Chapter 47

The days and weeks that followed were some of the most difficult I’ve ever experienced. I spent them in a daze, but even though I was numbed by grief, it didn’t stop the memory of Beth cutting me to the bone. Our home was full of pictures of the three of us. Her side of the bed still smelled of the coconut shampoo she liked. Her trainers lay in the hall, caked in mud from the last time she’d walked the ridge.

When we picture the death of a loved one, I believe we imagine the trauma, the sense of loss, the all-consuming grief, but we don’t consider the relentless mundanity of life. Meals need to be cooked, and the food to make them must be purchased. I found myself breaking down in the crisp aisle in Tesco because I happened to catch sight of Beth’s favourite flavour, sea salt and cider vinegar. I’d start crying while driving because the radio played a song she liked, ‘Tiny Dancer’ or ‘Space Oddity’. Melodies of grief. Moments of bereavement. Looking back, I have no hesitation in saying I was a wreck. I wanted nothing more than to abandon my life of pain and join her.

But I couldn’t. I had to be brave for Elliot. I was trapped by obligation. I had a child depending on me, and as dark as things were, I tried to keep sight of how much he needed me. I attempted to comfort him, but where I was a wreck, he was sullen and withdrawn. The death of his mother had wounded him as profoundly as it had me. I tried to reach him, but it was difficult because I found the time we spent together so very painful. I wanted to lessen his suffering, but there was nothing I could say or do, so I bumbled on, delivering a poor impression of a father.

I wonder now if I found my son painful to be around because I saw so much of her in him. He had her eyes and mouth, and the same softness of skin, and his smile always reminded me of Beth. It’s a poor excuse but he was a living ghost of his mother, and I think I might have been too weak to cope with the breathing reminder.

The hospital didn’t inform me they’d lost Beth’s body immediately. They waited three days and finally told me after their internal investigation couldn’t find any sign of her. They added anger to my emotional storm. I couldn’t stop picturing Beth somewhere horrible, all alone in some rotten place. What if she was alive? What if I’d imagined her death and she was trapped somewhere, weak and desperate for my help? The loss of her body almost drove me beyond the brink, and I became obsessed with the idea she was still breathing somewhere and was calling for me. I hardly slept because my nightmares were plagued by this picture of her in need.