.”

“Well, come in, lovey. Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve just put the kettle on. Your Dad’s at the allotment but I’m expecting him back for lunch. Can I make you a sandwich? I’ve got beef …”

Porridge’s small but serviceable vocabulary included ‘beef’ and his ears pricked.

“I’d love a sandwich, thanks. Have you got horseradish? Great. So how long until Dad’s back?”

Barbara edged past Porridge, working her way into the small kitchen, and took a loaf out of her bread bin. The same bread bin, Simon noted with nostalgic contentment, that he had bought her for Christmas sometime in the seventies.

“I can’t imagine Dad will be more than ten minutes. Though it’s a busy time for him at the moment. He’s having trouble with his lettuces. He thinks someone is pilfering his compost as well. There’s been a big hoo-ha. They’re having a meeting.
Stop looking at me like that, Porridge. I’ll give you a bit at the end.
How’s Sarah?” Barbara flicked a strand of beef fat towards the Labrador, who dispatched it in under a second.