Flowers for the Dead. C. K. Williams
Tells him something. Then he walks back towards me. ‘Did you forget something?’ I ask, my voice sounding normal even as my tongue feels like it is stuck to the roof of my mouth.
He takes my hand and kisses its back, making my insides twist. ‘Don’t you need help with the groceries?’
I shake my head, glad I’m wearing gloves. Otherwise, he might notice the sweat on my palms. The fluttering of my pulse, the shaking of my fingers. ‘No, that’s all right, Oliver.’
‘No, come on, you don’t have to carry them up on your own. He said he could wait. You should have told me, I’d have helped you when you got in.’
‘No, really, you’ll miss your train,’ I say, laughing even, playfully pushing him towards the cab. ‘Go, Mister Manager.’
Oliver doesn’t budge. He does not like being pushed. ‘You should’ve told me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, rubbing my hand across my lips. There are so many things I should have told him. ‘The only thing that’d make me even sorrier is if it made you miss your train.’
As he gets into the cab, I let out a relieved breath. I watch him until the cab has turned around the corner, towards the city centre, waving till I can no longer see him.
I wait five more minutes. Ten.
He does not come back.
I stare at the corner my husband disappeared around. The red-brick house, the bare tree on the corner, the blue light of a TV set flickering through the curtains. It takes me a moment to notice that there is something wet on my cheek.
Confused, I take off my glove and lift my hand. There are wet tracks on both sides of my face. Wiping the liquid away, I realise they are tears.
I don’t know if they include this in their story. When they tell their cautionary tale about me, up in Yorkshire once night has fallen. Do they add, And after it all happened, she decided it was safer to just stop feeling things? That’s what trauma is, girls, not being able to feel anything, not even sad when you let the person go that you love. Don’t open the door to strangers. Don’t walk home alone at night. Don’t wear that skirt.
I hope they do. I hope they tell the true story.
Well. If we knew what the true story was.
I hesitate, car keys already in my pocket. I’m ready. If I only knew how to do this. I haven’t gone anywhere without Oliver, except to the shops, in years.
Just take one step at a time.
Slowly, I start walking towards the car, hands buried in the pockets of my jeans.
Already in the driver’s seat, I glance up at our flat one last time. It’s then that I realise I’ve forgotten something. Two things, actually.
I rush back upstairs and unlock the flat once more. I’m leaving Sweet-O everything, of course, everything except what I need and he can’t use, my clothes and my makeup and the last picture of my parents, taken two months before their deaths. It was one year ago that they left us.
I hesitate as I look at the CD rack; all my hand-signed records of The Dresden Dolls are already in the car, but there are still The Police’s Best Of, Blondie’s Greatest Hits. I take a deep breath, then I leave them. Oliver loves our music. And it may be selfish, but I want something for him to remember me by.
What I came back for aren’t CDs. It’s my bag with the parcel, and my begonias. The bag in one hand, I leave the bedroom and walk across the living room to the windowsill facing the busy street below. ‘Left behind just because you droop your heads?’ I whisper to my begonias, running a finger along the green stems. They are hardy begonias, Begonia grandis. I got them on a whim in the summer, when they were looking so sad and thirsty inside Tesco.
Wrapping them in a plastic bag, I look around the flat one last time. I reach into my pocket and take out the note I wrote for Oliver. That’s all I am brave enough for. It says that I am fine, and that this is the best way, and that I don’t want him to come looking for me. That he has spent too many years of his life taking care of me already. That I truly wish him all the very best and a real family with someone who can give him what he needs. Someone who will be good for him.
My hands are trembling as I put it on the table. Look at it, the innocent piece of paper, the blue candle on the table, blue like my husband’s eyes. Feel him push me against the wall.
Stay.
The doorbell rings. I flinch. Then I remember it is past ten, and the drunks are starting to stumble out of the pub across the street. Some of them think it’s funny to play a round of knock, knock, ginger with the pub’s neighbours before going home. First time it happened to me, when we’d just moved here, it was the middle of the night. I woke up in panic, the cold sweat of fear leaving traces all over my body, like insistent fingers. With time, I got used to it, though. At least they usually don’t piss in your doorway when they’ve rung all the bells.
Then it rings again.
They never ring again.
That’s Oliver. It must be Oliver.
I rush to the door. Press the button. Nothing happens. I press again. Someone pushes against the front door, downstairs, I hear it echo through the hallway. It won’t open. Jammed.
I dash downstairs to open it, carrying my bag and the begonias. If it’s him, I’ll stay.
When I open the door, it is not Oliver, not his soft, bald face. Instead, there is a delivery woman, red hair tucked under her cap. ‘Bloke named Oliver sends you these,’ she says unceremoniously. ‘Hope he’s not a creep.’
‘We’re married,’ I say, shuffling my bag and the begonias around so that I can take the large bouquet she hands me – autumn flowers, red and orange and yellow, so tasteful.
If only there weren’t also stems of lavender tucked deeply into the bouquet.
‘Doesn’t answer my question,’ she says and puts out her hand.
I stare at the bouquet; it is the same he bought a week ago, before I went to the doctor’s. Then my eyes drop to her fingers. Her nails are polished blue. Behind her, two drunks are falling out of the pub doors.
Then I realise she wants a tip. I fumble with my wallet and press a few coins into her hands and watch her leave. I put the bouquet down as soon as she is out of sight. Now all I’ve got to do is walk out, unlock the car and drive.
I hesitate. Breathe in the scent of the flowers at my feet.
Then I push out. Out into the cold and the dark. I haven’t wanted anything in a long time. But I want this.
I want to find out who did this to me.
THE NEIGHBOUR
It is early morning when I hear the engine roar, lying awake as I often do. It is barely dawn, the light outside white and grey. Must be an old car, the way it sounds. I saw lots of cars like that before I moved here. Now, not so much.
A country road leads past my drive, single lane, old stones piled up into low walls on both sides, grey during the day and black at night. It is absurd. Even after all this time, I still start when I hear a car. They come down this road so rarely.
Surrounded by starch-white pillows and sheets, I listen to the sound of the engine, trying not to be nervous. You can hear them coming a mile off, cars like that. Do not be nervous. And do not get up. It is an obsession, my therapist told me. You are obsessed.
The sound of the engine turns louder. I turn onto my back, fiddling with the bed sheets. They are clean and stiff. There are no other houses down this road, bar one.
Is that why you bought the Kenzies’ home? my therapist asked me. No, I lied, I needed more space.
The