Page 72 of The Mother-in-Law

‘Most people have left,’ I say, resting the plate and mug on her side table. ‘Patrick and Nettie are still here, but I’ll order them an Uber. The house is tidy, more or less, but I’ll come back and help you vacuum and mop tomorrow.’ Diana stares at me, stares through me. I wonder if she’s heard a word I’ve said. ‘There’s a sandwich and a cup of tea here, in case you feel like it.’

I wait, but she doesn’t respond, so I turn and walk back down the hallway. I’m just letting myself out when I hear the faint words: ‘Thank you, dear.’

43

DIANA

The past . . .

It was Tom who insisted that Ollie never know he wasn’t his father. Initially, I disagreed with him, but Tom had been adamant.

‘I don’t think we should lie to him, Tom. You shouldn’t lie to children.’

But Tom shook his head. ‘People always say that. But why should it be a blanket rule? Surely it should be more of a risk-benefit analysis? By not telling Ollie, we’d be risking him finding out later and blaming us for his missing out on a relationship with his biological father who, may I add, never wanted him in the first place. But what about the benefits of not telling him? Ollie would believe he was born into a family with two parents who love each other and wanted him. He’d believe he had a full biological sister. He’d have all that stability that children from two-parent families have. Why should we deny him that, just on the off-chance he’ll find out and blame us later? After all, what are parents for if not to blame for your life’s troubles?’

Tom was so immovable that ultimately I’d gone along with his wishes. His logic may not have added up, but if he was willing to carry the secret to his deathbed for the sake of my son’s stability, I didn’t see how I was in a position to argue. It was the decision a father would make, I figured.

So I let him make it.

Tom’s not here.

I’ve spent so long trying not to be weak that I’ve forgotten how wonderful it feels. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had to be strong for my family. And being strong has its payoffs. It makes you feel powerful, like you can face anything and survive. It’s the reason I’ve lived my life the way I have, working hard, not wallowing, not accepting weakness. But power is overrated. And being weak—and wallowing—is surprisingly lovely.

Tom’s not here.

I lie on the downstairs sofa and stare into the unlit fireplace. The cleaner comes and clears it out on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and today is a Wednesday, which is a relief. I never wanted a cleaner, but Ollie and Nettie insisted I get one when Tom began to degenerate. I don’t need her any more, obviously. Maybe I’ll cancel the cleaner.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Tom says in my mind. But it’s not ridiculous. I’ve always found the cleaners to be more of a hindrance than a help, to be honest. To me, cleaner day always means a furious whip-around to ensure I won’t be deemed a pig, followed by the need to make myself scarce because being home, twiddling my thumbs, while some (invariably) foreign girl works up a sweat scrubbing unspeakable things from my husband’s en suite toilet is just too awful to bear. Tom didn’t share my worries about cleaners. If he was home, he’d have languished on the couch, newspaper and coffee in hand. Once, I recall watching him lift one foot, then the other, as the girl vacuumed under his boots. He winked at her and she chuckled. Only Tom could get away with that.

Tom’s not here.

I’m not lonely. There are people I could call to keep me company. Ollie would come, I know that. He’d leave the office in a heartbeat and come straight over, delighting in the opportunity to do a good deed for his old mum. This is probably the reason his business is failing—his priorities are out of whack. He needs to stay at work and make a living to support his wife and family.

Nettie might come if I asked—unless she was doing something related to making a baby. My position in her foodchain is high, but not highest, which is exactly as it should be. Besides, I have the feeling she has her own issues. Since the sighting of Patrick in Daylesford, I’ve heard more whispers. Someone spotted him in Bright, someone else in Albury. Patrick, as it turns out, is a busy man. Once, I’d have confronted him, asked him what he had to say for himself. Now I can barely find the will to get out of bed.

I could call Kathy or Liz or Jan. They’ve all been calling and texting, offering to drop off meals or take me out. Liz did manage to convince me to come to the Baths for drinks a couple of days ago, but I still haven’t quite recovered. The normalcy of it was simply too much and I am not ready for normal yet. Tom is dead. I don’t care about your daughter-in-law or your fight with your husband or the funny story about your bladder control issues and the dog park. I don’t care about any of it.

BecauseTom’s not here.

I miss the feel of him. Even a week ago, when Tom was barely alive, I could still reach out and touch him. He was always physically warm as well as emotionally. His warmth was his superpower. People wanted him to lead them. Friends wanted to be around him. Our children loved him best. I loved him best.

Mothers aren’t supposed to say that. But it is the truth. I was born to love Tom Goodwin.

The doorbell rings. I ignore it. This couch feels like a life raft; the outside world is shark-infested water. I grab the throw rug and pull it around my shoulders, hoping that sleep comes and carries me through until evening, when I will finally change into my pyjamas and slide into the comforting blackness of evening. I might have some toast and a cup of tea, and put something on the television to take the edge off the silence as I rattle about in this big old place. Sometimes, at night, I pretend that Tom is still here. I pretend that I’m up and about, ready to stretch out another cramp, or give him another sip of water. Those moments we shared in the wee hours of the morning feel so unimaginably luxurious now, those stolen moments, both of us against the world.

‘I’ll be right there, my love,’ I whisper into the empty house. ‘You’ll feel better in a moment.’

The doorbell rings again.

‘You get it, Tom,’ I whisper, and close my eyes.

44

LUCY

The present . . .

It’s dark when I hear the key in the lock. Nettie and Patrick have left, the kids are asleep and I’m on the couch, staring at nothing.