The Awkward Wife

Awkward Wife

Emily drifted slowly up from a murky pain and a swirl of distant noises, as though ascending from the depths of a well.

Mrs Emily Carter, we can see from the monitors that youre coming round. Try to open your eyes, please, urged the unfamiliar voicemuffled, distant.

My eyelids were impossibly heavy, weighed down like lead. My body felt foreign, weak and sore in every muscle, and an incessant, high-pitched whine rang in my ears.

Everything smelt aggressively cleansterile disinfectant and that unmistakable hospital bitterness.

Thats it, the voice rumbled much closer this time. Youre breathing on your own, which is excellent.

Summoning what little willpower I had, I forced my lashes apart. Blinding light made me flinch and snap my eyes closed again. The world was unfocused, like a watercolour left out in the rain: a white ceiling, walls to match, some sort of tube connected to my arm.

A face hovered above me, deeply lined and unsmiling, bushy grey eyebrows shadowing watchful eyes. White surgeons cap, mask tucked under the chin.

Where? I managed to murmur, my voice rough as crackling autumn leaves.

Youre in intensive care, replied the man, fiddling with a tall stand cluttered with blinking machines. St Thomas Hospital.

An accident The memory flickered and died: bright sun on the windscreen, a road I was driving somewherebut where?

Yes, a road accident. Do you remember?

I was heading for my appointment at the fertility clinic. My husband and Iweve been trying IVF Couldnt get pregnant My words failed me, trailing off.

He nodded. Correct. Im your consultant, Dr Charles Bennett. You were involved in a serious collision.

As my thoughts cleared, patterns remergedalong with a deep, visceral fear.

My husband does he know? Is he alright?

Yes, he knows, Dr Bennetts tone grew brisk, almost clipped. He wasnt in the car. Hes perfectly fine.

Panic began to slither through me, cold and persistent. True, Michael was joining me at the clinic later, straight from work. I really had been driving alone

How long have I been here? My heart thudded against my chest.

The doctor dropped his gaze, sighing in a way that drowned out the electronic beeps.

Youll need your strength, Emily. Butwhat Im about to say may be a shock.

Say it, I whispered.

The accident wasnt recent. Youve been unconscious for quite some time.

How long? A week? Two?

He hesitated, then answered: Three years. You were in a coma for three years.

My entire world seemed to collapse, dragging me back towards the blackness Id just emerged from.

No… this cant be You must be mistaken or joking

Three years, said Dr Bennett sternly. You suffered a major head injury and multiple fractures. We barely saved you. Frankly, we werent expecting a miracle.

Three years.

My gaze fell to my thin, pale hand resting on the hospital blanket. Mine. Real. Alive.

Youre lucky, the doctors voice softened at last. You have a rare blood type. You needed an emergency transfusion, but we didn’t have any in the hospital bank.

He paused before adding, Your husband saved youhe had a matching blood group, and became your donor. He gave as much as he could, maybe more. A real hero. Quite literally, he brought you back from the brink.

I tried to absorb his words. Michael my donor my saviour Yet, somewhere at the back of my mind, unease prickled. I distinctly recalled my own blood type, and was nearly certain Michaels was different.

Too tired to question more, I slipped back into the strange, drugged twilight.

Later, when I opened my eyes, the room was still and the insistent beeping had faded to background noise. Someone stood beside the bed.

The familiar, vaguely woody scent of aftershaveMichaels.

I knew it was him before I saw his face.

He moved closer, stepping out of the dimness. His profile was as flawless as ever, every hair in place. But something had changed.

His face, usually composed and inscrutable, now wore a brittle expression, as if indifference and contempt were carved onto it.

A middle-aged nurse was fussing with my drip. I remembered her name: Margaret.

Michael leaned in, so close that I could feel the chill of his breath.

Hello, darling, his voice was quiet, measured, meant only for my ears. How lovely to see you up at last.

He smiledthough it was the wrong sort of smile.

Whilst you were off having your little nap, I was busy claiming the inheritance.

I missed his meaning.

What inheritance?… What are you talking about? My tongue felt thick and useless.

The papers, Em. The ones you kindly signed before your sabbatical, he shrugged, almost lazily. Remember? You always signed things without a glance. Gave me power of attorney over everything.

I I didnt

Thanks for that, he hissed. Didnt think your trusting nature would turn out to be such a windfall.

A memory flashed: hospital, pain, Michael leaning over me.

Just sign, love, hed murmured, gentle and quick. Consent for surgery. Simple formality.

My trembling hand had scrawled across a stack of papers, not reading a word.

Your fathers business, Michael explained, seeing my confusion now. Remember, dear old Roger left you his logistics company? Petty enough that you never bothered about it. Turns out Ive made it a very lucrative concern over the past three years.

He smirked. And now its all minelock, stock, and barrel.

I stared in horrorparalysed in a way no physical injury could match. This was not the Michael Id married. Not my husband.

You couldnt have I managed.

I did. He straightened his shirt cuffs, nodding to the nurse. See to her, Margaret.

I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep. I couldnt bear to see his face a moment longer. Tears escaped, burning at my temples.

Michaels expensive shoes clicked away across the tiles as he walked out, leaving me stranded in this living nightmare.

A warm hand gently mopped my cheeks.

There, love, hush now, whispered Margaret. Dont cry. Hes not worth a single tear.

Thank you I whispered, struggling to contain the sobs.

Later, as Margaret rebandaged my arm, she leaned in conspiratorially.

You hang in there. Youre tougher than you know. If you made it through all thatyou can see this out too. And love, believe me, youre not the first and wont be the last woman to be treated so cruelly. For now, you just focus on getting well. The rest will follow.

Her ordinary, comforting words were the first real glimmer of hope Id felt since waking.

Margaret I whispered.

Yes, dear?

The doctor said Michael was the donor

Her face sharpened.

Who said that?

Dr Bennett.

She pressed her lips together in displeasure. Listen, love. Your Michael didnt donate a drop. Doesnt even know his own blood group. I was on duty that day; I asked him three timeshe just brushed me off.

But The doctor

Dr Bennetts a wonder with patients, but papers and detailshes forever muddling things. Someone told him your husband was the donor, so he put it on the file. Thats as far as it goes.

Then whose blood?

Anonymous donor from the bankgot there just in time. You were incredibly lucky. But your husband saved nothing but the story for his own glory. She gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. So you dont owe him anything, darling. Not a thing.

I nodded. Of course It was all a liehis supposed heroism as false as his tenderness.

That night, as machinery beeped away, I lay and wondered how Id ever been so blind. How did the Michael I loved become this icy, self-serving stranger?

I remembered, unbidden, that first day wed met.

Four years ago nowan entire lifetime.

Id been racing up the steps at Oxford Circus, rain lashing, my interview at a renowned translation agency only minutes away. In the throng, my heel snapped.

Oh, for goodness sake Id muttered, clinging to the handrail.

My shoe hung, useless. Shabby umbrella, hair in disarrayI must have looked a sight.

Looks like Cinderellas lost her patience, not just her slipper, came a baritone beside me, dry and amused.

I glanced up. Beside me stood a man in an immaculate dark overcoat, smelling of expensive cologne and quiet confidence. Not traditionally handsome, but there was a charisma about him that took my breath.

Cinderellas about to cry as well, I admitted, managing a shaky smile. Ive an interview in fifteen minutes. Not like this

He examined meassessing, not judging.

You wont get the job, he declared flatly.

Thanks for the encouragement, I snorted.

Not encouragement. Just realistic. Come on, Ill give you a lift and well sort your shoes on the way.

I cant just I dont even know you

You know me now, he said, his smile unmistakably charming. Call it an investment in the future. Youre a linguist, right? International relations?

Yes, but

No buts. Youve just enough time to accept the best offer of your career.

Michael had always been like thatconfident, decisive, fixing other peoples problems as if by magic. That day he did drive me to my interview, buying me a replacement pair of black court shoes on the way.

They must cost a fortune! Id whispered, aghast.

Think of them as the price of a new job, he winked.

I did get the job. That evening, Michael called.

How were the shoes? Lucky?

How did you get my number?

Emily, I know everything. He laughed. Dinner?

The pause stretched, and then Id said yes.

Dinner quickly became a series of extravagant datesa whirlwind romance. Michael wooed me as though I was a prize to be won: vast bouquets, dinners in Mayfair, surprise weekend getaways. He made me feel cherished.

My younger sister, Charlotte, quietly observed all this with a sceptics raised browthinking, I suspect, that the old saying about love making a fool of anyone was particularly true in my case.

Meeting Michaels parents came next.

His father, Richard Carter, gruff and taciturna true English traditionalistgave me a hard, piercing stare over the dinner table.

A translator? Not a real job. Why arent you thinking about starting a family?

Dad Michael grimaced. Were working on it.

We just lived life in my day, didnt work at it, came the grumble.

His mother, Anne Carter, was gentle and eruditea retired English teacher.

I suppose I was almost your colleague, in a way, she smiled, spent my life teaching English Lit to sixth formers.

You taught? Michael never mentioned

Not worth mentioning, Richard muttered. She earnt next to nothing.

Not true, Anne protested gently. I loved teaching.

She smiled at me, something kind and familiar in her gaze. And I see a kindred spirit in you. You have clear eyesyou must love language too?

Very much, I replied, feeling my anxiety melt away.

Anne and I talked about books all evening. She warmed to me instantly; Richard remained cold.

Shes a pretty ornament, but useless for business, I overheard him grumble.

Michael soon insisted I quit work.

Love, youre meant for finer things, he crooned, kissing my hand. You could be the heart of our home. Youre too clever to waste energy on other peoples contracts. Focus on art, or charity, or just yourself.

But I love my job

Youll love your new life even more.

So I left. Became the perfect hostess in his country house, planning parties, shining at soirees.

Then we tried for children. A year. Then two. Each negative test stung. Consultations ended with a blunt diagnosis: infertility.

Its my fault, Id sob.

Nonsense, Michael would say, though his hugs grew colder, his frustration sharper. Moneys no concern. Well do IVF, get the best. We must have an heir.

Desperate, I grew blind to everything elsehis increasing absences, his growing irritation.

Around the same time, my father, Roger, fell seriously ill. Charlotte and I took turns caring for himthere was no one else. Wed lost Mum young to pneumonia after an allergic reaction to a simple mushroom.

Dad had risen from factory engineer to a successful logistics manmodest but independent.

He died three days before his fiftieth birthday. The funeral passed in a fog. Michael was polite, even attentive, but conversation always crept back to inheritance paperwork.

Grief-stricken, I paid no heed. Only now, in this hospital, did I realise how disastrously trusting Id been.

Looking back, I remembered Michaels fathers words at our first meetingpretty, but empty. An ornament.

Two days blurred by in hospital, indistinguishable except for Michaels conspicuous absence. Once I was stable, I was moved to a shared ward. There was bustle, the smell of foodlife again.

On the first day, Charlotte arrived.

At first, I barely recognised her. The teenager Id left behind was now a careworn young woman.

Em Em she sobbed, burying her face in my shoulder.

Hush now, I soothed, stroking her hair. Whats wrong? Youve changed so much

Three years, Em! I was terrified for you

Sitting on my bed, she finally calmed.

Em, I have terrible news.

Worse than this? I forced a wry smile.

Michael he he kicked me out. Charlottes whisper quivered.

I froze.

Kicked you? Thats your house too. Dad left it to both of us.

Michael says its his now. Says you signed away your share years ago. I didnt believe ittill he showed me the deeds. Changed all the locks. Came home from uni to find my things dumped by the front gate.

Again, those damned papers.

Thats not all, Charlotte rummaged in her handbag for a crumpled envelope. Hes filed for divorce.

I took the envelope, my hands shaking.

Whats he saying?

Hes accusing youof moral failings and ingratitude. After his heroism. Hes told everyone he saved your life donating blood.

Of course I muttered flatly. What about youwhere are you staying?

In halls, sharing a room with a mate. Em, weve got nothing left.

Well see about that, I whispered, a foreign resolve rising within me. As long as Ive got the strength.

Charlotte just hugged me, tears in her eyes, afraid for my health.

Recovery draggedslow, sticky time. Thank God my body was young and stubborn. I never saw Michael again; he gleaned all news from the consultant, steering clear of me.

I realised hed been waitingall these yearsfor that flat line on the heart monitor.

After two more weeks, they released me.

Standing by the hospital gates with a shabby overnight bagMargarets doingI called Michael.

Oh, youre out, his tone was almost cheery. Excellent.

Michael, I have no money. My cards

Cards are invalid, darling, he sneered. Youve been gone for three years. Everythings blocked.

He paused, cold. Prepare for the divorce. Sorry, but Im not waiting another three years for you to show up. My solicitor will be in touch. Dont contact me again.

He hung up.

I sat on the nearest bench. It was May. Three yearsthree springsgone.

Charlotte picked me up with an old pair of jeans and a tee shirt.

Come to mine, Em. The halls arent much, but

I realised, walking out of hospital, that I felt as helpless as a child.

Charlottes tiny dorm was crammed: two beds, one table covered in sketches and sewing scraps. She was studying design now.

I sat in silence, looking out the window. All that showy lifethe perfect wife, the house, the dresseshad collapsed like cardboard scenery.

I need to get a job, I announced that evening.

What? You need to rest! You can barely walk Charlotte protested.

Stop it. The doctor said no medical constraints. Weve got nothingwe need money. I still know three foreign languages.

I took her battered laptop, opened a job search site, scanning the listings. The words made senseI could read them.

There, see? I remember everything.

I opened a document to try a translationand froze.

Foreign words danced in my mind, but when I tried to write them in English, the sentences slipped awayscattered, impossible to string together.

Whats happening to me? I panicked, switching to French. Same resultI understood, but the act of reformulating in English hit an invisible wall.

Next morning, I returned to the hospital.

Dr Bennett listened gravely. After some tests, he confirmed: Residual aphasia from your injury. The area of your brain responsible for language was affected.

So Im disabled now? I whispered.

No, not at all. Its likely temporary. The damage isnt permanent. Practice, patience, restyoull recover in time.

But I need workmoneynow!

Dont push yourself. Recovery first. The rest will come.

That evening, I asked Charlotte: If I cant translate, what else can I do?

You ran our home like clockwork, she reminded me gently. You cook, make places feel warm.

Running a household, I grimaced. Thats something, I suppose.

Next day, I visited a domestic staffing agency.

The woman at the reception gave me a once-over.

Work experience?

I kept the house runninga big house, I said quietly.

Housewife. Not precisely a profession. Anything else?

She noted the fresh scar at my temple, peeking from my hair.

What happened to you?

I was in hospital after an accident, I replied.

She tutted. You look peaky, frankly. We need live-in staff in top health. But Ill call you if we find anything.

Please I said, hands clenched, desperate. Ill do anything. Clean, cook, mind childrenanything.

She softened a little. There is one post. But its a tough one. Consultant surgeon, Dr James Langley, needs a governess for his daughter. Shes nine.

Ill take it.

Not so fast. I said its difficult. Three nannies have quit in as many weeks. His wife died in a car accident two years ago. Since then, hes immersed himself in work, and his daughters withdrawnbarely speaks. Take it or leave it.

The flat was elegant, overlooking the Thames, but chillingly quiet.

Dr Langley was tall, stern, haunted by exhaustion and grief.

Youre Mrs Emily Carter, he said, not even questioning. Agency told me. The girls rooms down the hall. Thats Alice. Settle in and meet her.

He vanished into his study.

I knocked.

Alice?

No answer. Gently, I opened the door.

A thin little girl with plaits sat on the floor, glued to a tablet. Not a glance.

Hello, Alice, I said softly. Im Emily. Id like to help with your schoolwork.

Silence. No movement. She tensed but didnt look up.

Sighing, I realised this job would be even more of a challenge than I thought.

Dr Langley left early every day, returning late at night. Our paths barely crossed. Alice stuck to silencemechanically eating, bathing, doing homework, then vanishing into her room with her tablet.

I recognised something in herpain Id tasted myself.

On the third evening I snapped, walking in without knocking.

Alice, thats enough screen time, I said, gentle but firm.

She shot me a wary lookalmost feral.

You know, I continued, determined, when I was your age, I loved working with clay. I think you have some on your shelf, too.

Indeed: a box of plasticine and modelling clay. I took some, sat down cross-legged.

Would you like to help me build a castle? For a princess. With towers.

Kneading clumsily at first, slowly my fingers remembered how to mould. My tongue still tangled words, but I could work with my hands.

Alice watched through her fringe.

Its wrong, she murmured, almost inaudibly.

What is?

She needs the tallest tower.

So together, in silence, we shaped our castle.

That evening, tidying toys, I found a battered sketchbook beneath her bed.

Whats this? I reached for it.

Dont! Alice snatched it. Its Mummys.

Your Mummys? Did she draw?

A nod. Tenderly, Alice opened the first page.

Not photos, but drawingsdelicate sketches of imaginary creatures, jigsaw puzzles, soft toys seamed with love. Ingenious designs for educational toys. On the last pagea flying bird, clutching a cube, and the words: Eleanors Studio. Clever toys for special children.

Special children? I echoed.

Mum wanted her own studio, Alice sniffed. For kids like Ben.

Ben?

My friend. Mums friends son. He doesnt talk. Mum said special children need different toys, ones that help. Daddy said it was silly, though.

I stroked Alices hair, poring over the sketchesthe lifework of a woman Id never met, brimming with vision.

I barely slept. Those designs, Eleanor, Alices longing for her motherI resolved to make the dream real.

The following evening, I waited for Dr Langley to come home. He looked up, wearily rubbing his eyes.

Alice in bed? he asked.

Yes. AndI wanted to show you something.

I set the sketchbook on the table.

He stared, glass in hand. Where did you find that?

Alice and I discovered it. Its incredible, Dr Langley

Put it away, he said coldly. Now. You had no right. Thats private.

Youre wrong, I surprised myself with how firm I sounded. This was your wifes dream. And your daughters.

Dont dare talk about my wife! You know nothing!

Perhaps. But I do know your daughter. She lights up when she touches this book.

At that moment, Alice herself appearedbarefoot, in pyjamas.

Daddy, why are you cross with Emily?

A flicker of pain replaced his anger.

Darling, go to bed. Its

Its Mummys book, Alice said, hugging it. Emily and I are going to make toys.

Her eyes were alivefire he hadnt seen in two years.

Dr Langley looked from Alice to mehesitated, then gave in.

Do what you want, he said, hollow. I wont stop you, but I cant help. Theres no money for this.

He closed his study door.

I wouldnt give up.

That night I called Charlotte.

Youre a designer

In student terms! she replied.

I need your help. Were up to something.

Evenings saw us working from the guestroomCharlotte with her battered laptop, me sourcing plywood and fabric with the last of my cash. My taste and her eye for design turned Eleanors dreams into real toysat first, just a rainbow puzzle.

At first, Dr Langley ignored us. Then I heard him on the phone:

Hi, Marian. James Langley here. Got a bizarre little project goinggoverness making toys for special kids. What, like Ellie wanted. No, just come and have a look.

Next day, Marian arriveda woman in her forties with gentle eyes. Beside her, a boy of about seven, muttering and rocking on his feet.

Hello, Im Mariana psychologist, a friend of James. He told me youre making something?

Thats Ben, she added, fondly. Hes autistic.

I nodded, offering the new rainbow puzzle.

Ben, usually indifferent, paused. Stopped rocking. Reached for one arch, turned it over, placed it precisely.

Marian gasped, covering her mouth.

Hes never her tears started. Never.

Ben was absorbed, focused for the first time.

Emily Marian said almost reverently. You need to make more. Spread the word. Parents like me we need this.

Marian became our champion, bringing more families on board. Soon we had orders. Charlottes eyes shone when I said, Looks like we need to set up as a limited company.

One evening, Dr Langley arrived home to find the lounge-turned-workshop filled with offcuts and laughter. Charlotte, Alice and I were packing our first order in brown paper.

He paused in the doorway.

I met his gazesteady, unyielding, unafraid. For the first time, he looked straight back.

Marian, are you sure? I asked later, holding a page of handwritten orders in my trembling hands.