Joel
She’s back just before six. I’ve spent most of the day outside, walking the dogs, then sitting in the garden with Murphy. As the clouds waltzed across the sky, I wondered what to do. What I can possibly say.
I found my gaze landing on Callie’s flowerpots, filled now with bees and a frenzy of butterflies. Her window box is erupting too with summer flowers, the blooms plump with nectar. They embody her so perfectly: splashes of color against gray, life supplanting inertia.
Our robin chicks fledged ages ago, their nest box deserted now. But for a while the male was still prominent, warbling gutsily from next door’s plum tree. Callie told me he was teaching his babies to sing. Who knows if that’s true, but I liked the idea of it: a centuries-old song sheet, written on the air.
“Hi.” It’s a tiredhi, a breath exhaled. She drops her bag and puts her arms around my neck, kisses me. Sweat has formed a fine white tidemark on her face. She tastes of salt and sadness.
“How was your day?” I murmur into her hair.
“Awful,” she tells my T-shirt. I’m almost relieved, but only because I don’t want to be pacified. Assured everything’s okay when it’s not. I’d rather she got angry, called this out for what it is.
A disaster, and one that’s entirely down to me.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about your dream.”
“We need...” I can barely get the words out. “We need to talk about it.”
She pulls back from the hug. “We do. Can we go somewhere?”
I’d prefer not to have this conversation in public. But since I’m about to take Callie’s life apart, it seems only fair we do this on her terms.
•••
We decide on the rooftop bar overlooking the river. It sounds nicer than it is. Pricey, and improbably positioned on the top floor of an office block, it’s always been less popular than you might expect. The view’s good, though the subject’s nondescript: Eversford boasts neither distinctive architecture nor quirky charm. Instead it’s a humdrum patchwork of offices and high-rises, church spires and roof tiles. Eras muddled together, character undefined. Still, we can see the river, silver in the sunlight like a seam of liquid mercury. And the morning’s storms have passed now. The sky’s wide and clear, a pale blue parachute above our heads.
There are more trees, too, than I ever realized. They erupt between the buildings like little green volcanoes.
We take a corner table against a tall glass panel, presumably there to stop us plunging to our deaths. I need to think clearly, so I order a coffee, but Callie opts for a glass of white wine. Can’t say I blame her. The floral dress she’s changed into is so incongruously cheerful it’s almost painful to look at.
She’s first to speak. “You dreamed about me last night, didn’t you?”
A nod, but no words. My mouth’s become rubber.
“You were saying my name over and over. You were so upset. God, it made me... so sad to see you like that.”
My chest constricts: it’s my turn now. But even after a full day of running everything over in my mind, I still have nowhere near the words I need to make sense of this.
“Cal, I’m scared that what I say—”
She cuts me off. “Then don’t. You don’t have to say anything. I’ll ask, and all you have to do is nod, or shake your head.”
I breathe in. Or maybe it’s out. Her resolve has thrown me slightly.
Across the table, her eyes find mine. “Sometimes words are the hardest part.”
“Tonight they are.”
It only takes three questions in the end. Three questions, and a matter of moments.
“Did I die?”
Yes.
“Do you know how?”
I force myself to picture her again lying lifeless on the ground. No injuries. No blood. No clues.No.
