How to walk past the photograph of him and Jane on the wall by the front door without closing his eyes, unable to stand it, the image of them, smiling, happy, hopeful on the day of their wedding.
How to remember the names of all the neighbours and their kids. No longer was he able to click his fingers and say to his wife, ‘you know, three doors down, Overly Keen Bin Bloke’ – only for her to reply, ‘Oh, that’s Shaun, married to Marta.’
How to get the stains of slopped tea, engine oil and duck shit out of the pale rug. The tea and oil down to a potent combination of thoughtlessness and fatigue. The duck shit a gift from his brother who had trailed it from the park and right through their front door on the sole of his boot.
How to put up and decorate the Christmas tree without it inviting comedic insults from all who saw it, causing him to weep when alone at the ridiculousness of his efforts, and the powerful reminder of how beautiful his wife had made their home at that time of year. How beautiful she had made their home every day.
How to get through each day, go to work, function with a lance of grief skewering his heart and chest that made even taking a breath difficult.
Yes, he was still learning.
His wife had died eighteen months ago. It had changed him in the most profound ways. The sadness and loneliness he had expected, but he hadn’t understood how every aspect of his life, belief system and routine would be ripped to shreds. It seemed as if he spent the majority of his time trying to figure out how to put it all back together.
Always of a practical mind and without any strong religious conviction, Lewis found himself pondering the Universe, looking for any kind of association to the ‘other-worldly’ and making links where there were none. This he did quietly, privately, without regret or apology, taking immense comfort from any perceivable sign. These included staring at a prominent cloud that looked vaguely tree shaped. Jane had loved trees, was this a sign? Smelling her favoured perfume in a crowded department store. Actually,inthe perfumery, but lingering a while withhis eyes closed, was this her too? And his particular favourite: spotting a large adult eagle hovering over the field near their house, and wondering if his wife might have returned as an eagle. It was comical, he knew. The fact that the bird was probably a few years old at least was neither here nor there.
That was the thing about grief. It wasn’t rational, wasn’t linear, and wasn’t fair. It was instead a terrible journey that he, like most people, had been unprepared to travel, even though he had tried to ready himself for it as Jane’s health faded and her death went from a terrible, unthinkable thing to a certainty. Ironically, the only person who would have made this journey more bearable if he’d travelled it with them, was Jane. His grief held him fast, usurped him at will. It was exhausting and changed the shape of him. It still struck him as odd that something so widespread and general could feel so unique.
‘Eggs.’ he spied the carboard box and pictured his options: on toast, scrambled, fried or poached. Or maybe an omelette? ‘Bloody eggs.’ He reached for the box and placed it next to the cooker. ‘I’ve eaten so many bloody eggs, I wouldn’t be surprised if I started sprouting feathers!’ he gave a short laugh. He did this, chattered as if she was standing at the sink or sitting at the table and smiling along as he regaled the room with his interior monologue. The quiet that followed was always deafening, debilitating and made him sadder than he would ever care to admit.
His phone rang.
There it was, like clockwork. It was like the woman had a camera trained on him.
‘Hello, Margaret.’
‘Hi, love, it’s me, Margaret.’
‘Yep.’ He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, remembering to be patient. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to chat with his mother-in-law, he did,but it was more the irritating timing of her phone calls. Always, always when he was cooking, preparing or planning his supper. It just irked him!
‘Work all right?’
‘Yeah, you know, same old, same old.’ He had long ago run out of ways to reveal non-existent highlights in his role as a forklift operator in a vast warehouse in Avonmouth. A monotonous job really but, with good pay and regular hours, he didn’t like to moan about it. Well that wasn’t strictly true. He used to like to moan about it quite a lot, actually, to Jane. She’d nod, smile or tut, smooth his brow, make him a cuppa and remind him that real life was what happened on this side of their front door and that everything outside was no more than a means to an end.
God, how he missed her!
There it was again, that tight feeling across his chest as if the air was too thin, as if he might actually drown on the tears that slipped wordlessly down the back of his throat, as his whole body shivered with cold that was nothing to do with the temperature. Margaret was still speaking; he felt guilty for having tuned her out,
‘So that was good. Oh, and I saw Melissa today, she came over with the kids and they stayed for a bit. Millie has been to nursery, she’s done you a picture – you could put it up in the kitchen. Little Noah’s getting big, he tipped out my button box. Took me ages to gather them up and put them all away, some had rolled right under the sofa. There I was on my hands and knees gathering the little things up.’
‘Huh!’ all he could offer. He didn’t care about Millie or little Noah or Melissa, his sister-in-law, didn’t care about nursery, pictures for his kitchen or the button box – none of it. He just wanted to be left alone to miss his wife and cry quietly behind the closed curtains.
‘I’m going up Cribbs at the weekend if you need anything, love.’
‘Don’t think so.’
Then came the awkward pause while she waited and he listened, both it seemed unsure how to fill the silence. It made him cringe. Every time.
‘Right. Well. I’ll let you go then, Lew.’
‘Yep, see you later.’
‘Yep. See you later.’ She ended the call.
He exhaled with relief, thankful the irritating, pointless daily ritual was over. Opening the egg box he suddenly lost his appetite along with the desire to cook at all. Toast would do. Egg on toast without the egg.
Even he could manage that.
***
