Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

Twenty-five minutes past seven. I refresh my email, and seven new ones appear from skin care brands reminding me of my age. Then I go to the wardrobe and pull out a wooden box engraved with elephants. It’s where I keep the pieces of Dad that Mum didn’t burn. Inside is the photograph that Catherine gave me last Christmas. I don’t feel anything when I look at it. We are both strangers. You have to work to keep the dead alive, but no one helped me with Dad. That’s enough of that , No point dwelling in the past , and None of that silly business were commonly used.

I try to reconcile the man from my memory with the man from the image. Fragments come back like the middle pieces of a jigsaw: the sound of his laugh while watching television; the smell of his suit before work; how he rubbed his face when he was tired. He died twenty-one years ago. And it feels worse than last year because it’s the start of another decade without him. I can’t believe it’s almost Christmas again.

I press on my bruise until my eyes water.

I T WAS J ANUARY , BUT I kept my small plastic tree up. When I opened the door, he was grinning. Happy fake Christmas!

Happy fake Christmas.

We kissed, and he started removing layers. It’s a fucking desert in here, Enola. He walked down the hall to the kitchen, and I noticed his T-shirt. It was gray cotton and clung to him; the curve of his biceps, the depression at the base of his neck. There was a tag hanging. I got the nail scissors and cut it off for him. He moaned that he couldn’t return it now. Karen had bought it for him. All right, honey. Have you put the turkey in the oven?

It’s a chicken, but yes.

What did you stuff it with?

What do you mean?

He laughed and told me to put my feet up. Have you got an onion? A lemon will be overpowering. He said that he would pour me some wine, and when he handed me the glass, he pretended to be annoyed but his eyes were gleaming. He put Christmas music on, and I stared at the tree, the colored lights blurring the green. I used to lie beneath the tree when I was a child and imagine a magical world; Mum and Dad argued more over the holidays.

After we ate, and the dishes were piled in the sink, we lay on the sofa; his heart was beating fast, always fast, beneath the soft gray cotton. The air smelled like roast chicken and my eyelids kept trying to close. But then, in the stillness, the late sun illuminated the dust in the air, and I had this sensation—like my brain was creating the memory alongside experiencing the moment—and, in that second, I understood the versions of us that existed like strings on a harp: where we met in the pub; where we watched the sunset; where we walked among the gravestones. I even understood the alternative ones: where Dad spoke at our wedding; where our child was born; where I never took the bus that night and we never met. But then the sensation vanished in the way that a dream did when you woke from it. I lifted up and studied his paper face, tried to hold it in my mind.

What?

Nothing, just… déjà vu.

That isn’t real.

I rested back on his chest and circled the mole on his forearm. He asked me why I liked that mark so much. I told him that it looked like a planet. He said that all moles looked like planets, and I said that wasn’t true. His was unnaturally cylindrical. He kissed the top of my head and said: Well, that’s because it’s not actually a mole. I lifted up, and he laughed at my reaction. It’s a pencil mark from school. A girl called Tracy stabbed me with an HB in English class.

No way! You’ve been lying this whole time!

You got me.

I told him the story of when I was bitten as a baby. Mum was looking at nurseries, she left for a second, and then wham! I moved his fingers to the ridge on my skull. See? He said that explained a lot. We fell silent. He hummed “White Christmas,” and I listened to the vibrations in his chest. But then his breathing changed. I traced down his body. His fingers scrolled my thigh. We stood from the sofa and walked to the doorframe. I placed my palms on the wood. He lifted my skirt. His zipper dragged down. Oh god, I want him. I will always want him .

Fuck, honey…

His breath rattled in my ear.

Afterward, he kept his hands on mine. His mouth hot on my neck. I loved him more than I had ever loved anything. I wanted nothing but him. His smell covering my skin. His pulse under my hands. I wanted to swallow him, to drink him, to absorb him until I was more him than me. I wanted to make him happy. I wanted to reassure him. I wanted to please him. I wanted to serve him. I wanted to love him. I wanted to beg him to love me. But there was nothing else to do. No new depths. No new tricks. No new tool for worship. Before I could talk myself out of it, the words formed like mud.

I love you.

There was a kindness in the pause that followed that made me think he might tell me that he loved me too. But he wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. And so, with the weight of my words between us, he gave his answer.

Don’t be silly.

And just like that, the moment became the memory.

O KAY , HONEY . I UNDERSTAND .

I bet you do.

I hung up and threw my water glass against the bedroom wall. I drank the contents before throwing it, but the shards went everywhere—the floor, the bed, the corners of the room. I knew that I would be finding pieces weeks later: the damage.

Ruth ran in from the kitchen. Oh my god, are you okay? She looked at the smashed glass and then at my phone. Her pitch dropped. What did he say?

That he understood.

Of course he fucking did. She told me not to move and left the room, returning moments later with two cups of tea. She handed me mine the way she always did, with the handle first so that I wouldn’t burn my hands. We sat for a moment among the ruin, and then she said: Maybe your first impression of him was the right one.

What do you mean?

You didn’t like him.

I don’t remember that.

We were figure drawing, and you said he was rude and unpleasant. And, Enola, the thing is, sometimes the good bits of people aren’t the rule, they’re the exception.

I looked at the mug in my hand. It was the one that I would make his tea in because he liked the size. Neon orange with black print: LOOK FORWARD NOT BACK . I told Ruth that I couldn’t remember the bad bits. She squeezed my hand. I promise that you will, she said, smiling. She had a pale pink sheen on her lips.

But what if I ended it too early, Roo?

Were you happy?

I shook my head.

No, you weren’t. You were terrified of breathing. And, Enola, let me tell you, when something is real, you can’t ruin it. Like a van Gogh.

I told Ruth that I was pretty sure that I could ruin a van Gogh, and she looked relieved that I had made a joke.

My phone vibrated on the floor. I saw the name, and my hands went to my mouth. Ruth growled. Is it him? I nudged the phone toward her with my foot. She looked at it and then looked at me. She asked me if I was going to read it. I told her that I didn’t feel strong enough. She inhaled, held the breath for a second, and then said: Why don’t you rip off the Band-Aid and then tomorrow can be a new day? Remember, the universe doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle.

Will you read it?

If you want me to.

There was no one I wanted to hear bad news from more than Ruth, with that Scottish lilt from Catherine and Norwegian musicality from Jon. She was there the day I received the worst news of my life. We had eaten tacos while Jon took the phone call that confirmed what, in hindsight, everyone but me already knew.

I closed my eyes as she read silently. Then she told me to open my eyes. You need to read it for yourself. She put the phone in my hand. I read the email and burst into tears.

I loved the book. Can we find a time for you to come to the office and chat further? Diana

Ruth stood, held out her hand, and told me to get the hoover.