The Aftermath

by Gail Schimmel

  Quite a lot.

  But obviously it’s now happened. Suddenly it feels as if this is what all my anxiety and ambivalence has been about: I need Daniel to commit to our future by divorcing Claire. Once that happens, I will feel fully committed to Daniel.

  I sit down next to him, and put my hand on his leg.

  ‘Did you talk to her about the divorce?’ I ask, trying to make my voice gentle.

  Daniel opens his eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘Is she being unreasonable about the divorce?’

  ‘What divorce?’ says Daniel, his brow furrowed.

  ‘The divorce you need to get so we can be together properly,’ I say. I don’t want to say the word ‘married’. I don’t even really need us to get married. But I’d prefer it if my live-in partner and the father of my child wasn’t married to someone else. I like the sound of that in my head, so I say it aloud: ‘I would prefer it if my live-in partner and the father of my child isn’t married to someone else.’

  Daniel looks at me like he’s never seen me before. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Of course. Yes. That’s reasonable.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think so. So will you talk to her?’ Because clearly he hasn’t.

  ‘Yes, I guess I will. I guess I have to divorce Claire.’ He sounds a bit incredulous, so I nod as if I’m dealing with a very small child.

  ‘Good,’ I say. ‘I’m glad we’ve got that cleared up.’

  I wait a moment to see if Daniel wants to talk more, but he’s closed his eyes again, so I get up and go to change for supper out. But there’s a spring in my step that wasn’t there before.

  It really has turned out to be a very good day.

  Daniel

  I don’t want to divorce Claire.

  Holy Christ, I don’t want to divorce Claire.

  How did this happen?

  WEDNESDAY

  Claire

  I wake up with the most shocking hangover, convinced that the noise coming from next to my bed cannot possibly be the alarm. I’ve only just fallen asleep. But Mackenzie is squirming next to me, and then emerges from under the duvet.

  ‘School time!’ she says brightly, which sends a shooting pain through my right eye. This would be the one morning of all mornings that she has decided to be perky first thing. ‘Time to move it, move it.’ She’s stealing my lines.

  I went out for dinner with Laurel just like she suggested. I could have asked Daniel to have Mackenzie for the night, but that felt too complicated so I arranged a babysitter instead. Which meant I could stay out late. Which I did. And now I have the most monumental headache. I consider phoning Daniel to fetch Mackenzie for school, but after last night, that would be awkward.

  We started out at a lovely Italian restaurant I’ve been wanting to try. I wasn’t sure how much I’d be drinking, and it was in a part of town I’ve never been to before, so thank goodness I took an Uber. I was scared we’d arrive at dinner and have nothing to say to each other and the rapport of the afternoon would be gone; I was scared Laurel would regret inviting me and write me off as another sheep. I haven’t, I realised, made a new friend since Julia. And look how that turned out.

  But it wasn’t like that. We spoke like old friends from the moment we sat down, and we laughed and laughed and laughed. I laugh less without Daniel, so it was intoxicating. And then, as we were laughing and I was feeling happy and relaxed for the first time in months, the unthinkable happened. Daniel and Julia walked in. I froze mid-laugh, and my eyes locked with Daniel’s. I don’t think Julia saw me, he ushered her out so quickly. I could see that she was confused and arguing with him, and I wondered what he’d tell her. After that shock, I made the two bottles of wine we shared look stupid. By the time we’d finished eating, I was very drunk. ‘Let’s go dancing,’ said Laurel. ‘When did you last go dancing?’ I thought, but I couldn’t remember. It’d been a very long time.

  ‘Where?’ I asked. ‘I don’t even know where the places are.’

  ‘Downstairs,’ said Laurel. ‘Sounds like it’s pumping.’ It’s true there was a base reverberation coming through the floor.

  Obviously I was going to object. School night. And I hadn’t been to a club for years. I started to shake my head.

  ‘Worried what the sheep will think?’ said Laurel, seeing my hesitation.

  ‘Oh, fine,’ I laughed. ‘Let’s do it!’

  Which is how it came to be that half an hour later we were standing at a bar with three tequila slammers lined up in front of each of us, spurred on by a pair of men young enough to regard us as old. We looked at each other and shrugged before slamming back those tequilas. The rest of the night was a blur, but the young men never left our sides. I have a fuzzy memory of one trying to kiss me, and me explaining at great length about being married and being old and boring, but he still looked at me all doe-eyed and said, ‘Whenever you’re ready.’ Oh Lord, I think I gave him my phone number.

  And now I have the mother of all hangovers.

  Somehow I manage to scrape myself together, and feed and dress Mackenzie, who is annoyingly upbeat and filled with inane clichés that I can’t think where she’s learnt. We get to school late again, and running to the classroom makes me want to vomit, but Mrs Wood seems to have given up hope in this respect, and just shrugs when Mackenzie comes in.

  I’m trying hard not to think about everything I have to do today. As I walk back to the car, I bump into Tiffany and Janice.

  ‘Well, you and Laurel certainly seemed to have had a good time last night,’ says Janice.

  ‘I didn’t even realise you were friends,’ says Tiffany.

  They are both wearing odd expressions, like they’ve carefully curated their faces. Maybe I just think that because of what Laurel said about them. ‘How on earth do you know?’ I say, forcing a smile.

  Janice swipes at her phone. ‘You posted about a million pictures on Facebook.’

  I never put anything on Facebook. I look at it occasionally and ‘like’ things other people have posted, but I’m not a Facebook person really. I take Janice’s phone, and sure enough I seem to have posted a whole lot of pictures between 11 p.m. and 2 a.m., all of me and Laurel and the two young men dancing, and taking stupid selfies, and generally falling about.

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Oh God,’ I say. ‘I didn’t even know I knew how to do that.’

  Janice laughs, obviously deciding that the correct reaction is ‘good sport’. ‘What? Have fun or post things on Facebook?’ I can almost feel Janice crafting the story she will tell about ‘How Absolutely Hilarious Claire Is’.

  ‘Both!’

  ‘Well, it looks like you had a ball,’ says Janice, warmly.

  ‘Ask us along next time,’ says Tiffany. ‘I haven’t partied like that in years.’

  ‘It was very spontaneous,’ I say, a bit defensively. ‘And the way I’m feeling today, I doubt I’ll ever do it again.’

  They both laugh, and I can see they’ve decided not to be offended.

  Then Janice says, ‘What did Daniel think about you being out so late? Dirk would go ballistic if I did that.’

  I know I should just tell them. This secrecy is getting ridiculous. But if I say anything now, then there’s going to be a whole intense conversation and they’re going to want to go somewhere and talk, and all I want to do is to climb back into bed.

  ‘Oh, you know Daniel . . .’ I wave my hands vaguely, hoping that I’m indicating Daniel’s generally relaxed attitude. I must succeed because they both nod.

  ‘You’re so lucky, Claire,’ says Tiffany. ‘But you deserve it.’

  They both hug me, and I feel awkward because I don’t think I bathed when I came home and I must smell of alcohol and clubs. I say as much, and they seem to think that’s hilarious.

  ‘You’re such a hoot,’ says Janice.

  ‘Always up to something,’ says Tiffany.

  I sigh inwardly. I have a feeling that wild girls’ nights are on the cards for both of them.

  Jul
ia

  I feel like seeing my dad today, and I know Wednesday afternoon is when my mum always goes, so I decide to pop in at lunch because I might bump into my mum when she arrives.

  ‘I’m going to see my dad at lunch,’ I tell Gerald. ‘So I might be a little late back.’

  ‘Right,’ says Gerald, who’s been treating me like royalty since I saved the meeting with Steve’s company yesterday. ‘Your dad’s in a coma, right?’

  ‘That’s right, Gerald,’ I say, because he seems to need to revisit this information often. ‘But he can hear what we say, so we visit.’

  ‘Right,’ says Gerald.

  ‘Right,’ I say, because the habit seems to be catching. ‘Bye.’

  I’m really looking forward to having this quiet time to speak to my father, to tell him my news, and to feel what he thinks. His presence is always so powerful and so peaceful. I love the way I know he’s there, at peace with the world like a Zen monk. Maybe I should start telling people that my dad is a Zen monk. It would be closer to the truth, really.

  But when I walk into his room, it’s about as un-Zen as can be. My mum is there, but she looks cheerful and a bit manic, so basically totally unlike herself. And there are two men that I have never seen before.

  ‘Who are these people?’ I say to my mum, who looks flustered by my appearance.

  ‘My friends,’ she says. ‘Ewan, Okkie, meet my daughter, Julia.’

  I don’t know which one is which, and I don’t care.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask, not even looking at the strangers. ‘Why are they here?’

  I take in the room. There’s a basket of food on the ground, and a bowl of crisps balanced on my dad’s knees. Not Zen then.

  ‘Are you having . . . a picnic . . . on Dad?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ says Mum, grabbing the bowl of crisps.

  The caramel-coloured man steps forward, his hand outstretched so that I’m forced to shake it.

  ‘I’m Ewan Marigold,’ he says. ‘I work with Helen, and she mentioned that she wouldn’t be able to see your father today because she saw him on Monday. So I suggested we all come and have lunch with him.’

  Mum turns to me and her eyes are shining. ‘And then I remembered, Julia, how much Dad loved having spontaneous lunches. Sometimes he’d wait outside the hospital with a basket of food, and we’d spend my lunch break in the park. He loved doing that.’

  My mother never tells me anything about my father before The Accident. I have a tiny list of things that I’ve gleaned about him, and now I have this new thing: he loved spontaneous lunches. It makes me feel uncomfortable, even though it’s a nice thing.

  Then the other man steps forward. ‘I’m Okwango,’ he says. ‘Ewan’s boyfriend. But people call me Okkie.’ He too sticks out his hand. ‘We are so excited about your baby.’

  ‘My baby?’ I echo, like it’s news to me.

  ‘Your mother told us,’ says Ewan. ‘It’s so lovely. She’s so excited.’

  I look at my mother, incredulous, and she blushes. I can’t even process her right now. I search my mind for what’s bothering me and eventually realise: my mother is acting like a normal person. With emotions. And friends. Quite exotic friends at that.

  ‘Are you drunk?’ I ask her. It’s the only explanation.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says, but her eyes stray to a bottle of wine sticking out of the food basket. And she sees me watching her, and she giggles. I need to sit down.

  And just as I’m feeling like the world can’t get any weirder, a man’s head appears around the door.

  ‘Hi there, Helen,’ he says. ‘Heard the laughter – thought I’d say hi.’ The man is about my mum’s age. He’s good-looking, like an ageing rock star. But like an ageing rock star he looks tired and worn out. Maybe he is an ageing rock star, given how weird this is.

  And then my mum walks over to him, and takes him by the arm, pulling him into the room. I’ve never seen my mother touch a stranger – not even my friends when I was at school – so my mouth falls open. And then she starts introducing this ageing rock star to the other two, and the room is full of people shaking hands and saying, ‘Nice to meet you,’ and ‘Heard so much about you,’ but I’ve never heard about any of them. It’s like I’ve stumbled into a cocktail party I wasn’t invited to. I wonder what the nurses think.

  I sink into a chair and look at my dad. His face is restful. He’s lying there still and peaceful, like he always does. He’s not judging my mother for her outlandish behaviour; he is, in fact, Zen. I focus on him and let the room wash over me.

  And then there’s a new flurry, and Ewan and Okkie are wiping the crumbs out of the crisp bowl, and the ageing rock star says something about going to see someone called Miriam, and my mum kisses my dad goodbye, and in the chaos gives me a kind of affectionate pat on the shoulder, and then they all start saying how late they are for work, and they leave en masse.

  And I’m left, like the flotsam of the party, looking at my peaceful father.

  ‘What the hell was that, hey, Daddy?’

  I can almost feel him laugh.

  Helen

  I had no intention of seeing Mike today. I saw him on Monday, and that had me staring into space thinking my own thoughts. I couldn’t take off another afternoon anyway, and I promised myself I would see him on Thursday evening. It’s tough knowing he’s awake inside, and that he waits for me and misses me, and I can’t always get there. I used to go every evening – even if it was sometimes only for a few minutes when Julia was little – but over the years that has lessened. But if I’m honest with myself, with all these worries about Julia, I’ve seen Mike less in the last few months than I ever have before.

  But I know he understands. Even though we haven’t talked about it, he must know that I’m preparing for us to leave the world together. And to do that, I need to make sure that Julia is okay.

  I was thinking these thoughts when Ewan came out of the consulting rooms mid-morning.

  ‘Wednesday, Helen,’ he said. ‘Off to see Mike this afternoon?’

  ‘Not today,’ I answered. ‘I took my half day on Monday so I’ll miss today.’

  I must have sounded upset about it. Or maybe Ewan Marigold is just the sort of man who is always looking to help people.

  ‘Okkie and I are going out for lunch,’ he said. ‘Do you want to join us?’

  ‘Won’t I be intruding?’ I said. ‘Third wheel?’ I feel like this a lot – like I would be more socially acceptable if I had Mike alongside. I even spoke about it with Okkie and Ewan that night at their place. And Ewan obviously remembered, because the next thing he said was, ‘I have the best idea. Let’s visit Mike. We need to meet him, and what better time?’ And then before I could even answer, he disappeared.

  After his next consultation, he stopped by my desk.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘Dr Vermeulen’s daughter is coming in for an hour, so we can take a long lunch and she’ll man the desk. And Okkie’s bringing a picnic we can take to Mike.’

  I don’t know how he organised all that and saw a patient in the space of one consultation, but it was too late for me to voice any objections. I’d never done anything like this before, so I had no idea what Mike would think. But, I reasoned, maybe it would startle him out of his coma. Maybe this was the kind of thing that I’d missed. Mike was a social guy when he was awake, so why would that have changed? And suddenly I remembered how much Mike loved surprising me with picnics. It was his thing. I haven’t thought about it for years. It seemed so obvious suddenly, so I smiled warmly at Ewan. ‘That’ll be great,’ I said.

  And it was great. Mike didn’t wake up, but Ewan and Okkie are so easy and fun that I relaxed. And then Julia arrived and I felt almost like part of a normal family, introducing people, and when Edward popped in it was complete. A really good afternoon.

  But it’s left me feeling flat and doubtful. Suddenly all the choices I’ve made all these years, the careful way Julia and I have lived to avoid pain,
seem hollow.

  I should have found a way to keep Mike at home with us.

  I should have had a busy, happy life going on around Mike, with guests and Julia’s friends. My friends.

  I should have pulled myself together, and held the grief further apart. I should have had therapy.

  I tell myself that I did the best that I could, that my grief was too heavy, that I was too broken from those hours in the car. I did my best. And as I listen to my inner voice, I realise something. I’m thinking about my grief and my pain – my whole identity – in the past tense.

  And once I realise that, I don’t know what to think.

  Claire

  I was intending to carry on with my day through the hangover. I have a meeting with a client and I need to plan a Twitter schedule and also bake some scones for the PTA meeting this evening. But when I get into my car, I can’t face any of it.

  I cancel the meeting, let the PTA know that neither I nor my scones will be able to make it tonight, and I head home, intending to sleep.

  I actually change back into my pyjamas – I don’t like sleeping in clothes and I really like my pretty pyjamas – and I climb into bed. But then I can’t sleep because my brain is all over the place: last night, Daniel, Janice and Tiffany, work. Mackenzie, always Mackenzie. And then my phone beeps and I’m almost grateful I have a legitimate reason not to sleep.

  It’s a message from Laurel, and I open it expecting a standard ‘Thank you, had a nice time’ sort of message. But instead it says, Received a Facebook friend request from every single one of your sheeple. What to do?

  I laugh. Accept them, I type back. They’re nice if you give them a chance.