Valentine's Day was warm and sunny. Birds hurried about their business, or nested happily. I'd snuck out of work early stopping on my way home to steal an armful of red roses from my next door neighbour's rosebush. Arriving home with a box of chocolates that I'd found in Granny Smith's cupboard, I swung in through our front door, laughing gently to myself in excitement, imagining what Jack's face would look like when he saw the roses. He'd been sad for at least two weeks, probably longer. We'd started to do more and more things apart. Coming home late at night, I would find the residue of his dinner on a kitchen counter and I'd begun to wonder how much longer it could go on.
And then that morning Jack had sat up and smiled at me. "I love you." He kissed me gently on the lips. "You are such a wonderful woman, Ms. Handcock. I've been so blessed to have you in my life."
Warm feelings that I hadn't felt in a long time washed over me, leaving me giddy with delight. Jack was the only man for me for the rest of my life, and I had to make him realise that. I didn't want to move in with the lunch-providing next door neighbour – I only wanted Jack, me and our baby in this spooky old house.
As I left the house that morning I called out, "Shouldn't you be heading to work, honey? You might be late!"
"Late start today," he called after my receding back. No wonder he'd been looking secretive – he was obviously planning something wonderful for me for Valentine's.
Now, as I mounted the stairs, I was scattering roses when suddenly I heard a loud bang from the upstairs room - the sound of our bedroom door slamming.
I would have called his name out aloud to get his attention, but my instincts made me stay quiet. Something made my feet rush up those stairs, taking two or even three steps at a time. Reaching our bedroom I opened the door. Clothes were strewn everywhere; the bedclothes were rumpled and unmade, and the door to our wardrobe was slightly ajar. The window was open and a draught was toying with the wardrobe door, perhaps the same draught which had made the bedroom door slam. Something smelt like ... well, I couldn't put my finger on it. Stepping forward, I tugged the wardrobe door open. That's when I saw it.
Or maybe or should say, when I saw him. Jack.
My Jack hanging from his neck; icy blue, not a trace of breath left in his entire body.
At first I fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes. My knees turned to jelly; my heart had momentarily stopped. And then I began screaming and screaming and tugging at the rope to free him ...
After that everything became a blur. Policemen. Ambulance. People storming around, crushing my scattered roses into the carpet, shooting questions, demands - but it all seemed silly. After all, no one could bring my love back. I switched into autopilot, and sat where people wanted me to sit, and dumbly answered any questions they asked of me. In my mind all I could hear was Jack's voice that morning when he woke me up. I tried to decode everything he'd said, tried to understand how I'd missed the message.
I lay down on the bed and I wouldn't get up again. Not even the wardrobe lurking ferociously in the corner could scare me away; guilt descended onto me like a dark cloud ... the horrible, horrible guilt. Jack had killed himself because of me, because I hadn't been a good partner, because I hadn't told him just how much I loved and needed him.
I lay like a dead thing too, under the sheets, only emerging for the day of the funeral. Frog-marched in with his parents and their respective partners, all of us dazed and confused. We couldn't believe that he'd done this to us, that he'd hurt us this way. As we walked into the funeral home a few of the mourners looked at us in sympathy, but a few had looked away awkwardly, not wanting to catch eye contact. They all knew that I'd seen him, and they probably knew that I'd chased him to it. I felt like throwing up the whole way through the service, and the only thing that kept me sane was Jack's step mother howling in my ear.
As Jack's body was being lowered into the earth his mother dragged me aside. "Why?" she croaked. "You must know. Why did he do it?"
I stared at her for what seemed like an eternity before I told her. "I'm pregnant, and Jack didn't believe it was his."
The woman took a step back. "Murderer," she whispered, almost silent, but it was worse than a slap or a punch in the stomach.
That whisper haunted me for years.
I couldn't eat anything for weeks. When I felt things brush past my throat, I choked as he must have done as the noose tightened around his neck.I lost it all down the toilet.
I finally contacted a doctor about the pain in my neck, and the unbearable aching that wouldn't leave my body. He sent me to a physio but no one knew why I was in pain. He prescribed pain killers, and somewhere between that prescription and the medical aisle in the supermarket, I was able to keep the aching at bay.
For a while.
It woke me late at night; perhaps two weeks after Jack had taken his life, the two hands made of iron which clutched my womb and twisted like they were wringing out a flannel. The pain seemed to rip open my stomach, shooting through my pelvis, tears springing to my eyes. When my hand came away from my pajama pants, it was wet with blood. Turning on the bed side lamp, I found I was lying in a dark red puddle.
The shock which wracked my body was overwhelming. I know I should have seen it coming - after all I wasn't eating, and I was taking countless pain killers - but it seemed impossible to me that I could lose what little connection to Jack I had left. I could imagine what everyone was whispering about me, losing my baby so soon. That I should have cared more about the baby inside me than the pain I was feeling. "Pain killers for an imaginary neck ache! What will people think?" my mother hollered at me, loud enough for the entire street to hear.
It didn't matter how many times I told her that I didn't care what people thought. She wouldn't listen to me. I knew that if they'd found their lover hanging by the neck in their walk in wardrobe they'd probably understand. If they'd seen my Jack with his eyes bulging, turned a faint shade of blue, then they wouldn't question my emotions.
I couldn't sleep in the bedroom anymore and moved onto the couch. Sometimes I would lie quietly without the TV on, swallowing anti-depressants mutely. Sometimes I would nap and sometimes I would think, although it was a bit too fuzzy at times, like my head was a bag of cotton wool .
I sat up, seven months later. I decided that it was about time I killed myself. What else was there? Jack was gone, and the baby. No one would miss me. My mother certainly wouldn't. Perhaps she would be relieved that she no longer had to make excuses for me. She would be able to adopt a more appropriate daughter. Or maybe she would revel in the drama of it all, crying crocodile tears and wringing her hands in desperation ... as one would expect a mother to behave. But deep down I knew she would be thankful.
I contemplated how it was to be done. Rope, I decided. What's good for the gander is good for the goose. I searched the house from top to bottom; I hadn't counted on how methodically my grandmother had cleaned the house out once I'd started to take a downward slide. She'd taken all of the ropes away, and replaced my perfectly good electric kettle with a battered old number that I had to heat on the stove. I overheard her telling my mother it was in case I did something with the cord, although I couldn't for the life of me figure out what you could do with a short little cable. She'd taken all of the sharp objects, all of the medicines, woollen scarves, silk scarves ... and my car.
So I'd gathered together some money and walked the 30 minute walk to the nearest hardware shop. The young salesman, Manu, gave me a cheery wave and strolled over. Every single woman in the shop had their eyes glued to him as his white teeth sparkled against his brown skin.
"What are you looking for, bro?" He stood in front of me patiently. "You need some paint?"
"No," I whispered. "No paint - I need a rope."
"Aw, aye. What do you want a rope for?"
To kill myself, a voice in my head whispered. "To ... to pull a car with."
"Aw aye. What kind of car?"
I specified what car and Manu promptly returned with rope. It's was on sale $28.50. But as it was in a covered box I couldn't see the size of it. "Thanks, Manu." I then spent the next thirty minutes walking home. I pulled the rope out of its packaging and realised how thick it was as I spent twenty minutes trying to knot it into a noose. It was the wrong size.
Thirty minute walk back to hardware shop. Manu gave me another brilliant smile. The blinding white hurt my eyes.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Wrong rope. Too big. Car's still stuck."
"Too big? Not even!"
"Err, yes, actually." I cleared my throat rapidly. "Car is much smaller than I imagined. It is, in fact, only a mini."
He paused for some time possibly wondering why a rope too big would change anything. Then he shrugged. "We have a smaller rope here ... also good for towing."
"And can you tie it in a knot?" I ask.
"Yeah, bro."
I couldn't get a refund. It was against company policy. So I handed over more money. I trawled back home past all of the good natured gossips whispering about me: 'Haven't you heard what happened to Toni Handcock ... yes! He did! Could you IMAGINE what that must have been like to walk in and find him hanging there?' No, they could never imagine.
on the thirty minute walk home I found to my utter disappointment that my zest for death had gone. Endorphins from all that exercise, maybe. I collapsed onto the lounge suite and clenched my hands into fists, gazing at the backs of my hands. I watched the blue veins weave around my knuckles. Somewhere inside, blood was pulsing through those veins, and even though the rest of me was dead, a part of me remained.
It was at that moment that Danny knocked on my door, holding his newborn son in his arms, like he was made of china; scared he would drop him. The baby was screaming; blood-curdling cries.
"She's gone, Toni. I don't know what to do!" He gazed desperately around my lounge, then his eyes caught on the two packets of rope and he shot me an odd look.
"Just for a car!" I said. "I've got to tow a car!"
He didn't mention the fact that I hadn't had a car for the last two months, nor that I was hardly the girl people would call to tow their vehicle.
"I'm completely lost," he admitted. "Do you know anything about babies?"