Flowers for the Dead. C. K. Williams
I’m not a world-class cook, and I like to think my baking makes up for it. I love baking. Made our wedding cake myself. That was also because money was a little tight – when isn’t it, really, with the rent you have to pay these days? – but still. It was a feast of chocolate, almonds, vanilla and marzipan, decorated with edible flowers.
While I serve the mashed potatoes in small bowls on our plates with the pies next to them, Oliver reaches for the remote. ‘You want me to turn off the TV, Linnsweet?’ he asks.
‘Thanks, Sweet-O.’ The name jolts through me as I say it out loud. That’s what I call him, Sweet-O. Have always called him that. It was a joke at first, because of what his mum used to call him. My sweet Oliver. Sweet-O, I used to tease him. He came up with Linnsweet in return. They stuck.
He’s set the table nicely, I realise as I sit, with a candle and the cloth napkins his mother gave us for Christmas five years ago. After we had just moved here. It is our third flat. We’ve been together ever since we were seventeen. Went to school together. People sigh wistfully when they find out. Those are the most romantic stories, aren’t they, they say, where you marry your childhood sweethearts.
Except the story that’s told about me isn’t one of romance. Except that I’m not good for him. I have always known this, known that he could have done so much better for himself than a traumatised high-school girlfriend who did not even manage to feed the fish regularly. That he deserves so much better. A real family, a proper partner. But I was never brave enough. Never brave enough to go, not even for his sake. When you love someone, you let them go, they say. But how could I let him go?
Until I received the doctor’s letter, three months ago. The results were clear. Oliver is not going to have any children if he stays with me. He will never have a family.
Oliver digs in; he could never wait for anyone when it came to food. Nor can I, actually; for such a mediocre pair of cooks, we sure love good food. But not tonight. Tonight, I sit across from Oliver, clutching the fork in my hand, incapable of taking a single bite. My knuckles feel like they are about to burst through my clammy skin. In sickness and in health, to love and to cherish. I know he won’t leave me. Not after he’s stuck with me for nineteen years. He is too loyal. Too kind. But I cannot take that away from him, too. He has always wanted a family. He was so excited, that morning three months ago when we thought I might finally be pregnant. I had woken up to his hands on my body, to his lips on mine, the scent of a fresh bouquet of flowers and warm croissants on the dresser. The fit of nausea had been so sudden, I didn’t even make it to the bathroom before I threw up. He thought it meant we were going to be a family. I thought so, too, so I went to the doctor’s.
Turns out that’s not what it meant. If there’s one thing I can’t get, it’s pregnant.
I look at Oliver, watch him eat, talk, his soft face, his shaved head hiding that he’s going bald and grey, that deep line on his forehead and his bright blue eyes, bright even after all these years. Till death do us part. It is so hard sitting here and saying nothing. Funny, because I thought I was good at lying.
I hope he won’t look into the car on the way out, when he leaves for his conference. I hid the suitcase under a woollen blanket and bags of groceries. In case he looks into the boot, out of curiosity. I hope he won’t realise. It would break his heart. My husband. For better, for worse.
But how much worse?
Finally, I also make myself take a bite. The mash turned out fine, actually. Then I ask him about the conference. It calms me down just to hear his voice. The corners of my mouth twitch into a half-smile. The conference will last for a week. He has been on the road more and more this past year to go to conferences, to workshops, but this is the first time he will be delivering a keynote. He has been so excited, so nervous, so busy, he’s hardly had the time to think about anything else. To realise that I had become quieter. To think about what I might have been thinking about. To wonder about the fact that I never told him what came of the visit to the doctor’s except to say we’d been wrong.
‘Linnsweet?’
I look up at him. Maybe he made a joke. Maybe I missed it. There is a crease on his forehead – he’s worried about me. Poor Oliver, always having to worry about me. Nineteen years of little else.
Again, I make myself smile. ‘Sorry. You like the pies? They turned out quite nicely, didn’t they?’
A grin flits across his face. ‘Always so modest,’ he teases.
‘It was intended as a compliment to Tesco,’ I insist, corners of my mouth twitching again.
This time, he laughs for real. I would love to laugh with him, but my throat constricts. He has sacrificed enough, I remind myself as I force another bite down my throat. Let him go.
*
Oliver smiles at me when dinner is over. Blows out the candle. This one’s blue. They’re always blue. Then he takes me into his arms, his strong arms, maybe not as strong as they used to be, but still a place where I can’t move once I find myself in them. To have and to hold. ‘Will you be okay while I’m gone?’ Oliver asks. ‘Doing anything nice? Go see a show, maybe? Bake something for me?’
Tell him. Just tell him.
I open my mouth.
‘Sweet-O,’ I say. He looks at me. His blue eyes and large pupils, blown wide from how we have been pressed against each other.
I swallow. He wants me so much. Even after all these years. All these years that he has taken care of me.
Now it is my turn to take care of him.
‘Maybe I’ll just stay in and wait for you to come home,’ I say, every word painful, my mouth twitching. ‘Keep the couch warm.’
‘Do some laundry, maybe?’ He laughs.
‘That sounds crazy,’ I manage.
‘I know, right? Lock him up now, he’s a nutter.’
‘I’ll iron your shirts,’ I say, feeling that non-smile on my face again. He needs his shirts, now that he’s in management, and frankly, he’s rubbish at ironing. When they offered him the promotion, from nursing to public health manager, he said, Hell, yes. That is why he’s been going to all these staff training courses, all these conferences. I always knew he would be great at it. Oliver has always wanted to help people, told me so on our very first date. No matter how hopeless a case, he doesn’t give up on anyone. Sometimes I think that’s why he’s stuck with me so long.
He laughs again, lets me go and grabs his travel bag. I breathe in, then out. Press my arms to my body, my legs together so that I won’t pull him back towards me. He deserves to be happy.
When his cab has arrived, we go downstairs together. He is taking the late-night train to Cornwall. He likes trains. I put on my coat, my gloves and scarf and the hat I made for myself when I took up knitting for a bit. The front door needs a heavy push to open, then we step outside. It’s a cold autumn night.
‘I miss you already, Linnsweet,’ he says and kisses me.
I kiss him back and try to tell myself to do the right thing, not to cave now. Not to be selfish. To let him go. He looks at me, so much want in his eyes and desire and regret. ‘I’m sorry I’ve got to go,’ he says, and I cannot speak.
Don’t speak.
So all I do is nod.
Then I watch him walk to the kerb.
I watch him greet the driver, a friendly ‘How’re you, mate?’ I watch him put his bag in and wave at me.
Then I watch him glance at our car.
He hesitates.
My pulse quickens. Slowly, he turns back to me. My throat goes dry. He looks at me, in my coat, with the gloves and the hat and the scarf, too. I feel perspiration in my armpits and my thighs and the palms