Why had he called me now when an ex reaches out in his last days

By Mark WhiteUpdated August 14, 2021 â€" 8.08amfirst published August 13, 2021 â€" 2.01pm

He was unwell, seriously so, he wrote, and he wanted to talk: “Before I. Um.”

The email arrived in March 2020, just before everything stopped. A week’s worth of news was piling up every hour, none of it good. Wuhan citizens welded into their homes. Carnage in Lombardy hospitals thanks to an invisible, unknown enemy that was â€" surely! â€" already lurking around every sunny Sydney corner and in every careless cough or sneeze. So many impossible things were happening that another barely made an impression, even this.

Did I really want to hear what he had to say? What if he wanted to see me? Could I say no?Credit:Illustration by Liz Rowland

Let’s call him The Ghost. I hadn’t seen him in seven years after he’d skipped a date with me to go to … a music lesson.

When we first met, I’d fallen hard: he was intelligent, charismatic, good-looking. But after a few months he’d vanished. It untethered me. Then followed a prolonged period of me trying to forget him, getting back in touch, meeting up, before he’d vanish again. I’d send an angry text or email, trying to break the connection, but without success.

Then he started contacting me, still with the same results, leaving me wondering why I found it so impossible to move on, as if I was attached to him via an elastic band.

I have a tendency towards sticking with things until the bitter end and beyond â€" I spent a year on a waiting list for Franklin, the mini-groodle who’d arrived in early winter â€" but playing second fiddle to a music lesson? I’d always felt he liked me more than he let on, but I’d warned him before this latest no-show that this was his last chance. To my surprise I’d finally meant it, and hadn’t heard from him since.

So why had he called me now? What had the prospect of imminent death â€" he’d never expected to grow old due to a medical condition â€" loosened in him? And did I really want to hear what he had to say?

I’d been on an intense spiritual kick for a few months, but this upended my good vibes. Round and round my mind circled. I wanted to do the right thing, but what the hell was that?

I’d speak to him, I thought nobly. The horror. What if he wanted to see me? Could I say no? I’d been on an intense spiritual kick for a few months, but this upended my good vibes. Round and round my mind circled, like a car stuck on a roundabout. I wanted to do the right thing, but what the hell was that? I didn’t want to be in an awkward situation, but I didn’t want to disappoint a dying man, either.

My thoughts were like moths head-butting a street lamp on a silky summer’s evening. I texted my most spiritually inclined mate for advice. “Is it just a bit of fear that is stopping you?” she replied. “You will say/do the right thing.”

Fear, yes, but what was the right thing? The head-butting continued throughout the evening, pausing for a restless sleep. As I rose with the sun I talked my way in and out of phoning him, each decision lasting about 20 seconds before being flipped.

Then it got weird. I’d been playing “Let’s pretend we’re not looking at each other” with a guy on the city express bus â€" startling green eyes, AirPods, got on at Narrabeen â€" for months. I idly wondered what he would do. To my astonishment, I received a good-natured mental reply: “Call him, you idiot.” And just like that, I found the roundabout exit.

I decided to phone The Ghost the next day, late afternoon. Naturally enough I dialled at 9am instead, hiding my caller ID. I’d picked an opening line â€" something like, “I’m genuinely sorry to hear about your health” â€" and would see what happened next.

His phone rang several times, then went to voicemail, totally throwing me. His greeting played and it was time to speak. I stumbled through my words and my mind went blank. From nowhere, I found myself saying, “For what it’s worth, I forgive you for everything,” and added, again from nowhere, “and I forgive myself, too.”

Small mercies are better received late than not at all. I thought I’d forgiven him, but I hadn’t really been able to until now. Without forgetting his behaviour, I accepted my role in what had happened, in everything I’d done and not done; no one can ever tango on their own. It was time to move beyond blame.

Small mercies are better received late than not at all. I thought I’d forgiven him, but I hadn’t really been able to until now.

Through meditation and yoga â€" which I only took up because I met him â€" I was coming to appreciate ever more fully that giving is receiving and that, in a profound way, we are all connected. And I knew I was grateful for everything that had happened â€" the giddy opening months, the heartbreak, all the good, all the bad, everything â€" because it had led me to this moment, to where I was supposed to be, to the unexpected words I’d just spoken that had freed me from the past.

I said my goodbyes and ended the call, the day lighter and brighter despite the gathering storm.

Mark White is a production casual for The Age and The Sydney Morning Herald.

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