about trying to kill myself doesn’t make me sad. At the time I thought I was being practical without realising how it might make others feel.
‘I never got to finish the job like I planned to. It all got much worse.’
‘What could possibly be worse than wanting to kill yourself?’
‘Getting caught trying to kill yourself.’
‘Surely that’s not a bad thing. That must have stopped you from giving yourself a matching scar on the other wrist.’
They are fractions of a moment. They are events that occurred in such a short timeframe. But all these years on I’m unable to forget them. Unlike Clive, who wasn’t able to keep hold of his memories, I’ve been unable to push mine away. I’m not sure if I can voice why the other wound never made it to my wrist.
‘It was the worst thing,’ I say, discovering that I’m not crying, but finding it hard to breathe. I focus on the empty mantelpiece. I think of all the trinkets that are no longer here – a lifetime of other people’s memories.
I don’t want to say it out loud, but I realise that in some ways, it might be like a removal. It’s mine, but by letting it go it will become someone else’s.
‘My dad found me. He knew I was struggling and came back from work early. I was in an empty bath, trying to be considerate of the mess that I would make. He came in and saw what I’d done. He grabbed the phone and started calling for an ambulance.’
I take a breather. Remind myself that perhaps never sharing this memory is what has made me hold on to it. ‘It wasn’t as bad as it looked at that point. I’d bled a lot, but it pooled rather than poured, but Dad was busy telling me all the reasons I should stay alive: that I was the most intelligent person he knew, that being different was a blessing. He listed all the reasons I was great, all the things I would go on to do. That I would be a great scientist once I’d finished studying at university. He told me he was the only person I needed to listen to. Not the bullies who didn’t understand who I was or what it was like to be the odd one out. He didn’t take a breath as he spoke to me and when he did, there was nothing but fear in his eyes.’
I can see it happening now as I talk about it. As if it wasn’t over fifteen years ago, and instead only yesterday. The terror in his eyes as he fell to the floor, still clutching the phone. The knowledge that the urgent phone call wouldn’t be for me. That we now needed it for him.
‘It was takotsubo cardiomyopathy. He died from a broken heart. It wasn’t me who died as I planned, it was my father. I tried to save him, and bled all over him as I tried, in vain, to make his heart work again.’
Clive moves his hand, wrapping me in an embrace, and I realise I’m crying now, the same as he is. There aren’t just two people in this room. There’s a lifetime of ghosts and memories and make-believe spinning around us, laughing with glee at the way they’ve defined us.
‘Please tell me you remember everything your father said. Please tell me that your memory hasn’t ruined the best parts like mine has?’
‘I do,’ I say, realising that perhaps it is his words rather than his death that I’ve been focussing on all these years. ‘He said to follow my heart beyond all others.’
‘And have you managed that?’
‘I’ve certainly followed hearts.’ A small smile manages to curl my lips. I know more about hearts than most people and yet they are still such a mystery.
‘I know you’ve done everything you possibly could for mine.’
‘I had to. I’ve never admitted it to myself until now, but in not being able to save my father, I knew I had to save someone. My life wouldn’t have been complete without achieving that. You were my chance to mend a broken heart. I think that means I’ve followed my heart, even if it was choosing to look after someone else’s. I think there’s a need to know that I can follow my heart and it will all be okay.’
I think about Nancy and how things are turning out. It isn’t like they were shacked up in a hotel like George’s