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“I want you to go back to work.” Billy breaks the silence, and I close my eyes, bracing myself for the confrontation I was trying to avoid. “I’m fine. Last week was a bad week.”
I sip my tea and look at him, forcing another smile. “You’re fine?” I’m trying to make light of his ludicrous claim, but Billy doesn’t give me even a trace of a smile. I find myself casting my mind back, looking hard in my memories for the times I remember him laughing. One springs to mind immediately. The morning we were due to fly out for our honeymoon when he found me in the bedroom trying to fasten my case. I was sitting on top of it, springing up and down in an attempt to close the gap on the sides. He’d laughed and ordered me to remove some of my clothes to stop it bulging. I refused, persevering, until Billy intervened and forced it shut. Then he heaved it from the cab at the airport. And then our lives changed beyond comprehension. I should have removed some clothes. I should have made it lighter. Then maybe his back wouldn’t have given up. Maybe . . .
I sigh, knowing nothing could have stopped his back from failing that day. It would have happened eventually. Our worlds would have been turned upside down one way or another, one day or another.
Billy’s voice breaks into my silent reflections. “Please go back to work, Lo.” I watch as he struggles to sit up and edge himself to the side of the bed. He looks so frail and weak as he stands, literally half the man I met. I’m silent as he shuffles around the bed and heads for the en suite, shutting the door behind him. Sad as it seems, I’m happy to see him get himself there without my help, although I know he’s only doing it to prove a point.
I return my attention to the television and finish my tea, and when fifteen minutes have passed and Billy still hasn’t come out, I don’t panic and rush to check on him. I get up and leave the room. Because he won’t come out until I’m gone.
On Sunday, I spent the day making tea for visitors Billy didn’t want. His mum, his dad, and an old work friend. I walked Boris three times and did the minimal amount of washing I had. I unwrapped the huge bunch of flowers and spent an hour slowly snipping the ends of each stem and meticulously positioning them in a glass vase. When I was done, I gathered up my pretty arrangement and threw it away. Not letting my mind wander to Luke and how much I missed him was impossible when I was reminded of him every time I caught sight of the colorful flowers that have no place in my dismal life, or the scent that was too sweet and filled my senses with something pleasant.
On Monday, I send Magda a message telling her of my intention to remain at home. I have no plans to go back to work, and nothing Billy can say will make me. His mum is right. I should be here looking after him. I make Billy a hot drink and deliver it to his room, getting no thank you or acknowledgment. I can’t let it dampen my already low mood. Not when Billy’s misery must trump mine tenfold. I take myself back downstairs and open the sideboard in the lounge, set on finding something to read to pass my day. I flick through the lines of books, finding nothing that takes my fancy. Not even Wuthering Heights. Because Billy can’t read it to me.
I sit back on my arse, casting my eyes across to the piles of stock left from my store. I should upload them all onto the online shop Billy talked about. That might distract me for a short while. Or it won’t. A box on the bottom shelf of the open cabinet catches my eye, and I pull it out, lifting the lid. Our wedding album looks up at me, daring me to open it and let myself reminisce on the happy times. Tentatively, I lift the cover of the leather-bound book and turn the first sheet of acid-proof paper. Staring down at the picture that greets me, a shot of Billy giving me a piggyback out of the church, both of us laughing, I wait for the tears to start flowing. They don’t come. I feel completely detached from the memory, like I’m someone else looking in on a life had by others. Except the couple laughing in this picture haven’t had a life beyond that day.
I turn the page and find a group shot with our guests. There’s only maybe a couple dozen people, close family and friends. With the exception of Billy’s parents, all of the people in this picture dip in and out of our lives now, swinging by sporadically to say hi, to drink tea, and to be miserable with us for a charitable hour before they resume their normal, healthy lives. Those visits have become less frequent. I’m pretty sure our home has a black X on the door, warning people away from the death that lingers beyond.
