“Ow,” I groaned with a mouth as dry as dust. My tongue stuck to my palate like a piece of leather, my lips were cracked and chapped. I was in desperate need of a glass of water. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had such a throbbing headache. My feet felt swollen and stiff as a result of a night spent teetering on high heels.
I gingerly opened one eye. A stabbing pain in my forehead made me promptly close it again. The sun was shining unhampered into the bedroom as I’d evidently forgotten to close the curtains last night.
As I turned onto my right side, the room starting spinning around me. A wave of nausea surged over me – I solemnly pledged never to drink this much again.
Although I felt miserable, I had a smile on my lips – it had been a wonderful evening. Our clubbing night had accomplished something that I hadn’t been able to do for ages, sleep for hours straight without tossing and turning. I picked up my phone from the nightstand and saw that I’d received a photo from my mother, in which she was finger-painting with Tim. I smiled in the knowledge that I didn’t have to get up or take care of anyone for a while and dozed off.
Not much later, the parched feeling became so prevalent that I had to drag myself out of bed. After I chugged two glasses of water and inspected myself in the bathroom mirror, I took a long, hot shower.
As I gorged on a double sandwich with fried bacon and egg, I skimmed through the newspaper, with a cup of coffee, while sat on one of the kitchen stools. It was wonderful to take the time for myself without worrying about Tim.
I read through the funeral announcements, scanning the names of the deceased, but they didn’t include a Sandra. I only now realised that I had no idea what her last name was.
I tapped my foot on the metal frame of the stool and glanced at my watch. The memorial service was due to start in half an hour. Sandra’s husband had said he’d like me to attend it. It somehow felt intrusive to go there, but surely it would be the decent thing to do, to pay my respects?
I dashed upstairs to my bedroom, pulled open the drawer of the wardrobe and found my smart black trousers, freshly washed and ironed by Alejandra. I combined them with a light grey blouse, scurried downstairs again, grabbed my coat from the rack and got on my bike. I looked up the location in my phone and concluded that I should be able to arrive within twenty minutes.
Battling on my bike against the gusts of wind, I made it by the skin of my teeth, the back of my shirt all wet from sweating as I strode past the hearse that was parked at the entrance of the crematorium. As I quietly closed the glass door behind me, I noticed the large turnout to the memorial service. The church had been packed at Oliver’s funeral as well and I remembered how much comfort and warmth it had brought me. I quietly joined some people standing behind the last row of chairs, not wanting to draw attention to myself. Cautiously I looked around me, but didn’t recognise anyone.
At the front of the aisle stood a closed, oak coffin with a framed photo on top. It was hard to grasp that Sandra was really in there. The vivid memories of Oliver’s farewell service seemed to grab hold of me and left me with a sharp ache in my heart.
I started blinking rapidly. Don’t think about that now, I tried to soothe myself.
A man seated in the front got up from his chair and went to stand behind the lectern, the deep lines in his face and dark circles under his eyes visible even from where I was standing. He squared his shoulders and then introduced himself as Sandra’s brother. The broken man held an emotional eulogy on how he and Sandra used to be inseparable when they were growing up. Behind him, photos of a young Sandra were displayed in a slide show on a screen. Around me I heard snivelling and sobbing.
Amidst the large crowd, I noticed a man with brown hair in the front row, a spasm of pain contorted his face. Although I couldn’t entirely see him, I estimated that he was of a comparable age to Sandra and made the assumption he was her husband. Next to him was an older couple, their heads bent forward, hunched and with rounded shoulders, presumably Sandra’s parents. The old lady sobbed inconsolably while the man I conjectured to be Sandra’s husband slid an arm around her.
The brother continued his narrative about what Sandra had been like as a teenager. I turned my head away and closed my eyes. I couldn’t bear the sadness that was hanging almost tangibly in the air. The scab of my own wound was too fresh and vulnerable. I felt a wave of nausea washing over me.
I decided to leave. A few more people had arrived after I did and I had no choice but to shuffle past them in order to exit the building, stammering my apologies. When I’d finally managed to get myself outside, I took a deep breath of fresh air. Birds were chirping cheerfully from up high in the stately row of oak trees flanking the long driveway and I felt myself slowly relax.
I got on my bike and took a detour to clear my mind, before heading for the city centre where I was going to meet Lindsey for lunch.
When I opened the door of our favourite lunch spot, which was just around the corner from Lindsey’s work, the pleasant warmth greeted me. It was a few minutes shy of noon and there was still plenty of space. After choosing a comfortable couch in the corner, I looked outside and saw tram number fourteen draw to a stop for a red light. When it pulled off again and trundled on, I saw Lindsey popping up behind it.
She held her woollen, pink pea coat closed with one hand, glanced left and right, and then scurried across the street in my direction. After entering the establishment, she kissed me once on the cheek, and I caught a hint of her floral perfume. Her gaze remained on me. “My goodness Jen, you’re as pale as a sheet.”
I made a silly face. “How many drinks did we get through yesterday? I knew we shouldn’t have left you in charge of the kitty,” I said laughing.
She looked at me with concern. “We didn’t even drink that much. I don’t feel a thing. Is everything okay?”
“Sure,” I answered, dismissing her worry with a wave of my hand. “I’m probably coming down with a cold,” I said, playing it down, and started sniffing demonstratively. “That must be it.”
Lindsey let the subject rest, peeled off her coat and draped it over a chair. She was wearing a tight, leather, burgundy coloured skirt, combined with a green blouse. Her pumps in a matching colour completed the outfit. Even on this workday she looked arresting.
She took a seat opposite me. “I need to finish an important report this afternoon, otherwise my boss will have my guts for garters, so I can’t stay terribly long.”
“No problem,” I said. “I’m happy you could free up your schedule for me.”
“Are you off today?” Lindsey asked, glancing at the menu, although she’d probably order the baguette with tuna salad, knowing her.
“I won’t have to work until later. I’ve got the evening shift at the out-of-hours clinic,” I said, and, as usual, felt a tad apprehensive about it. Those kind of shifts always had a sense of unpredictability and volatility in them. An average Friday evening usually meant tourists out of their minds on drugs or teenagers who had had one drink too many. “Tim’s staying with my parents for another night.”
Lindsey smiled. “You’ve lucked out to have such parents. If I had a child, I’d probably get no help whatsoever,” she said matter-of-factly, but a double-edged pain resounded in her statement. She didn’t have a child and had a strained relationship with her parents. She never confided in me about a possible desire for children and I didn’t dare ask about it either. I touched her arm and squeezed it gently.
The waitress came to take our orders.
Lindsey frowned. “Didn’t you attend the funeral, this morning? For er …?”
I nodded. “Sandra, yes I did.” I wrinkled my nose.
Lindsey ran a hand through her shiny, blond hair that was beautifully styled as usual. “How was the service?”
“Nice,” I answered automatically. “Or actually, terrible. Someone that young shouldn’t die, especially not in such a horrific way.” I shook my head. “I didn’t take it well and left early.”
Lindsey reached out her hand, grabbed mine and squeezed it tightly. “Oh poor you.”
I smiled briefly, patted her hand resolutely in response, and pulled away. I wanted to keep the atmosphere light, even though the funeral still weighed on my mind. “Let’s talk about something else,” I said jauntily. “How’s work going?”
Lindsey brought me up to speed on her most recent advertising project. She’d been awarded an assignment for one of their most important clients and was happy with the promotion.
In the meantime, the waitress brought the sandwiches and tea.
I pecked at the bread, but it didn’t go down well. I laid my hand on my stomach and chewed slowly.
Lindsey looked up from her tuna sandwich. “Are you okay?”
I pressed my fist to my mouth and looked anxiously towards the bathroom. I jumped up, causing a wave of tea from my tea to spill over the table. Thankfully the nausea subsided just as suddenly as it had come up. I lowered myself slowly.
Lindsey lifted her head and propped her chin in her palm. “Gosh, Jen. Something’s not right. Have you been experiencing this a lot lately?”
I wiped up the puddle of tea with my napkin and pondered it for a while. “Come to think of it, I have been feeling nauseous more often lately. But isn’t that to be expected with everything that’s been going on in my life?” And with all the alcohol I’ve recently been consuming, I added in silence.
She shrugged and looked confused. “I guess.”
“My stomach has always played up in times of stress or hardship. It seems to be some kind of personal weakness.”
Lindsey suddenly sat up, her eyes bulging. “Oh my god, Jen. You’re pregnant!” she exclaimed.
I laid a hand on my stomach as I spoke with a mock solemn expression on my face. “Yes, I am expecting.”
She slammed her hands on the table, her long hair flying around. “No way,” she shrieked.
“I’m kidding. Me, pregnant? You’re cracking me up,” I said and started laughing at the ridiculous suggestion. “From whom for heaven’s sake?”
She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “You probably know the answer to this better than I do. Since Oliver died, have you not had …?” Her voice trailed off.
I wasn’t sure whether to be shocked or offended by her suggestion. “Of course not,” I cried. “What do you take me for?”
She wrapped her hands around her cup of tea. “These things happen. The grieving process is different for everyone, sometimes you just have to act on how you feel,” she stated, as if she were reading advice from a women’s magazine. “Can’t the baby be Oliver’s?”
“There is no baby!” I exclaimed and rolled my eyes. My dear friend seemed to have lost sight of the laws of nature. “Oliver passed away more than three months ago – you do the maths,” I said, feeling positive of my case. I emitted a mocking noise. “Seems to me I’d have noticed by now.”
She held onto the subject. “I didn’t want to say anything to you before, but er … you look as if you’ve filled out a bit lately.” She blew in her tea and prudently took a sip.
This was getting better by the minute. “Thanks a lot Lin,” I said, raising my eyebrows. Then I thought of something. “I’ve got an explanation for it. It’s because of my affair with Ben. We’re together every night on the couch,” I quipped.
Lindsey practically choked on her tea. “Ben?”
“Ben & Jerry’s,” I said with a cheeky grin and threw my head back.
“Ha, ha, ha,” Lindsey said sarcastically and started smiling. “Well, I guess I’m wrong then.”
“I guess so too,” I said kindly but firmly and took another nibble of my sandwich. “Give me a good night’s sleep and I’ll be back on my feet.”
An hour later I had returned home and stood by the mantelpiece in the living room. I ran my thumb over the photo of Oliver, which I’d put into a silver frame after he died. Lindsey’s words earlier had refuelled a deeply cherished desire. More than half a year ago, Oliver and I had decided to try for a second child. Even though I’d had misgivings about whether it was wise in view of our relationship struggles, emotion had won over reason and we’d agreed to try. Since Oliver’s death there’d only been room for sorrow and confusion, but now suddenly that strong longing for another child had resurfaced, just as ardently and fiercely as it had been when Oliver was still alive. The agony over dissipated possibilities almost took my breath away.
I gave myself a stern talking to – I should consider myself lucky to have Tim. “I love you, darling,” I said to Oliver’s photo and headed for the hallway to turn on the washing machine on the first floor before leaving the house to work the evening shift. I noticed that, despite Alejandra’s weekly help, I kept falling behind regarding household matters. I considered asking her to up her hours, although I was reluctant to increase my spending. It wasn’t clear to me yet what the financial consequences of Oliver’s death exactly were, and – although I obviously wasn’t living on the breadline – as long as that was the case, I preferred to stay frugal.
As I opened the door to the hallway, I noticed there was a stack of mail lying on the doormat that I had overlooked when I’d arrived home from lunch. I bent down to pick up the envelopes and was tempted to toss them unopened under the coat rack, onto the heap that had been growing over recent weeks, when my eye fell on a loose A4 paper that slipped out of the pile and was floating down to the ground.
The colourful letters in a decorative font danced over the page. ‘Don’t stick your nose into other people’s affairs.’
My heart was racing.
What in heaven’s sake was this?
I reached out to pick up the piece of paper that was entirely blank except for those alarming words. It seemed to be a threat addressed to me. Was this serious and if so, who had sent it? Or was this just a sick joke and I shouldn’t read too much into it?
I tried to calm myself down and took a few deep breaths, the note shaking with my trembling fingers.
I straightened my back and lifted my chin. Whatever it was, I had no intention of letting this message defeat me. I stormed back into the living room, crumpled the paper and chucked it in the bin.