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I’m going to marry Billy Harper.
And I’m going to live happily ever after with him.
But because the universe has other plans for me, I lie here in this bed, waiting for sleep to take me from my despair, even if only for a few hours.
Chapter Twenty-One
It’s Saturday morning. As I sit in our silent kitchen sipping tea that’s been made with the last teabag, I mentally write a list of things I need to buy when I go to the supermarket. I’ve forgotten it all by the time my unbearable mother-in-law knocks on the door. It takes me too long to answer, and her knocks have become impatient by the time I let her in. As is customary for Billy’s mother, she pushes her way past me without a hello or inquiry about how I am, her focus set solely on checking her son. I guess it’s understandable, and I’m also guessing she doesn’t really need to ask how I am. I saw for myself in the mirror this morning.
I watch her disappear up the stairs as I shrug on my coat, not bothering to ask her how she is either. It’ll only spike a conversation I can’t be bothered to have. Collecting my bag and wrapping my woolen scarf around my neck, I pat Boris on the head and head out. I don’t know why, but more frequently these days I find myself analyzing people I see on the streets, or wherever I am, quietly trying to figure out what’s happening in their lives. I build all kinds of stories in my mind, some based on the happy faces, some the stern, and some the sad. But I never, not once, see someone who I think is as lost as I am. That’s not to say that there aren’t any, just maybe they’re better at masking their wretchedness than I am. I’m not working at the moment, which means there’s no need to make myself even remotely presentable each day. What’s the point when all I’m doing is sitting around the house waiting to be needed?
The supermarket is rammed, every aisle chock-a-block with inpatient shoppers using their trollies as weapons to make it around the store alive. I tug a basket along behind me, not in any rush, throwing things in as I go. I stand in the queue to pay for ten minutes, and when it’s my turn to unload my goods, I’m stopped by a man who pushes in front of me. He doesn’t acknowledge me, doesn’t apologize or give any excuses. And I don’t argue. He obviously has somewhere he urgently needs to be. I don’t.
I eventually pay for my shopping and trudge home, the handles of the bags cutting into my palms by the time I get there. I listen out for Billy’s mother as I make my way up the hall, hoping she’s still upstairs so I don’t have to find the energy to engage with her. My hopes aren’t answered. She’s in the kitchen, but I don’t look at her because something else is stealing my attention. A huge bouquet of flowers.
I blindly place my bags of shopping on the table, my eyes not straying from the blooms of vivid color. “These came while you were out,” Linda says, pushing them toward me. “Who are they from?”
“Work, I expect,” I answer without thought, reaching for the card nestled in the foliage. “How’s he been?” I finger the little envelope open.
“Asleep.” Taking her purse off the side, she passes me. “Make sure he has his tablets. I’ll pop in tomorrow.”
I hear the front door close behind her as I pull the card free.
I considered everything, but never that. I’m so sorry. For everything. xxx
The words are blurred by the time I get to the kisses, and I drop the card to the worktop to wipe them away as pain slices me. It’s a pain I can’t control, but a pain that I should. I didn’t think my life could feel any emptier than it was. Then I met Luke, and a slither of myself allowed me to take comfort from his presence in my life.
I was still empty, but I wasn’t empty and alone. I feel like my hollowness and grief have become suffocating since I lost him. Yet, the emptiness is easier to cope with than what I felt each time I looked at Billy.
Wandering over to the bin, I drop the card in. Where it belongs. Not because the words mean nothing to me, but because I should never have gotten close enough for him to need to send his apologies.
I unpack the shopping, open a new box of teabags, and make two cups of tea, taking them upstairs. When I enter Billy’s room, he’s awake, though still basked in the usual glow of the TV, the curtains pulled. He looks at me as I place his tea on his bedside stand, and I strain a smile, avoiding asking him how he’s feeling. The question only irritates him. I also avoid asking him if he’s hungry. That’s irritates him, too. So I do all there is to do and sit in the chair by his bed and sip my tea, watching Formula One cars whizz around a track. I can feel him looking at me, but I don’t let him know I’m aware, because I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking I look as terrible as he does, and I’m not prepared to fight with him over the hospice again, the hospital appointments, food, drink, work, or whatever. I’m just not prepared to fight. I have nothing left inside me to contemplate fighting. It’s as though I’ve been beaten down repeatedly and am simply conforming to be what he wants of me. Nothing. Vacuous.
