“I’m just finding it hard to process. This was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime for them!” She collapses, predictably, into a wave of fresh sobs.
Rita’s father did have an unfortunate end, to be fair. Still, if we’re looking for silver linings, it makes a good story. He died falling from the deck of the yacht he’d hired to celebrate his recent retirement. He was—by all accounts—blind drunk when he slipped over the railings and out of sight, while his wife looked on with the sort of helplessness that borders on negligence. When they found him, three days later, he’d been nibbled at by the various inhabitants of the Caribbean Sea.
“His eyes were gone!” she’d wailed in her first session here, before we’d quite got the measure of her. When we still thought that her strangled cries were a product of the recentness of the event. It’s been months now, and I can confirm, unfortunately, that they were not.
Since then, she’s grappled rather tediously with the idea of anotherrealm. It’s not an altogether unusual reaction to bereavement—we’ve all wondered where our loved ones have ended up—but Rita does like to go the extra mile. She tones it down here, of course, perhaps aware that the incoherent musings she posts online would make her sound ridiculous in person. I added her (as Sally) on a whim, during one of those long, lonely evenings when I found myself pining for Freddie. For company. Her Facebook posts confirmed what I’d already begun to suspect: that she has utterly lost the plot.
Jack is still looking at Rita, sympathy etched on his face, and I realize I need to do something. To wipe that sappy expression away for good. Or, ideally, divert it toward me.
I lean forward, tuck my hands into my lap, and apply my very own expression of deep worry for what Rita’s going through.
“Rita,” I say gently. “You were saying the other day that you feel you can talk to your father? That you feel that since he’s been gone, the barrier between us and”—I clear my throat delicately—“the other side, I think you said, has become thinner. That you hear his voice in your head as though he’s in the room with you? Perhaps it would help to talk to him, here? Voice your feelings. Pretend we’re not here. This is a safe space.”
Rita narrows her eyes at me, no doubt thinking that she expressed those particular sentiments in the rambling five-paragraph-long post that appeared on her page at four this morning. But no one here is friends with her on Facebook, only Sally. The others shift uncomfortably, and I’m delighted to see that Jack’s expression of concern for Rita’s predicament now looks more like concern for her mental state.
“I—uh, I mean yes. I do feel like he’s here, sometimes. Not in that way. Not like a paranormal way. Just that Ifeelhim. Close to me. Just like a spirit, but not a spirit. Like his essence.” Oh, this is excellent: I’ve handed her the shovel, and she’s dutifully digging away. Better yet, Jack is now leaning slightly away from her.
His eyes flick to mine. He widens them, as if to share a conspiratorial look about Rita’s madness, but I keep my face a blank page. I won’t forgive his transgressions—both the message (or lack thereof) and the touch—so easily.
Fiona clears her throat. “It’s natural to feel a connection after death, of course, Rita,” she says, but the words don’t quite have the authenticity she’s aiming for. “Does anyone else have anything to share?”
I’m surprised when Jack raises his hand. I’d expected one of the old guard—Matt, perhaps, who usually hasplentyto say about his loss—so it makes for a pleasant diversion.
“I guess I’ve been thinking a lot over the last week about Alice, and the hold that losing her still has over my life,” he says, and I’m once again—reluctantly, this time—impressed by his delivery. The calmness of it suggests he has actually considered the words that are leaving his mouth, in stark juxtaposition to Rita’s hysteria. “She’s all I’ve been able to think about for the last six months, but recently—” He breaks off and looks directly at me. Not Rita. Not Fiona. Atme. “Recently, I’ve begun to wonder what life will look like afterward. If, perhaps, thereisa light at the end of the tunnel.”
Any frustration I’d been feeling toward Jack for his lack of communication evaporates instantly. Because I know—deep in my bones—that this is his apology. I’d been planning to play it cool, wanting to make it clear that such lack of regard for my time has consequences. But it’s obvious now. He’s been grappling with his feelings for me. And, though forgiveness is not my forte, in extenuating circumstances I can make an exception. I smile at him. Iknewwe had something special. Iknewhe felt it, too.
It was just the same with Freddie, which is how I know this budding connection with Jack is soright.
On my first date with Freddie, I arrived at the pub vibrating with nerves. But when I pushed the door open, I was greeted with a wall ofnoise and a few faces I recognized. It seemed as though a select group of people from the office had decided they also fancied a drink in the local pub.
Freddie was already there, talking to a tall man in the corner. He caught my eye as I came in, raised his eyebrows in apology for the unexpected turn of events. He beckoned me over and—ever gracious—acted as though the presence of our colleagues was part of the plan all along. He always was good at taking things in his stride.
I, on the other hand, had to do my level best not to look monumentally pissed off.
I forced a smile as he introduced me to the man he’d been talking to. “My right-hand man, Greg,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Wouldn’t know what to do without him.” I’d glimpsed Greg across the office floor before, often over at Freddie’s desk. They had the sort of relationship I’d always coveted. An easy way that spoke of long hours spent in each other’s company. More than a colleague. A friend. I stuck out my hand.
“I’m Iris,” I said, hardly able to keep the acidity out of my tone. This was supposed to beourtime together, and these people were eating into it. The man cocked his head at me, as though he’d picked up on my irritation. He took my hand anyway.
“Pleasure.”
Freddie kept the conversation going in our threesome, and, as the two men bantered, I was quiet, sullen. Finally, Greg seemed to pick up on my reluctance to engage, because he excused himself and then I had Freddie all to myself. I brightened instantly. But with an audience now, we had to be careful. We kept the conversation light in case anyone should overhear. We spoke about work to begin with, but I could sense that Freddie was frustrated at being limited to this. Eventually, he lowered his voice, moved closer, and asked me more about Marcie. About how I’d found the immediate aftermath of her death, how I coped withit now. And though we couldn’t act on the sudden closeness between us, the vulnerability of the conversation made it one of my most intimate encounters to date.
—
When the endof the session comes, I hang back, taking my time to gather my things. Jack’s going to talk to me this time. His little speech made that clear. The room filters out, and I busy myself with my bag, packing and repacking it, until it’s just the two of us left. I lift my gaze. Jack is staring at me. When our eyes meet, he holds his hands up in a pacifying gesture and crosses the circle toward me. “I know, I know. I’m so sorry not to have messaged,” he says, and I’m pleased to find he does sound sorry.
I’d planned to give him the cold shoulder, but he deserves more than that after showing his hand in front of so many people. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Don’t worry. I know how busy things can get.”
He laughs. “Partly. But it’s not just that.” He pauses, huffs a sigh. “I’ve thought about you a lot over the last week, and I’m very glad to see that you haven’t succumbed to my curse, for what it’s worth.”
I think of the hours and hours when he has dominated both my conscious and subconscious thoughts. So it’s not a lie when I say: “I’ve thought about you, too.”
He moves closer still. I wonder if this is it. If this is the moment he is going to kiss me. Then he ruins it all. “It’s a bit confusing, isn’t it?” he says, and I stare at him, not understanding. “With Alice,” he clarifies. “And Freddie.” Though Freddie’s name sounds like a bit of an afterthought.
Truthfully, Freddie has never been further from my mind, but I nod anyway, hoping my frustration is not stamped across my face. “Very confusing,” I echo.
He reaches out, gently touches the back of my hand. I want him tokiss me so much, but he pulls back, then rubs that same hand across his face. My skin where he touched me is on fire.
