JANUS 12
All through our daughter’s illness Elly had been a rock of perseverance and patience. I marvelled at how she coped with the situation when I was going to pieces. In the weeks after the funeral Elly changed. Her moods alternated with disturbing suddenness. She could be attentive in the morning, by the evening, when I came home from work; I might find her slumped on the couch, eyes wide open staring at some point outside. The doctors confirmed what I knew, that Elly was severely depressed, but she refused to go on medication. She did agree initially for us to see a therapist who suggested that we consider moving house.
‘Not now, you must allow grief time to work through before the healing can take place. Eventually you may consider a move.’
Such textbook advice did not convince me, or perhaps it was too early for the voice of reason to reach me. As for Elly, she kept staring ahead as if the conversation was of no concern of hers. I felt effectively shut out. Time and time again I tried to engage her with words of comfort, knowing that I too could have done with some comforting. Vain hope, Elly was only willing to talk about practical, day-to–day minutiae: the shower-head leaking, the slow internet connection, bills to be paid.
Elly had always loved books, novels especially. She could pick up a Hilary Mantel volume and consume it in days. What I remember of this period was Elly sitting in wicker chair on the back porch, her face behind a book like an impenetrable shield. We were no longer a couple, but strangers sharing the same house and the air between us was leaden.
Sundays used to be special for the three of us. We’d meet with friends, take a drive to the hills for a picnic, visit family. One Sunday morning after Jessica’s passing I was out pottering around our small garden, while Elly, as usual, was out on the porch reading. It was early spring and the smell of the freshly-cut grass next door whipped up by a sudden breeze lifted my mood. I called out to Elly.
‘Hey Elly, how about we go and have lunch in King’s Park? The wild flower show opens this weekend. Should be good.’
I could tell by the way her back straightened all of a sudden that Elly wasn’t up for it. Then I bit my lip, remembering that King’s Park was where we would often take Jess for an stroll on Sunday. Elly did not lift her eyes from the book, like she hadn’t heard me speak to her. I went and sat on the top step of the porch and lowered my voice.
‘Elly, we can’t keep going like this, it’s not doing us any good. We need to move on.’
‘I’m not moving anywhere.’
‘I don’t mean move house…oh you know what I mean. We need to get our life back.’
‘Things have changed, or haven’t you noticed?’
‘I know, Elly. And there is nothing that can be done. We must accept it.’
‘You think I can just pick up? Just like that?’
‘We can start again. We have to. We’re still young enough.’
‘What are you talking about, Janus? I can’t conceive, the doctors were clear about that. And anyway, I don’t have the energy or the will to start all over again. And even if, by some miracle, I got pregnant again, do you think I can just replace one child with another?’
Terrifying how suddenly love can turn to bitterness. At a time when I most needed her, Elly was distancing herself from me, removing me from her world. The terrible loss of our daughter was being compounded by a feeling that I was losing my wife, or at least a part of her.
We started arguing, the smallest matter became contentious. I was getting the impression that Elly was spoiling for a confrontation. Our arguments sometimes got nasty. I watched as indifference descended into disdain and sometimes anger.
I knew she had joined a church choir though she didn’t want to talk about it, to me at least. Each Wednesday evening she went to choir practice. I supported her fully thinking that it would be a good antidote to the air of doom that hung in our house.
The church offered therapy for stay-at-home wives. It was run by a good-looking New Ager, Alistair, a remnant of the 80’s, who played the group inspirational music and told them that the secret to recovery was to imagine a new life that would lift them out of depression and free them.
‘It all starts in our imagination.’
It must have been music to Elly’s ears in more ways than one.
Weeks later, as I rummaged through a drawer looking for a photo, I came across a scrapbook filled with drafts of love letters to Alistair, who as well as offering a therapy to unhappy women, sang in the church choir.
My Darling,
Why weren’t you at the choir practice last night? Not seeing you for a few days is agony. I wish you would phone me when you are not going to be there. There is no greater disappointment for me than to come to practice and not hear your voice by the altar…
And so on and so forth, you get the drift. It seems that Elly wasn’t going to the choir just for love of music. Against my better judgement, (but what’s judgement got to do with human emotions?) I confronted her with the letter. Her reaction? She snatched the pad from my hand and started hitting me with it, screaming, ‘That’s private, how dare you go through my drawer.’
Then she ran to the kitchen. An image of us sitting down together and chatting over a coffee flashed through my mind. It brought a nostalgic lump to my throat, but was quickly gone the very next moment as Elly re-emerged from the kitchen, wielding a bread knife and lunging at me. I just managed to grab her arm, as the point of the knife was scraping my jacket.
When the hysterics had passed I was left with an overwhelming sense of pity for what she was going through. I said,
‘Elly what is happening to you? What is happening to us?’
And I just wanted to hold her. I took a step towards her, arms open. But she stood rigid, arms flung up in the air, then pointed her index at me,
‘Stop. Don’t you come near me.’
Her eyes were bloodshot. Then, quite abruptly she went calm and distant, as if straining to hear a barely-audible message from far away. When she spoke, her voice was eerily cavernous,
‘I want you to go away. I want some space. Later maybe we can talk. But you must leave now, if you don’t I’ll do some real damage.’
‘What do you mean?’ I whispered, terrified.
But she said nothing. She went to the bedroom and locked herself in. Through the door I could hear stifled sobbing and the worst thing was that I could do nothing to ease her suffering. And suddenly it hit me like a lancer. I was the last person Elly wanted to be with, at that point of her life.
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Note to the reader
The commentators below are fictitious and part of the narrative. Like a chorus in a Greek drama, they reflect on the events as they unfold.
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Comments
Lady S.
I would not want to leave Elly alone, she is not in a good place at all. I shudder to think what she might do.
Cynic2
‘I shudder to think what she might do.’
You’ll have to wait until the next instalment, Lady S.
Lizzie86
Well, we’ve only got your side of the story, Janus. I’m sure she’ll have a different narrative. But even if you’re telling it true, it’s clear that Elly was having a major break down and needed support. Being a male all you could think about was your hurt male pride. Typical!
Airies (And Proud of it)
“Elly was having a major break down and needed support.”
Now, let me get this right, the wife is writing love letters to another man, and you want the husband to show support. What planet do you live on, Lizzie? And would you feel the same way if the husband was carrying on with another woman? Course not, no doubt you’d call him douche bag or worse.
Lizzie86
So far as I understand Elly is not carrying on, as you crudely put it. She has written letters on a pad, left it in the drawer, I suspect, for the husband to find. I see that as a cry for help, don’t you? Or is the psychology of that too deep for an alpha male?
Airies (And Proud of it)
Not too deep, just a pile of drama to justify the fact that she is two-timing her husband.