11

I waved one last time to Tim, who was looking at me through the window. The letters “Care Bears” cheerfully decorated the façade above his head. Tim’s day-care centre was located in a different neighbourhood to ours, which meant that I had to make a daily ten-minute detour by bike before continuing my journey to work. I put my foot on the pedal and cycled off to work in Amsterdam-West, which took me a good twenty minutes. While on the way home from work the streets were always crowded with people, Amsterdam was still asleep around this time of the morning. It was my favourite moment of the day as it was the only time I had to myself nowadays. No child, no work, no responsibilities.

I passed a number of canal boats and cycled all the way down the Prinsengracht. I raced over the next intersection and ignored the loud honking of the angry driver coming from the right. In Amsterdam cyclists have right of way no matter what, Lindsey always joked.

I glanced at the watch that my mother had bought me for my birthday last year. It was ten to eight, leaving me ten minutes before my first consultation as a family doctor would start. Although I always had the intention to arrive well in time, lately I was struggling to manage, which was unusual for me.

When I arrived at the practice, I parked my bike next to that of my colleague Hans, with whom I’d been working for a few years. Our family practice offered medical guidance to people with a variety of ethnical backgrounds, an aspect of my work I took much joy in. Hans had started in the practice about eight years earlier than I had and therefore had just the right experience. When we’d met we’d felt an instant connection.

The first patient was already seated in the waiting area as I entered the practice somewhat out of breath. I rushed into my consulting room, opened the connecting door between Hans’s space and mine and called out “good morning.” Hans sat behind his desk, his hair all tousled. I smiled and wondered if he’d even bothered to comb it this morning. ‘He’s a good guy, honestly, but he’d never get lucky with me’, Lindsey had stated rather boldly when she’d met Hans once. I glanced at the framed picture of his wife, whom he’d met years ago at their Church, and their two children.

I wanted to retreat again, but Hans called after me. “Today it’s your turn to supervise Tom, remember?”

I closed my eyes for a moment and swore softly. I’d completely forgotten about that. “Of course I remember,” I lied.

Tom was a first-year medical student who was doing his residency with us. He had his own consulting room on the other side of the waiting area and was seeing patients by himself, but with every ailment that was more complicated than a bruised toe or a wart that needed to be taken care of, he presented his diagnosis to us. I still vividly recalled how insecure I felt back then. You study hard for several years, work your socks off during two years of rotations, only to find out you still don’t know anything.

While my computer was starting up, I rubbed my temples. I’d once again been struggling to fall asleep last night. The day had yet to begin and I was already feeling drained. I logged in, noted the time at the bottom of my computer screen and realised that only a few minutes remained to get a much-needed dose of caffeine.

I stuck my head around the door to Hans’ room again and asked if he wanted a coffee as well.

“Thank you. Lots of milk please,” he added, as if I wouldn’t know after so many years. Hans looked at me thoughtfully and I wondered if I should have put on some makeup this morning. “Are you alright?”

I put on an expression of reassurance and nodded.

He swivelled his chair to face me and folded his hands in his lap. “Do you think you may have returned to work a little too early?” He was wearing the grey, woollen jumper that reminded me of a college student from the nineteen eighties. His green eyes looked at me gently through his round glasses. “After all, it’s only been a month or two.”

Two months and nine days, to be precise, since my life had changed forever. “As if I’d forget,” I said, immediately regretting my sneer.

He generously ignored my comment. “Would it be a good idea if you were to take some more time off? It’s no problem to hire a temporary employee. You see …” He faltered for a moment and an apologetic expression appeared on his face. “You look a wee bit tired.”

I swallowed an unpleasant response and forced a smile. “That’s a very kind gesture. But I’m fine. Honestly. It’s actually quite nice to get some distraction at work,” I added, which was only partly true. It was hard to admit that I was desperately trying to salvage my life and sanity.

“Two cups of coffee coming right up,” I said breezily and swiftly left Hans’ consultation room to avoid any more complicated questions. When I returned a little later, to my relief a female patient was sitting across from Hans. I set the mug on his desk, closed the door between our rooms and took a sip from my own coffee, after which I walked to the waiting area.

“Mr Visser. You’re next.”

A man of about seventy years old staggered towards me.

We shook hands. “Have a seat.”

He lowered himself slowly onto the chair opposite me.

I put on a friendly expression. “How may I help you?”

“Doctor, it’s the valve again.”

I looked at him questioningly. “The valve?”

He pointed his finger to his chest. “Drives me nuts. My heart valve. I think the leak has worsened again.” The old man’s local accent led me to presume he’d lived in this neighbourhood all his life.

I opened his digital patient file and noticed that he indeed was suffering from tricuspid insufficiency for years.

“I used to be quite sprightly for me age, you know – was fit as a fiddle. But now …I’m worn out all the time, can’t even walk to the bingo room in one go. I need to stop at least twice on the way – I practically look like an old man.”

I smiled.

“My ankles are all swollen up,” he went on, looking at me with a glint in his eye. “How am I supposed to chase the ladies?”

I took my stethoscope from my pocket. “May I have a listen?”

The old man slowly unbuttoned his tiger print shirt and I slid the diaphragm of my instrument under his vest. I confirmed the heart murmur that was so typical of this disease. Then I took his blood pressure and saw that it was elevated.

“Right. You may button up again.”

While he was getting dressed, I went through his patient file and noticed that he was taking medication for high blood pressure.

“Well, Mr Visser,” I said, turning my attention back to my patient. “You’re suffering from what we call a tricuspid insufficiency.”

He looked at me in confusion.

“Also called a leaking valve, on the right side of the heart,” I explained. “It shouldn’t cause any serious problems, however it’s important that we keep it under control. Your blood pressure has risen again. Are you taking your medication every day?”

He paused for a moment before answering. “Sometimes I forget about the pill.”

The ringtone of my mobile phone suddenly sounded and I scolded myself for forgetting to turn the sound off. I noticed ‘anonymous’ on the display.

I turned away, raised a finger at Mr Visser and gestured: this will only take a moment.

“Jennifer Smits speaking.”

“Good morning Mrs Smits, this is Detective Armstrong. My apologies for calling you at this time. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

I thought of my morning routine of showering, waking Tim, changing his nappy and getting him dressed, trying to get him to eat his sandwich, Tim throwing up and me changing his jumper, luring him into his seat on my bike with sweets, three goodbye kisses at his day-care and cycling for half an hour.

“Not a problem at all.”

“Good. I just wanted to update you on the investigation into the death of your spouse.”

A knot formed in my stomach. I glanced at my patient, who was sat less than a metre from me. “Can I call you back later? I’m at work.”

“Certainly.”

After writing down the detective’s number, I hung up and wondered if the coroner might have found something – something abnormal that shouldn’t have been there.

“Hello?” I heard from afar. Mr Visser waved his hand in front of my face. “Doctor Smits, are you all right?”

I apologised and then gave my patient a friendly yet firm lecture on taking his medication, to which he promised to try harder.

In the following hour I saw a mother with a son who had burnt himself with an iron, sent a patient with a prolonged cough to the pulmonologist and prescribed antibiotics to a student with a throat infection.

Around half past nine, to my relief, I had a ten-minute gap in my programme during which I quickly got another cup of coffee.

Once back in my room, I sat down on my chair, took my mobile phone out of my pocket and dialled the number.

“Armstrong,” he barked.

“Good morning detective. This is Jennifer Smits speaking. You called me earlier this morning. You wanted to have a word with me about the investigation into my husband’s death, Oliver?” At first impulse I’d felt surprised that the police considered his death suspicious. However, I knew professionally that they were obliged to perform an investigation and after giving it more thought I was happy that they wanted to rule out any foul play.

He paused for a moment. “Yes, yes,” he stammered, in a friendlier tone.

I heard the rustling of paper in the background as I took a sip of my coffee.

“We’ve received all the test results. I’m happy to inform you we’ve discovered nothing abnormal. The toxicology tests didn’t reveal the presence of any drugs or medication. The autopsy on your husband’s body was also entirely in line with our expectations.” The detective coughed and then carried on summarising his findings. “No traces of violence were found. Neither on the body, nor at the location where your husband was discovered. Finally, no foreign forensic material was detected.”

I hooked my feet around the chair legs and leaned backwards, mumbling a few words of relief.

“Your husband had a large wound on the back of his head that matched the rock he landed on. In all likelihood, he became unconscious almost instantly after his fall and died as a result of severe blood loss from his head injury. I feel therefore confident to conclude that your husband’s cause of death was related to an unfortunate chain of events after an accidental fall. He just had terrible luck, to summarise it bluntly.”

His words echoed through my mind. Unfortunate chain of events… Terrible luck…

How was it possible that he’d plummeted down the slope with such force that his injuries were fatal, I wondered. It was hardly the edge of a cliff or a steep mountainside. Perhaps he’d been all worked up by our argument to the point of becoming reckless.

“Mrs Smits, are you still there?”

I snapped to attention. “Yes, I am,” I quickly said.

“Is everything clear?”

I closed my eyes and rubbed my face. “I guess so,” I responded, although I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved with this conclusion or not. Oliver’s death just seemed even more senseless.

“So what happens now? Is this it?”

“Yes. We’ll finalise our report, for which we won’t need your help. You can come over to our office and collect your husband’s personal belongings. I’ll leave them for you at the reception. If anything else comes up, we’ll contact you. Although that seems unlikely.”

“Thank you so much for your explanation and efforts.”

“At your service. I wish you all the best.”

I was ready to hang up when Detective Armstrong interjected, “Oh yes, one more thing.” After a short pause he continued, broaching an odd topic. “Well, it may be a bit of an impertinent question I suppose … but were you by any chance aware of your husband preferring certain types of underwear?”

I wondered if I’d misheard. “Certain types of underwear?”

“Did he have a rather distinct, unusual taste in this area?” His voice sounded as if he felt as uncomfortable as I was with this conversation.

“Not a chance,” I assured him.

“He didn’t have, er … dare I say a fetish, as they call it nowadays?”

What was this man talking about? “He always wore normal boxer shorts. You know, typical men’s underwear. Why are you asking?”

“Right,” he mumbled and then paused for a brief moment. “That’s peculiar. Your husband was wearing red, lace knickers when he died. They appeared to be ladies underwear.”

I felt utterly gobsmacked. A long awkward silence filled the air as I took it all in. “This doesn’t make any sense. He never wore anything like that.” What was that man thinking? Was he taking the mickey out of me? Surely, he wasn’t inferring that my husband wore my underwear, or worse, that he’d get turned on by it?

“I see. Perhaps your husband may have liked to wear your knickers. Or he may have bought a pair for himself to give it a try. Trust me, this seems quite normal compared to the situations I’ve encountered. You wouldn’t believe the things I come across. Just when I think I’ve seen it all, a unique situation will present itself that knocks my socks off. There are a lot of weird people out there. Sometimes I wonder if I should quit and be done with the absurdity, or rejoice in the quirkiness of my job.”

I felt lost for words. “But how …” I stammered.

“Very well. Not to worry. Mrs Smits, you take care now. I wish you and your son all the best. Goodbye.”

Before I could even respond, he’d hung up.

My eyes strayed to the pile of post that lay on my desk that I just didn’t manage to get around to sorting through. What in heaven’s name was that all about? Why hadn’t this detective brought this up sooner? Why would Oliver dress in women’s underwear? I’d never seen him do such a thing before. I tried to remember when I’d last witnessed Oliver change, and came to the discomforting conclusion that it had been several weeks before his death. On weekdays in the morning I was already downstairs before he got up and in the evening I was usually asleep when he came to bed.

The phone on my desk rang, pulling me out of my thoughts. The number showed that it was our new assistant calling me on the internal line.

“Simone,” I said.

“Yes. Right. This is Simone,” she responded nervously. “Are you keeping an eye on the time? Mrs van Brock has already come to my desk three times asking when it’s her turn.”

I glanced at my watch and saw to my horror that I was running late again.

“I’ll be right there.” I hung up without waiting for a reply.

I wasn’t even half way through the morning yet and I already felt utterly exhausted. Last night had been the third night in a row that I’d watched the hours go by on the alarm clock. Perhaps I should prescribe myself some medication to get more sleep. I couldn’t keep this up much longer.

I swilled down the rest of my coffee and called Mrs van Brock from the waiting room. She dallied after me at a snail’s pace.

After she’d taken off her coat with a lot of moans and groans, she flopped onto the chair in front of me.

“My oh my,” she panted. “Would you believe that? Oh dear. I’m completely worn out. Isn’t that something, eh? Exhausted by walking the short distance from the waiting room to here.”

I folded my arms and smiled amiably. “Mrs van Brock, what can I do for you today?”

“I need a minute to recover.” She took a paper tissue from her black lacquer handbag and wiped her damp forehead. Her full bosom rose and fell with her rapid respiration. She sighed once more and then commenced talking. “I’m alright now, thanks,” she stated, although I’d refrained from asking. “You know what. Ever since my husband died, my condition has deteriorated so terribly. Isn’t that odd? I used to be able to walk long distances. I’d stride to the grocery store and back without any problems.” She looked at me with a face that was probably meant to impress me. “That’s quite a distance, you know. I wonder how far that would be?” The old lady looked at the ceiling as if she’d find the answer up there. “It’s two right turns, a long stretch straight ahead and a left turn and then you’re nearly there. Must be more than a kilometre in total. Yes. That’s probably it, one kilometre. I’m sure now, because it’s almost a fifteen-minute walk, so that has to be about right. And then back home again, so all in all that’s half an hour.” She put on an expression as if she’d just solved a complicated algorithm.

I wiggled impatiently in my chair and cast a meaningful glance at my watch: I didn’t have time for this jibber-jabber. But she completely missed the hint and reeled off a hundred woes.

“These days, a short stroll has gotten too much. I can no longer manage to go shopping by myself. It feels terrible you know.” She looked at me again to make sure I was staying focused. “The realisation that you are unable to take care of yourself. Argh. How I dislike the feeling of dependence. I have a new cleaning lady who also does my shopping for me. But I don’t trust her one bit.” She leaned forward as if she were sharing a confidential piece of information. “I have a sneaking suspicion that she once pinched a tenner.” She leaned back, raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms. “No way that lady is gonna lay her hands on my purse anymore. I’ll just give her the cash she needs to pay for the groceries so that I’m sure she won’t be snatching anything. Those foreigners, can’t trust ‘em.”

I cringed. I knew it was an important part of my profession to offer a sympathetic ear to people, but I couldn’t handle this nonsense. There were far worse things in the world. My gaze wandered outside, where dark clouds had gathered. Rain had been forecast for this afternoon and I was afraid I’d get soaked on my way home.

I looked at my patient again and cut to the chase. “Mrs van Brock. Please tell me why you came to see me. What’s the matter?”

She looked at me, obviously offended. “In a hurry, are we? Calm down, doctor. I was just about to get to it.” She shifted her weight. “So I was saying that ever since my husband died, walking has become increasingly difficult. It seems like …”

My thoughts wandered to the red lace knickers. I was sure they weren’t mine, I didn’t even like brightly coloured underwear. I had a hard time recollecting all the details Detective Armstrong had shared with me over the phone, as it all had gone so fast. I remembered him stating that nothing unusual had been encountered and no forensic traces were identified. Did this imply that they hadn’t found any foreign fingerprints or objects there?

“… the left seems normal. But the right leg is leading a life of its …”

I had no alternative but to accept it. It was as if my world had come to a grinding halt while I’d been waiting for the results of the investigation into Oliver’s death, as if none of this was real, and Oliver would one day walk back through our front door. But the detective had left no ambivalence in his statement – the case had been closed. Oliver would never return to this earth. And so I needed to focus all of my efforts on the future. I had little choice but to go on with my life.

“Hello, doctor. I asked you a question. Are you even listening?”

Mrs van Brock was staring at me with an expression of disparagement on her face.

I shook my head. “My apologies. Could you repeat the question?”

She sighed. “I asked: do you think my leg can get better? There shouldn’t be such a difference between left and right, should there?”

Mrs van Brock was a classic case – after the death of a spouse you would see patients slowly go downhill. I saw them in my practice almost daily. “It’s imperative that you carry on exercising every day, Mrs van Brock, to strengthen your muscles. You should get out for a stroll as much as possible. Try to go and do your groceries yourself again.”

“That’s the problem, you see. I really can’t do it anymore. It’s just too far,” she countered.

“First start with a small stretch, then continue to work on increasing the distance you walk. Just a little further each day, until you make it all the way to and from the store.”

“But it’s only the right leg that’s not working prop …”

My telephone rang and interrupted Mrs van Brock.

“Hi, it’s Tom,” I heard. “Can I consult with you for a moment?” he asked in his New Zealand accent.

I rubbed my forehead and closed my eyes. “Go ahead.”

“I have a patient with me who I believe is suffering from an appendicitis. He’s showing all the classic symptoms. Can you come by to confirm my diagnosis?”

“Have you already performed the abdominal test?”

“What do you mean?”

I started to lose my temper. Was he not supposed to know this by now? “Press the belly and release abruptly,” I blurted.

“I forgot about that,” he faltered.

“First think for yourself Tom. Then call me,” I retorted.

“Yes, right. How silly of me. Really sorry,” he added quickly.

I sighed deeply. “Perform the test and if the result is positive, send your patient in for blood works, okay?”

“Will do, doc. Thanks a million.”

I hung up and flung the phone back onto the desk a little more harshly than I should have. Mrs van Brock looked at me with her lips pressed tightly.

I narrowed my eyes. My head seemed to be a jumble of thoughts. “Sorry. Where were we again?”

She opened her mouth to start talking but I beat her to it. “Ah yes, I remember. It’s important you stay active. Go out for a saunter every day, do some chores around the house. Alright, Mrs van Brock?” I asked, relieved that I hadn’t forgotten the name of my patient.

“Doctor, you don’t understand. That’s not the point, I …”

Out of the blue something snapped inside my head. My temples started to thump and there was an almost deafening ringing in my ears. I raised my voice. “There’s not much more to it. Try to adopt a positive attitude and associate more with happy people. You’ll notice life will start working for you, rather than against.” I couldn’t restrain myself anymore. It was as if a monster had been unleashed – I went on a verbal rampage. “You ought to stop yourself from complaining so much. Believe me, you could be far worse off.”

Mrs van Brock turned as red as a tomato. She was continuously blinking, her eyes bulging, and looked distraught behind her glasses. She dabbed her forehead again with the paper tissue, which she squeezed tightly in her hand.

I finally came to my senses. What was I doing? I’d gone berserk. This was unheard of – I couldn’t verbally abuse a patient like that. This had never happened to me before.

Suddenly I felt a heavy weariness settle over me. I rested my head in my hands for a moment. Subsequently I looked into my patient’s eyes before backpedalling. “I’m truly sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my composure like that,” I said, shame burning on my cheeks.

The shocked lady rearranged her white blouse, under which the strap of her skin-coloured bra was visible. “No doctor has ever spoken to me like that,” she said with an air of contempt. “When doctor Baker was still working back in the old days, things were much better around here.” It was a reproach that had been hurled at me on more than one occasion during the first months after my instalment. It had initially led to a feeling of insecurity, but I’d become knowledgeable over the years and learned not to feel offended by it. I’d usually reply by saying: ‘they don’t make ‘em like that anymore, do they?’ This time, however, I knew my patient had a point.

I bit my lip. “My sincere apologies. It’s not an excuse, but I’ve had a very difficult time lately.”

She had a look in her eyes I couldn’t quite read. “I’m sure you have.” Mrs van Brock slowly rose and grabbed her handbag. “I’ll be leaving now.”

“No need to worry. If you keep exercising regularly, you’ll see that progress will be made,” I attempted to placate. “Don’t hesitate to make an appointment again via our assistant if you have any other concerns.”

I gave her a clammy hand and, after she’d left the room, lowered myself in my chair.

I interlaced my fingers and folded them around my neck. I couldn’t believe how I’d ranted at that patient. I felt ashamed to the core. Sure, she was an old grump, but this was completely out of line. I could only cross my fingers and hope she wouldn’t file a complaint against me.

It was obvious I’d totally lost a grip. No matter how difficult life was for me now, this was unacceptable.

I leaned forward and rested my forehead in my palms. And then I suddenly recalled something. She’d tried to convey the message, but I hadn’t been listening properly. Only the right leg had the problem, the left was functioning normally. It wasn’t until now that it hit me. This wasn’t a normal age-related complaint – my patient might have had a stroke, which prevented her right leg from functioning properly.

I jumped up, swung the door open and searched the waiting room where a number of patients stared back at me expectantly. It was evident that my patient was no longer here and so I scurried outside. My eyes scanned the main street in opposite directions, where a hodgepodge of trams and cyclists impeded my search. Mrs van Brock was nowhere to be seen. I swore again.

I stood fretting on the pavement while I bit my nails, trying to figure out how to proceed. Should I hazard a guess that she’d turned right towards the tram stop and head off in that direction to find her? I couldn’t afford to run late any more. The alternative of asking our assistant to find her meant I would have to confess to what had happened. Either option didn’t seem particularly appealing.

Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?” I heard a voice from behind me.

The cool air only now seemed to penetrate my thin blouse. I looked like a complete idiot standing on the streets without wearing a jacket.

I swivelled and saw Simone look me up and down, buried deep in her woollen coat.

My thoughts were running wild. I bobbed my head absently and turned my back to her again. Why did she follow me out here? “Just leave me be, okay?”

“Clearly not in the best of tempers, are we?” she chirped, which pissed me off.

A scooter roared passed us, causing a swirl of air. The vibrations were spinning around in my eardrums and hurting my brain.

“There are three patients waiting for you inside,” she continued with a nagging voice.

I felt my exasperation rise to boiling point. “I told you, just leave me alone for a moment. I’ll be right there.”

“No need to bite my head off. I’m just trying to help, you know.” I heard her heels click on the pavement as she walked away from me.

I wrapped my arms around my body, trying to keep out the cold, or maybe it was to keep myself together. I couldn’t handle this any longer. I felt like a loose cannon. Hans was probably right when he suggested I’d gone back to work too early. I was jumping out of my skin at the smallest of things.

I made a conscious decision and went back inside.

Ignoring the inquisitive looks in the waiting room, I entered my consulting room. I knocked on the connecting door to Hans’s room and asked if I could have a word with him.

He said something to his patient after which he entered my room. As soon as he’d closed the door, I burst into tears.

“I can’t do this any longer, I’m falling apart,” I cried. I confided in him about what had just happened with Mrs van Brock. “Ever since Oliver died, I’ve had trouble keeping my head clear. I miss him so terribly,” I said and started to weep, my shoulders heaving as each sob welled up.

Hans silently handed me a tissue.

I blew my nose and shook my head. “I’m sorry for being so unprofessional.”

He dismissed my objection with a wave of his hand. “Nonsense. If anyone around here’s unprofessional, it’s me,” he said, looking with self-mockery at his alternative clothing style.

I smiled through my tears and blew my nose again.

“You’re going through a hard time, to put it mildly. Anyone would be struggling after all that happened. You’ve lost your husband, your best friend,” he said tenderly.

I nodded and felt tears welling up again.

“Cut yourself some slack. These things take time. You can’t just continue with your life and pretend that everything’s still fine. Your body and mind have taken a blow,” he said in a touchy-feely manner. “It’s time to pause for reflection.”

“That might be a bit overly dramatic,” I responded. But I knew deep down he was right.

He ignored my comment. “Give yourself the grace to grieve over your loss. If you ask me, it would be wise to call in sick for the time being.”

His message came as a shock, even though this suggestion had already crossed my mind. My work was my life, my buoy to which I held on for dear life. It was terrifying to let go of this crucial pillar. But I pulled myself together and decided to follow his suggestion. “I think you’re right. What about Mrs van Brock?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll contact her and make amends.” He smiled paternally and I could see how he’d handle his patients. “How about you stay home for the rest of the week? And next week,” he added cautiously. “You know the saying,” he said and put on a Texas drawl, “if Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”

I laughed. “What about all of my patients?”

“I’ll ask Simone to hand the urgent cases over to me. The less serious can wait for now. By the way, we can also give Tom some small chores.” He gave me a wink. “Let’s make the most of him.”

I smiled and on the spur of the moment gave Hans a hug, something we never normally did, despite our good relationship. “Thanks Hans. You’re the best colleague I could wish for.”

He seemed to blush for a moment. “It’s nothing. Just make sure you take a break and replenish your energy.”

Not too long after our heart-to-heart I left the practice. It felt odd not to know how I’d spend the rest of my day, or rather the next two weeks. I decided to first cycle past the police station and pick up Oliver’s belongings. When I arrived there after a short ride, I took the package from the receptionist and decided – with a rush of shame – to leave Tim at the day-care centre and go home by myself. If I wanted to address this period of reflection properly, I needed to take time for myself.

As I cycled into my street, I noticed a fire engine parked in front of one of the houses. An elderly lady was being strapped down onto a stretcher and was going to be lifted down to the street via a window on the second floor. When I’d first moved to Amsterdam, I’d been standing on the pavement watching a similar case, captivated by the process, as were a handful of passers-by. A mixture of medical fascination and shame had run through me while the geriatric person, unable to be carried down the narrow staircase of the ancient house, was evacuated.

As I clutched the package containing Oliver’s items under my arm, I opened the front door to our – or rather, my – home. The authentic, brightly coloured tiles, which were now nearly a hundred years old, adorned the entrance. The door jammed, as it often did, but after a few thrusts with my shoulder I managed to open it.

A familiar figure suddenly appeared in front of me in the living room, with her back towards me. I was taken aback to find her working today, as I’d usually see patients at this hour.

“Alejandra,” I said.

She uttered a shriek. “Holy crap,” she cursed, then covered her mouth with her hand in disgrace. She’d been living here for years, but had never lost her strong Spanish accent.

I started laughing.

“Excuse me, Mrs Smits,” she said formally, even though I’d told her countless times to call me Jennifer.

“It’s okay,” I said and gave her a smile to put her at ease. “I should be apologising for startling you like this.”

She took a deep breath, then turned around and picked up her cleaning activities, motes of sun-dappled dust swirling around.

“How are you doing, Alejandra?” I asked kindly.

She paused in the act of dusting, turned around and looked at me. “I’m fine, thank you. How’s Timmy?”

Even before I was able to answer her question, she put her hands on her hips and puffed out her chest. “He big boy now, huh?”

I gave a chuckle and confirmed that he’d grown.

While Alejandra took off to start cleaning upstairs, I decided to make myself a cup of tea and settled in the living room on our outrageously expensive couch, a gift from my in-laws. I opened the package that I’d picked up at the police station. Oliver’s clothes were neatly sealed in plastic, as if they’d come from the dry cleaner. When I tore the wrapper however, Oliver’s familiar smell was released, bringing back tender memories and filling my eyes with tears.

I hadn’t had much time to myself since Oliver’s passing, but now I was able to let go of my brave front. The vacuum cleaner bellowed down the landing and I allowed myself to release some of my sorrow.

After a few minutes I decided that enough was enough. I picked up a tissue from a box on the coffee table, blew my nose and dabbed my eyes. I took a sip of my tea and looked at Oliver’s items one by one. The package mainly contained his clothes – his non-iron Eton shirt, brown chinos, black loafers and finally the pièce-de-résistance: the red knickers.

I carefully held them up at the edges, turned them around and looked at the cheap, velvet fabric. How utterly hideous. These certainly didn’t belong to me. Despite my monumental collection of underwear, I was certain I’d have recognised them if they were mine.

Why would Oliver have worn something like that? I tried to remember if I’d ever noticed any strange sexual escapades or interests, but nothing came to mind. I could hardly imagine him purchasing this kind of underwear on his own accord. Hence I wondered, could the knickers have belonged to someone else?

I decided to divert my mind and took one of my Vogue magazines out of the reading basket. Lately, I’d barely been able to find time for myself. I flipped through the fashion items without reading a word. Outside, the voices of passers-by were dulled by the double-glazed windows to a buzzing murmur. The clock on the fireplace ticked regularly and above me I heard Alejandra moving back and forth. My head felt a messy mixture of dull over-tiredness and racing thoughts.

I threw the magazine back on the stack and tried to get the confusing story about the red knickers out of my head. There would never be answers to the questions and ambiguities surrounding Oliver’s death.

I decided to pick up Tim early. He’d be delighted if I told him we were heading to the playground.

An hour later I found myself at Tim’s favourite place, just around the corner from our house, in the Vondelpark. The clouds had lifted somewhat and made way for dappled sunshine under a canopy of autumnal trees. Despite the fact that it was lunchtime on a regular Tuesday morning, the sandpit was full of people ranging from tourists to locals.

My telephone rang. ‘Lindsey’, I saw on the display of my mobile. I answered, but kept my eyes on Tim, who was frolicking in the sand with a German-speaking girl.

“How are you?” Lindsey asked.

“Fine,” I replied. “How about you?”

“That doesn’t sound too good,” she reacted, knowing me better than anyone. “What’s the matter? I’m all ears.”

“Had a really bad day at work.”

“Poor you,” she responded sympathetically. “We all have those days. I’m sure, tomorrow will be better again.”

I paused. Fragments of the conversation with Hans resurfaced. “I decided to call in sick for a while.”

It remained silent for a moment on the other side. “Call in sick? Are you feeling under the weather?”

I explained what had happened this morning, including the degrading lash outs to various people and the red knickers, which Detective Armstrong had briefed me about.

She laughed out loud. “What a bizarre story. Do you have any idea what it’s all about? I mean …” Lindsey swallowed audibly. “Would Oliver really have donned such a thing?” she asked in all seriousness.

My attention turned back to Tim and the playground. All of a sudden he seemed to have disappeared. I anxiously scanned the children’s heads scattered throughout the playground, until I spotted him on the swing with a girl, to my great relief. “I highly doubt it,” I went on. “And I know for sure they weren’t mine.”

“Could the knickers perhaps have belonged to …” Lindsey wavered for a moment. “… belonged to that woman?”

I’d told Lindsey about the encounter I recently had with Sandra, she however didn’t approve of it and I’d therefore kept the details to myself. “To be honest, the thought had crossed my mind. But she told me they’d only seen each other about three times in total. It doesn’t make sense that Oliver would have her underwear.”

“Given her history, I’d take everything that woman says with a pinch of salt,” Lindsey commented.

I’d taken a seat on a steel railing, but now the cold crept through my cloths and made me shiver. “You’ve got a point.”

Tim pulled the girl he’d been playing with out of the playground by her ponytail, whereupon she roared. I rushed over to him. “Tim, stop that immediately!” I cried and jerked him by the arm. My reaction was too harsh, and I instantly regretted it. I saw the child’s mother shoot a disapproving look at me. Easy enough to make judgments, I thought, she probably doesn’t have sole responsibility for her child from early in the morning until late at night, without a man who can support her.

I mumbled an apology to Tim and directed him to a climbing frame.

Then I turned my attention to Lindsey again. “Maybe I should talk to her again. Confront her with it.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

I was on guard. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure about the whole thing. I mean, Oliver’s gone. And he was wearing red knickers you’ve never seen before and they probably belonged to her.”

“I don’t understand what you’re implying.”

“There are a lot of crazy people out there. Just don’t do anything reckless, you barely know the woman.”

I reassured Lindsey, and then we hung up.

Tim and I entered the little cafe adjoining the playground where I treated him to a glass of lemonade and ordered myself a cup of tea.

I spotted an empty seat in a quiet corner of the quaint building, where I hoped no one could overhear me. I’d stored her number in my mobile and pressed the green button.

“Hello, it’s Sandra,” she said in a reserved manner.

“Hi, this is Jennifer.”

As she hushed for a moment, I heard snippets of conversation in the background. I got to the point straight away. “I was wondering if we can meet again?”

She sighed audibly. “What’s left to talk about? We’ve been over everything there is to discuss, haven’t we?”

“There’s one other pressing question I need to ask you.”

“Why don’t you ask me now, over the phone? I have a busy schedule,” she declared, although I wasn’t too sure about that.

I was reluctant to show my cards just yet as I wanted to see her face when I confronted her with the red knickers. “It doesn’t have to take long,” I insisted.

She caved in. “Alright. I have a spot this afternoon.”

I was surprised to hear she was yet again available during the day, although it suited my current schedule.

“How about four o’clock? Same location?” she suggested.

“Fine. And thanks,” I replied after which we disconnected.

A few hours later I’d left Tim with our neighbour upstairs so that I could meet Sandra alone. As I entered Coffee Cups I noticed that Sandra hadn’t arrived yet. I’d have killed for a glass of wine, but I restrained myself – I didn’t want to pick up Tim in an intoxicated state. I ventured a guess and ordered two lattes. Then I took a seat on a leather couch. The red knickers were kept tightly in my pocket, like a mistress hidden under a blanket.

Sandra entered the cafe, said hello and sat down in front of me. She’d just been to the gym judging by her outfit and the purple sports headband on her forehead. I questioningly shoved the latte in her direction, to which she nodded.

She gave a meaningful look at her watch. “I don’t have much time. I’m having friends over for dinner tonight and I still need to shower and change,” she declared and gestured to her clothes.

I got the message and wanted to get this over with quickly. But suddenly I sensed a tightness in my shoulders and the sweat in my palms. How should I approach this?

“The police returned Oliver’s clothes, the ones he wore on the day he died.”

A compassionate expression passed over her face. “That must have been hard.” She looked at me calmly, probably wondering where this was going.

I yanked the knickers out of my pocket and threw them onto the table.

A look of shock crossed her face. “What are these?”

I snickered. “Look familiar, huh?”

Her jaw dropped. “They’re mine! I was wondering where they’d gone.” She snatched the knickers off the table, looked around in humiliation and clutched them in her fist. Her mouth repetitively opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. When she did finally speak, she practically spat the words out. “Where the hell did you find these?”

I wasn’t impressed by her anger – I leaned back, folded my arms and raised my eyebrows. “Oliver was wearing them. On the day he died.”

Her mouth remained open. “What?” she blurted. “Oliver wore them? How on earth is that possible?”

“I was hoping you’d be able to provide an explanation.”

She shook her head in astonishment. “I have no idea. Honestly.”

I stared intently at her before speaking again. “I got a call from the police saying Oliver died as a result of a fatal accident. He presumably lost his balance, fell down and his head hit a rock. When they undressed him, he was, as it turns out, wearing your underwear.”

Confusion now seemed to have the upper hand. Or was she faking all of it?

Her left eyelid fluttered. “What are you saying?”

I leaned forward and set my palms down flat on the table. “You know exactly what I’m saying. Are you somehow involved in this? Were you with my husband when he died?”

“Of course not.” She began to blink nervously. “Honestly, I wasn’t. We’ve only seen each other three times. I told you that last time, remember?”

I started to lose my temper. Surely, she didn’t think she could play me for a fool? “I’m not an idiot. I know what you told me,” I said explicitly. “But how do I know you’re being truthful at all? For all I know you might be spinning tales.”

“I’m not messing with you. You have to believe me. I was totally unaware of the fact that your husband was away for a weekend, let alone know the whereabouts of the holiday park.”

I needed a moment to process the information. “So how did he end up wearing your underwear?”

“I haven’t the faintest clue.” She paused and seemed to be musing on it. “He might’ve taken them with him after one of our encounters?”

“Huh,” I snorted. “Why would he do that? As some kind of trophy?”

She shook her head. “No idea.”

I didn’t believe it for a second. “Surely you would have noticed if you’d suddenly lost your knickers?”

“I’d sometimes bring a clean set of underwear. For when we finished …” She turned red as she was searching for the right words. “For when I went home again.”

I felt like throwing up.

She quickly continued speaking. “He may have snatched them from my bag. In any case, I’ve got nothing to do with it,” she stated, with an increased amount of confidence.

She suddenly plucked the knickers with a sense of composure and determination and started to put them in her bag.

I grabbed her arm. “Give them back.”

“What do you want them for? They’re mine.”

I squeezed harder. “Let go.” I couldn’t quite put my finger on why, but I had to keep them. It was the only tangible clue I had. A small form of proof that something didn’t add up about Oliver’s death.

She was pleading with me. “Stop. You’re hurting me,” she whimpered.

But I refused to loosen my grip and she finally relented and let go of the velvet fabric.

I released my hand and slid the knickers back in the pocket of my jacket.

She rubbed her arm with a face of agony. “My goodness, woman. What’s wrong with you?”

Somehow her words snapped me back to reality. It was as if I saw myself from a distance, as it if wasn’t me who had gone off the rails, once again.

I regained my senses and blew the air out of my lungs. “I’m really sorry,” I said softly. Sandra must think I was a lunatic. What had gotten into me? I had no control over myself. I no longer knew who or what I should believe and felt utterly stupefied.

I drew in a long breath and took a mouthful of my coffee, which had turned cold, and tried to regain my composure.

We sat in silence for a while.

“Do you think something happened to Oliver?” Sandra asked. She shook her head. “Er … I mean, do you think it wasn’t really just an accident?”

I dug my nails into my palms, trying to hold back the tears. “I don’t know what to think anymore. There just seems to be more to it than meets the eye. I keep going over it. I have no simple explanation for the fact that he wasn’t wearing his own underwear. Yet at the same time it doesn’t necessarily imply foul play.”

I rested my face in my hands. “I feel so tired. The grief of Oliver’s death hadn’t even fully sunk in when I heard of your existence, and now this. I can’t seem to get my thoughts in order.”

“I see,” she said, empathically.

It was painful to have to acknowledge it, but perhaps she’d known other sides of Oliver’s life than I had. “Do you know if something unusual had been going on before he died?”

Sandra strummed with painted nails on her lips. “The only thing that comes to mind is that odd phone call about that client Van Santen that I told you about last time. It was clearly a case that demanded a lot from him.”

I too had seen in the months leading up to his death that Oliver’s work at the firm had occupied him, but I hardly knew the details of what he’d been up to. “Can you recall anything else about that phone call?” I asked.

She swivelled the cup, which was empty by now, in her hands while thinking. “No, sorry. Nothing specific comes to mind.”

“Your husband was one of the partners at Mason & McGant, right?”

Sandra nodded.

I hesitated for a moment before I asked. “Does your husband still not know about er … Oliver and you?”

She shook her head.

“Could you perhaps ask him about that case?” Oliver’s fierce reaction, when Sandra had started talking about Van Santen, made me feel uneasy. I couldn’t fully explain why, but I felt a strong desire to find out more about the last client for which he’d worked. “As the head of the office, your husband is surely in the loop on all cases.”

Sandra didn’t seem to care much for my suggestion. “I’m not too sure whether that’s a good idea. My husband and I try to keep work and personal life separate.”

“Come on,” I beseeched. “It’s not that much trouble, is it?”

She sighed and seemed to mull it over. “Fine. I’ll ask him about it.”

I gave her a nod. “Thank you. I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said trivialising, but in reality I doubted that.

I glanced at my watch and stood up. “I have to go and pick up my son.”

Sandra slid her arms into her jacket. “I’ll call you when I know more.”

As I walked out, something came to my mind. Sandra had promised to quiz her husband, but there could be an alternative way to gather information.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and looked up Oliver’s former employer’s number.

The receptionist answered my call, “Mason & McGant, how may I help you?”

“This is Jennifer Smits. Can you put me through to Benedict van Suyten from the mergers and acquisitions department?” Benedict had started working as a paralegal at Mason & McGant in the same year as Oliver and the two had become close colleagues.

“One moment please.”

While the other end of the line fell silent, I put on my headphones, got on the bike and left in the direction of Tim’s day-care.

“Benedict van Suyten,” I heard, moments later.

“Hi Ben, this is Jennifer, Oliver Smits’ wife.”

His voice sounded friendly. “Hi Jennifer, great to hear from you.” We hadn’t spoken to each other since Oliver’s funeral. His tone softened. “How are you doing?”

“I’m alright,” I replied.

“How’s the little man doing?”

I smiled. “Good. Tim’s growing before my eyes.”

Benedict laughed. “I’m sure he is. He takes after his father. How are you holding up without Oliver?” he asked, a sound of genuine concern in his voice.

“I don’t know. Fine, I guess,” I answered, not quite sure what to add. I clammed up as the traffic rushed past me. “How have you been?”

“Good, good … busy. Up to my neck in cases.” He guffawed. “As always, the partners at Mason & McGant keep hurling cases at us.” Nothing had changed at the firm, by the sound of it.

“Ben, I’d like to ask you something. I’ve received two e-mails from the secretary of Oliver’s department saying there’s a box with his belongings. I don’t know what it contains, but I intend to come over and collect it soon. While I’m there, would you like to go for a coffee together?”

Benedict and I had always had plenty to talk about whenever we saw each other at one of Mason & McGant’s drinks and he reacted as expected with enthusiasm. “Sounds like a good plan. How about early next week?”

“Perfect. Would you happen to know what’s in the package?” I asked tentatively. Recent developments had made me curious about its contents. I was hoping the box would provide clues on the case that Oliver had been working on.

“No idea. But you know what? As luck would have it, I’m close to the secretary right now,” Benedict replied. “I’ll have a look for you.”

I keenly accepted his offer. There were some voices in the background as I was cycling.

He returned to the phone. “It’s Ben again.” I heard a crackling sound. “There are some practical items in it, such as a writing pad and a few ballpoints, and a picture of the three of you. That’s about it.”

“I see,” I said with a feeling of disappointment.

I knew Benedict was busy and didn’t want to fritter away his time, but I had to bring it up. “Ben, I wanted to ask you one last thing. Oliver seemed to be swamped at the office in the last few months before his death. Do you know what he was working on?” Benedict was positioned in a different department to Oliver, but they’d regularly have lunch together, so perhaps he was up to date on what had been going on.

There was something distant in his voice. “Not really.”

I contemplated how I could clarify myself. “I recently got the impression that there may have been something out of the ordinary going on at the firm.”

“Might be. You know how things are around here. Never a dull moment,” Benedict quipped and laughed, but there was something disingenuous and evasive about his manner.

He didn’t seem to understand what I was getting at. “Would you have any idea what case he was assigned to? Could it be that he defended a master criminal, a client who was seeking to exploit the loopholes of the law?” I asked without holding back.

There was a short pause. When Benedict spoke again, kindness had disappeared from his voice. “What exactly do you want from me, Jennifer?”

I was shocked by his reaction. “It would be good if …” I faltered. “I’d just like to know what case Oliver was working on. He was away from home so much and seemed to be worried about something, but I have no idea what was really going on.”

“What’s the point? You know that as lawyers we’re sometimes forced to defend mega crooks and keep secrets to ourselves. It’s part of our profession.”

I felt uneasy. “You’re probably right. I’m just asking because finding answers would help me gain some closure.”

“You’re well aware that as a lawyer, Oliver often had to deal with the big boys. There’s no need to know any more than that. You’re better off leaving the matter to rest.”

He had a point. The traffic light turned green and I cycled on.

I tried to sound jaunty in an attempt to smooth over the hostile atmosphere that had so suddenly arisen. “Never mind. So, when will coffee suit you next week?” I had all the time in the world now that I’d taken a breather from work. “I’d love to hear how you, Melanie and the kids are all doing now,” I tried to ingratiate myself to him, but in reality I had a glimmer of hope that he might confide in me if we saw each other in person.

Benedict coughed. “I just realised that I am completely full next week.”

“What about the following week? Any time and day is fine for me,” I chirped.

He rejected my proposal. “We’re going on a ski trip with the family for a week, alas. I won’t be able to make it any time soon I’m afraid.”

“Right,” I mumbled.

“I’ll make sure the box of belongings will be couriered to you, to save you a trip to the office,” Benedict said.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I will come …”

He cut straight across me. “I insist. I have to go now. I’ll call you another time, okay?”

Before I was even able to utter another word the phone was disconnected.