My Withdrawal

My Family Gathering
It was really only by chance that I noticed him there. He was pretty much tucked away at the back, trying to look as inconspicuous as a total stranger possibly could at somebody else’s family occasion. Smartly dressed, I have to admit, in a suit he had probably only bought that week. I clearly remember - it’s funny how you do - that it was an Armani suit. Now, they’re not cheap. Thinking about it, he may well have rented it. Yes, that sounds about right: that’s just the sort of person he is. All sizzle and no steak. Barks all day but never bites. Anyway, I digress. I saw him there just sitting in the back row, looking as if he wanted the ground to open up and just devour him there and then. Not literally, of course. What I’m saying is, he didn’t seem particularly comfortable with his situation. Not that anybody else in the church was exactly having a whale of a time, I suppose. Religion and my family have never got along. Oh, we would always go to church for the “Big Four”; weddings, christenings, funerals and fêtes. I don’t think anyone in my family would pray, or go to church in their own time. I’m almost positive they didn’t. In fact, they probably needed directions to find it on that day, I’m sure. I remember as a child, my grandparents on my mother’s side - now they used to go to church daily. They came from an Irish background, devout Catholics, if they missed even a day, they’d go twice the next day. So maybe, by the time my mother was old enough to make her own decisions, she had already decided against pursuing a life of religious devotion. Headed, even, in the complete opposite direction.

My Wife
My wife, Sarah, and I were married in a Register Office. Personally, I would have been happy enough with a big church affair, but she wanted to keep it “low key”. Very low key, as it turned out, as she didn’t even invite any guests! That said, it was a magnificent day. It really was. My father had hired out a limousine, a wonderful stretched limousine; shiny black with leather interior and, I noticed at the time, it had huge wheels, much bigger than you might expect on a limousine to be honest, stretched or otherwise. On the way to the Register’s Office, sod’s law, we had a blow out. A flat tyre, would you believe it? We tried to find a spare but the nearest one of that size that we could find at that short notice was in Edinburgh. Five hours away. So I arrived at my wedding in a minicab. Sarah was waiting, of course, expecting the happiest day of her life. And when I arrived in the cab, well, I could see, even as we were pulling up, what I would describe as concern in her eyes. For my safety, I assumed, because of the blow out incident with the car. It was almost as if... as if, she was almost reluctant to go through with the wedding, because of the shock. Because of the shock of nearly losing me. I told her it really wasn’t that bad, but after that, she was a nervous wreck for the rest of the day, and it even spilled over to the honeymoon. She wouldn’t eat, she was barely speaking, she cried quite a bit as well. I mean, I was furious… well, I haven’t taken a cab since. How this is relevant to the church, I don’t know, because that wasn’t even held in a church. However, on the day I was previously referring to, seven years later, everybody I knew was packed into a church, which was a turn up for the books. You see, it was one of the aforementioned “Big Four”: it was my funeral.

My Power Cut
The week leading up to my funeral was rather a miserable time in my life. I suppose in hindsight, that was a good thing. It would be quite the anti-climax to have a progressively good week, only to then die at the end of it. Let me see; well, the funeral was on a Monday, so that means that I must have died on the… Thursday, I think. Yes, that sounds about right. Yes, because it was my birthday on the Monday prior. It was a great day, it really was. Bit disappointed, because Sarah couldn’t actually make it. She didn’t get home until long after I was in bed. I forget why. Despite this, the kids and I had a great time and we ate the cake that I had bought at Tesco the day before at a bargain price of £1.99! A fun time was had all round, by all accounts, and then the kids went to bed and Daddy had a couple of birthday drinkies and watched Newsnight. It was a shame Sarah missed it because she would have really enjoyed it. It was on the Tuesday afternoon actually that my week started to go downhill in rapid fashion. I had just woken up, and was about to hit the shower when all of a sudden, all of the lights went out. A power cut! And it’s an electric shower, so now that’s out of the question. Well, the other houses in the street were all working fine, lights on, televisions, so I tried to ring an electrician, and, would you believe, the phone was out of order too. It was a plug into the wall job, so no power, no signal, no phone. I was stuck. I remembered noticing a few weeks earlier that Sarah kept a spare mobile phone in a cardboard box inside a cupboard in the spare room. So, I decided to go and dig out this old, spare mobile phone to ring the electrician. Luckily I didn’t have to dig far, it was on top of the cardboard box, and it was turned on! My luck was in! It was then that I discovered the messages.

My Principles
I had heard the name "Rick" before, Sarah had mentioned him once or twice. Somebody she went to school with, she said. He had moved away for a promotion about seven years ago, and had returned just a few months back. I had never met him. I had just heard her mention him a couple of times over the phone, to her friends I suppose. I had picked up the phone and was just about to ring the electrician when a text message was delivered. The phone didn't make a sound. A little envelope popped up on the screen and the words “1 New Message from: Rick”. I felt as though I shouldn’t read it: after all, you have to respect peoples’ privacy. So I rung the electrician, I put the phone back where I found it, the electrician arrived and fixed my blown fuse and I had my shower. However, it was on my mind. Why was this “Rick” sending messages to a phone my wife keeps in a cardboard box in the spare room? What did he want? What did he say? What should I do? Apprehensively, ominously, I felt my foot reaching toward the staircase. Then I made the decision which would ultimately lead to my demise. I began to ascend.

My Funeral
You can imagine my surprise when I noticed this smartly dressed Armani man in the back row of the congregation at my funeral. Rick. He had tip-toed in about halfway through the service, and slinked into the nearest seat he could find. I couldn’t read his face. Did he feel guilt? Surely he must have felt some? After all, would I have done what I did if it wasn’t for him? Sarah shed a tear or two, but nothing too strenuous. My parents were what you might describe as “inconsolable”. I did not feel proud. My children were not there. I couldn’t help wondering where they were and who was looking after them, mainly because my wife’s sister was nowhere to be seen and she was notoriously lacking in child minding skills. I later found out that they were at Rick’s parents’ house. Can you believe that? My sister-in-law missed my funeral! I never liked her. She was the antithesis of Sarah. Sarah was loyal, loving, a wonderful mother. A wonderful wife. We had a lovely solid marriage, right up until her affair.

My Purgatory
She married Rick, not a year from the day of my funeral. My children grew up calling him “Dad”. He gave my daughter away at her wedding. They moved into a lovely four bedroom house, it has to be said, and had a son of their own. Rick died nearly a year ago now, just four days shy of his 77th birthday, which is a good age. Well, not for him obviously, but he was hardly snatched away in his prime. I wonder where he is now. If I had gone to church maybe I would have spent the last five decades in heaven, or wherever Rick has gone, instead of having to spend it here on Earth. Maybe this is hell? Watching the people you love from afar, and from the same room; watching their pain, watching their grief, watching moments of blissful happiness and infinite sadness unfold before your very eyes with no way of helping, no way of communicating with them. Sarah is alone now. The kids visited nearly every day when Rick first died, but now she might see them once a week. I sit with her most nights. I ask her if she loved me. Sometimes I get the feeling she knows someone is there, but she just thinks it’s Rick. Haven’t seen anything of Rick since the day he kicked the bucket. I’m the one who’s here for her, watching her, guarding her. But in death, just as in life, I guess I’m still second best.