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“Take your time.” Gianni kills the silence. “We have ages before anyone else arrives.” I turn to him, plastering the biggest smile on my face.
“I’m okay, really I am. It’s not as bad as I thought it would be.” Gianni glares at me as if I’ve just told him my arm is hanging off me, but it doesn’t really hurt.
“It’s okay. You don’t need to pretend,” Gianni says.
“I’m not pretending. Really, I’m okay. It’s not how I thought it would be.”
“What did you think it would be like?”
“I thought I wouldn’t even make it through the door. I thought it would be painful. I thought I’d be afraid.”
“And you don’t feel frightened?”
“No, but I think that’s because you’re here.” I go to reach for his hand, already forgetting our rule. Gianni also seems to have forgotten as he takes my hand. A thought occurs to me as we stand together. “How did you get back in a car?”
“I did it lots of times before I actually drove, and like you, I felt fine. I felt in control and like there was a chance I could get over it,” Gianni explains.
“I sense a but.”
“But…” Gianni murmurs, “… I was too sure of myself. I moved too quickly, and when I was out on the road, it got the better of me.”
“What happened?”
“It was the stupidest thing. I was driving home from work, and a song came on the radio. It was the song that’d been playing when our argument started. As soon as I heard it, I panicked, and the whole thing hit me like a freight train. Luckily, I was on a small road, and I managed to pull over. I waited for it to pass, for me to regain some of my composure. But it was hard. It took a while, and I was thrown backward by it. I felt like I’d undone all the coping mechanisms I’d put in place, but really, I needed it to happen. I needed that part of my grief to come out, and if you don’t let it happen, it snowballs and ends up getting bigger and fiercer.”
I squeeze his hand. He has told me on numerous occasions to seek professional help. He’s offered to pay for it and come with me, but it frightens me. I don’t want some stranger analyzing me, and what about the fire? I can’t admit that to a professional. I found it hard enough when I was fourteen. I visited several children’s counselors, and every time I went for a session, I felt they knew I was lying. It was as if they saw the lighter in my hand, smelled the fumes on my skin, and read my face that said, I did it.I can’t do that again. Children get away with things—adults don’t.
I move further into the shop. I run my hand over the counter. I push a pre-wrapped cookie back into the display basket and breath in the smell of coffee lingering in the air. I begin to take my coat off. Gianni is behind me, helping me like I’m an old lady. He thinks I’m frail, that I’m damaged in some way. I catch a glimpse of myself in the large mirror behind the counter. I have pinned my brown curls on top of my head, ready for a day at work. I’m still getting used to my new image. Sometimes it catches me off guard, and I stare at my reflection, wondering exactly who is looking back at me. Most of the time, I don’t have an answer.
“You need to pace yourself,” Gianni says as I head to the office.
Everything is the same. I see Lewis standing behind the desk, huffing at some paperwork Gianni has left him or standing by the lockers complaining about Gianni’s insufferable mood. Lewis is in every part of the room. I’m not surprised by this. Am I trying to bring him back? Am I frightened I will forget him? How can life trundle along as it did before? Gianni has been forcing me to eat, dress, and function because I fail to grasp how to carry on as if nothing has happened.
A life has been lost. A person is gone. We will never see him again.
Yet, we put the washing on, make cups of coffee, and watch trash on television like we did before, and all I feel is guilt for doing these things because Lewis should be here, putting his things in his locker, shuffling paperwork, and complaining about Gianni.
I walk to my locker. Gianni will march me straight back to my car and pack me off back to his house if I don’t get hold of myself. It will only get harder the longer I put this off. I open my locker and begin to stuff my bag in. Images of the last time I stood here, readying myself to go home and forget about my day, push their way into my head. I brush the what-if aside. It is of no use to me now.
“Chloe, there’s no rush,” Gianni murmurs behind me. “You don’t want to push yourself too fast, or you will end up making it worse.” I continue to shove my bag, and the handle falls so the locker door won’t shut. Gianni steps up behind me, calmly places the handle on top of the bag, and closes the door. He knows me too well already, and I can’t risk his you-know-I’m-right glare. He takes my hands as I avert my gaze. My eyes wander over to the left of the office until I can’t ignore him any longer.
“Are you with me?” he asks. For a second, I wonder what he means, but then I realize he wants me here in the present, focusing on him and not what happened here.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Good. I’ll make us a coffee, and we will take it slow. You need to get your head around being here before the other staff arrives because that’s when it will become harder.”
“How so?” I think it will be easier when the other staff arrives as they’ll carry on as normal. The shop will run like it always does, and I will get swept up in the mundane running of things. “I think it will be easier when the shop opens, and we’re busy. I’ll have no time to think, and the customers will keep me distracted.”
“I’m not talking about the customers, Chloe. I’m talking about the staff. They all know. They all knew Lewis. And as much as I’ve told them not to talk to you about the incident, they are human with curiosity that rivals a cat. It might not even be something they say. It will be a look. They’ll look at you with such pity and sadness you will want to shout at them to make them stop. You’re the victim, Chloe, and there’s nothing harder than being the victim.” I stare at him, knowing he’s speaking from experience. This is the part he found the hardest. The sympathy and the sorrow that followed him around after he became a widower. The man who watched his wife die.
“Is that why you walk around being the bad guy?”
“It is much easier when everyone hates you.”
“Maybe that’s what I need then. I need to get rid of the guilt.”
“But you have done nothing wrong,” Gianni urges.
