Wish You Were Here.

I was woken once again by my inconsiderate husband. I could hear the familiar drone of the shower and the splattering of cold water on the floor as he washed himself. Every morning it had been the same, and by then I knew his daily routine off by heart: Start shower, thump shower door, drop shampoo, stop shower, thump shower door… I rolled over and pulled the duet over my head to muffle out the sound, but it was use; my husband began to sing.
I was just eating my breakfast when Richard wandered down the stairs and into the kitchen. He paused when he saw me, staring at me in sleepy kind of way and smiling briefly. My husband had been like that for several years, dreamy and distant, and in fact, we scarcely spoke at all. Yet he still carried on as though nothing was wrong.
“Lucy!” he called to our sleeping daughter, half-heartedly. There was no reply. He waited for a moment, and then slumped down into his chair and began to eat. Lucy wasn’t coming, but he clearly couldn’t be bothered to get her himself.
“I’ll go and get her then, shall I?” I mocked, giving Richard my coldest, harshest stare. When he didn’t move, I thumped my way up the stairs and into my daughter’s bedroom.
Light was just beginning to spill through the curtains of Lucy’s bedroom, casting a yellow glow around the room. I crept over to my daughter’s bed and gently stroked her wispy blonde hair from her face. I realised then that she wasn’t well at all. She was asleep, but coughing heavily, her throat, dry and sore. Her eyes were red and swollen and her brow was lined with sweat. Where had my little baby gone? We had only just taught her to walk, and now she was at school, learning the alphabet, counting to 20 and painting little masterpieces. Soon she would be leaving home, go to university, and get married…
I kissed Lucy on the cheek and left for a moment to ring my boss. Someone was going to have to look after her today, and it certainly wasn’t going to be her father. He didn’t even take her to school in the mornings in case he was ‘late’ for work. He was self employed, for God’s sake.
I rushed downstairs to get Lucy something to eat. My husband was just sitting there, staring at the cornflakes in front of him, stirring them until they were wet and soggy.
“Lucy’s ill. I’ll stay at home and look after her,” I explained, hoping that he’d at least pretend to listen. He picked up his briefcase and headed for the front door.
“Can’t she go to school?” he questioned, but my expression told him otherwise, “We’re okay though, aren’t we, sweetie.” And with that, he kissed me softly on the lips. For a moment I held him in my arms, whilst memories of love and passion overwhelmed me. I could feel his warm breath on my cheek, his strong arms caressing my hair. It was a hot summer’s day, the Sun was setting in a burst of orange and red, birds were chirping in trees, and blossom was falling all around us. Then Richard broke away, and left for work. And then it was just me, and the same old, dull kitchen.
Richard had changed. He never used to be like that at all. He was a handsome man with golden curls and crystal blue eyes that made my whole body shiver with delight. He was loving and kind, but he was strong and very protective of his family. He was always the one to make up after arguments and admit that he was wrong. He was always lively and funny, and he never missed a play in the park with Lucy. I used to think he was the most wonderful man in the world. My head burst with admiration for him, my heart with love. But then he changed, and he was just a middle-aged man that I once loved.1

Lucy’s health didn’t improve, and after a week of sleepless nights, I took her to the local doctor’s surgery. It was a chest infection, apparently common in young children. Our doctor gave me some antibiotics and told me that it would clear up in a few weeks. Of course, Richard failed to help with looking after Lucy, so I had miss work all week, much to my boss’s annoyance.2

“I’m home!” Richard yelled from downstairs, as he put on the kettle. I was upstairs at the time, reading our daughter a bedtime story. After a week of antibiotics, she was slowly recovering, but we still struggled to get any sleep at night. When I had finished her favourite story, I hugged her and held her close. Emotion overwhelmed me. A single tear slid down my face as I thought of how precious Lucy was, and of how much she meant to me.
“Why are you crying, Mummy?” she asked innocently. I laughed briefly, wiping my tear away; she was too young to understand. I switched off the light and crept downstairs.
“I’ve put her to bed,” I whispered softly.
“Okay, gorgeous,” Richard murmured smiling and pulling me towards him until our noses were almost touching. I thrust him away, disgusted. Richard hadn’t even seen Lucy in the past few days. He had always kissed our little girl goodnight, even when he was really late from work. He looked at me silently, his face a mix of confusion, annoyance and disappointment.
“What’s wrong with you?” he muttered sarcastically. There was certainly nothing wrong with me, it was him who needed to sort himself out. “I’m going to watch TV,” he muttered after a long, painful silence. He was acting as though Lucy didn’t exist. I could feel the anger growing inside of me. It was burning like fire, rumbling like thunder.
“How dare you! How dare you treat my daughter like this?” I spat through clenched teeth. Richard turned and stared at me, his eyes full of hatred and loneliness.
“Oh, so she’s your daughter now, is she?” he yelled as though everything was my fault. My whole body shivered with hatred. My soul was on fire, my head was full of nothing but anger and frustration.
“I’m more of a parent to her than you’ll ever be!” I screamed, collapsing into a heap and sobbing my heart out.
Just then, Lucy wandered into the kitchen, her teddy gripped tightly in her little hands. She looked so small and innocent standing there in her fairy pyjamas. I took one look at her, and buried my face in my hands, my salty tears forming a small puddle on the floor. Her father towered over her, making her expression fearful and anxious.
“Not now, Lucy,” he snarled nastily. Lucy instantly burst into tears, and for a second I thought that Richard would as well. I thought that maybe he would become himself again, become the man I fell in love with. But I was left with the truth; we were just strangers; I didn’t even know Richard anymore. He left, slamming the front door behind him.3

It took a great deal of effort to hurl myself off the floor and carry Lucy up the stairs. Once in her bedroom, I began to empty her wardrobe into a suitcase. My folding wasn’t very neat, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that we were out of the house before Richard came home. When that would be, I didn’t know, but I knew it wouldn’t be for several hours. When I had emptied her wardrobe completely, I rang my closest friend, Tanya. Her house wasn’t huge, but Lucy and I could share the spare bedroom. Fortunately, she agreed to let us stay for a while. Tanya may have been wacky, witty and extremely hilarious, but she was caring. She was the closest friend I had ever had.
I rushed into my own bedroom and began to sort out my clothes. Lucy followed me, her teddy still clutched in her hands.
“Mummy, what’s happening?” she snuffled, frightened to death. She should have stayed in bed, like I had told her, but I didn’t have the strength or the time to tell her off. But I couldn’t tell her the truth, it wouldn’t be fair.
“We’re just going on a little holiday to Auntie Tanya’s house. Why don’t you pack some of your favourite toys in your Little Mermaid bag,” I stumbled, desperately trying to stay calm in my rush of packing.
“Is daddy coming?”
“No,” I interrupted, a little too sharply. Lucy still loved Richard, even though he had been so inconsiderate and cruel in the past few weeks. She left quickly, obviously too confused to argue back.
When I had finished packing clothes, it was just a case of rummaging through drawers, and scanning table tops for anything precious. A picture here, a necklace there, passport, address book, mobile phone. I snatched a few of my favourite DVDs and my ‘I Love My Mummy’ mug. Then I emptied the bathroom of anything of mine, filling more and more bags. When I had finally finished packing, two hours had passed. I had three suitcases and two large bags, and, of course, the bag that Lucy was packing. I remembered that she was probably struggling, so I rushed into her bedroom to help her.
The floor was covered in teddies, dolls and all sorts of games. And there was Lucy, sitting in the middle of them, crying her eyes out. I reached down and picked her up, tears welling in my own eyes. She was surprisingly heavy for a four year old.
“Don’t cry, sweetie. Its okay, Mummy’s here. We’ll put all of your toys in another bag,” I sobbed, trying to comfort her. When I had tidied my daughter’s bedroom, I returned to my own, and began to write Richard a letter. My heart burned with sorrow as I desperately searched for the right words. Tears were pouring down my cheeks, smudging the ink on the paper. Each word hurt more than the one before it, but I knew that those words were the most important I had ever written. When I had finally finished the letter, I left it on the bedside table for Richard to find.4

I had just dragged the suitcases downstairs when Richard returned. I was surprised to see that he wasn’t drunk; in fact, he didn’t look like he had had a drink at all. He seemed dazed and a little windswept, but he certainly looked calm, thank God. He glanced at the suitcases by my side, and then he stared at me, his crystal blue eyes weighed with bewilderment and disbelief.
“Please,” he begged, beginning to cry, “Please don’t leave. I love you, I love both of you.” 5

I looked at the nervous wreck that was my husband. How had we come to this? I knew why, but I wasn’t angry anymore. My head hurt too much to be angry, and the sorrow that I felt weighed me down. But I couldn’t stay, and I couldn’t go back to him. My husband had changed, and he would never change back. We would just be going around in circles, running on the same old ground. Nothing would change, not now, not ever.
Lucy stood beside me, her bags of toys pulling her little arms down. I heaved the suitcases towards the front door, along with all the other bags. It was a struggle, but I wasn’t going to ask for help.
“Why, Sophie? Why are you leaving me?” Richard questioned through his sobs as I opened the front door. I paused, taking a moment to calm myself so as to explain everything clearly,
“You’ve changed, Richard. You’re not the man you used to be,” I whispered, trying not to cry, “You keep telling me how much you love me and how good we are together, but it is not true. We’re not alright, and we never will be!” I wept desperately. The emotion was just too much for me. I couldn’t take it any longer. My legs gave way and I fell to the floor with a thud. Richard dived between the suitcases and held me in his arms for the very last time.
“I wish you were here,” I sighed through floods of tears. He stared at me, his eyes begging me to go back to him.
“I'm here, Sophie. I’m right here,” he whispered, pressing my head against his chest. It was no use, he was desperately trying to convince me of something I already knew wasn’t true.
“No,” murmured, “I wish you were here.” And with that I heaved myself up and wrenched the suitcases out of the door, Lucy following close behind.6

Although many years have past, I still remember everything clearly. But one question still lingers in my mind, still burns inside my soul. Did Richard ever read my letter? I can feel a blade pierce my heart as I remember the tear stained words:7

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
Blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have you found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.8

Sophie xxx9