12

Clara – One Year Later

I am fine on my own. I’ve always been fine on my own. I love the silence in the house. When Edward was still around and the children were at home I often couldn’t wait until the door shut behind them. I then sat on the sofa with a coffee. Motionless. Enjoying the silence. Enjoying that no one made demands on me. I was busy sitting there, as I am always busy. Don’t misunderstand me. I span my cocoon. I made it whole again. When people are around – even the ones I love dearly – my cocoon gets pierced with little tiny holes. And then they frighten me, because they can attack me through these holes. And sometimes they do indeed attack me. At least, they used to. When I still had to mingle with people because life wouldn’t allow me to do otherwise. When the children were small, when Edward was around. I don’t know why my cocoon is so porous. I don’t even know if others have a cocoon at all. Need a cocoon. The moment I came in contact with people my cocoon would become brittle and I had to keep people at bay. I didn’t want them to peep through the holes, to see me naked. Of course, most people didn’t want to do me any harm. But their mere presence pierced holes. And they came too close.

Mending the delicate fabric of the cocoon took a lot of effort and time. That’s what I used to do when I sat on the sofa for hours. I didn’t have a rocking chair. Even a rocking chair would have caused too much turbulence. You can’t mend a delicate fabric while in motion. It requires careful needlework. Painstakingly picking up the stitches with a very fine needle. I unplugged the telephone and didn’t answer the door for the postman. I needed the silence, the safety of my four walls around me. I still do. But I have become better. Perhaps all the mending and repairing has led to the cocoon being stuck, being sewn to my skin. And my skin has turned into leather. And now I am finally thick-skinned.

I miss Edward. Edward was my link to the outside world. I felt safe with him. He wasn’t scared of people; he could handle them. I wasn’t always kind to him, but he forgave me and that was a nice feeling. In bed I used to put my head on his shoulder and my feet underneath his feet. It didn’t matter how angry I had been during the day. He died in the middle of the night. He simply slipped away. I must have noticed something because I turned around and put my arm around him and knew straight away that he wasn’t breathing any longer. I didn’t move. I closed my eyes and breathed for the two of us. The morning came and I still didn’t move. As long as I stayed in bed nothing had changed.

The silence after his departure was different. More absolute, of course. Initially I worried that I might feel lonely. But I didn’t. Loneliness has never bothered me. Loneliness for me is something beautiful. It means the absence of danger. The absence of danger of being attacked. Why then did I become so angry when I was lying at the bottom of the stairs in Rose Gardens? So angry that I couldn’t get up. Anger overcomes me in a blind rage. It overcomes me when I suddenly see myself from the outside and I see a lonely, old, batty woman and I think this shouldn’t be. What this? My situation, my status, my circumstances. From the outside a lonely old woman should be cared for, looked after. And so I insist and demand because I know that anyone looking onto the scene from the outside shakes their head and says, This shouldn’t be. I forget myself, I forget who I am, that silence and loneliness are my haven. It doesn’t make me feel lonely.

Michele’s house makes me feel lonely. I walk around in it. I know every corner, every drawer, every slip of paper laying around.

And I found the four black bin liners stuffed with Jim’s clothes.

They are the bin liners I have seen in my dream. And I thought it was me who was throwing Edward on to the rubbish heap. No. Michele has thrown Jim on to the rubbish heap. I sat down on her bed and stared at the four black bin bags in her wardrobe. Why hasn’t he come to pick them up? Why hasn’t she taken them away? I closed the door and returned to my basement and sat on the rocking chair. And I rocked back and forth, back and forth.

And I cried for Michele.

I felt so sorry that I had seen those black bin liners. That I had laid eyes on them. That I had pierced her silence. I don’t know why they broke up, whether he left her or she threw him out or they separated on mutual terms. All I know is that neither I nor anyone else should have laid eyes on those bin liners. They belong in my dreams, and there they should have stayed. I didn’t have the right to create a situation where they materialized in reality.

I picked up the phone and dialled her mobile. Her voicemail came on. I put down the phone. For a moment I hesitated. Should I ring again and leave a message? But what did I want to say? I was sobbing. And the only words that came to mind were, I am sorry. I am sorry for the black bin liners in your wardrobe. I am sorry that I created a situation where the bin bags from my dream have turned up in your life. She wouldn’t have understood. She doesn’t understand such talk. She is far too pragmatic. She’d probably have listened impatiently and then, as soon as the telephone call was finished, she would have called Hilary or Larissa and told them to pass by and check on me. I don’t need anyone to check on me, thank you very much. I have created mayhem. And I need to undo it. And I know what to do. Words won’t mean anything in this situation. Perhaps one day, when all of this is over, I will be able to talk to Michele and say that I am sorry in a way that she will understand. Now there is no time to find the right words. Now I have things to do.