‘So, you were stuck in the car, conscious, for hours?’ he asks.
Somehow, people don’t usually pick up on this.
‘Yes.’
‘That must have been a living hell.’
‘It was.’ I close my eyes and I am briefly back there, but I force the memories away. I’m having a good time. I do not need to go back. There’s no point.
The reason for Larry’s insight soon becomes clear: he’s a psychologist. When he tells me, I feel a hint of discomfort at having exposed myself. But he explains that his work now is mostly corporate – he does executive life coaching.
‘After my wife left me and I didn’t see it coming,’ he explains, ‘I didn’t think I could hold myself up as a bastion of human understanding.’
Edward is listening in. ‘You’re too hard on yourself, Larry. Miri always says so.’
Larry reaches across the table and for a moment the two men grasp hands. ‘I miss her too,’ says Larry.
‘I know you do,’ says Edward. ‘But she’ll be back. I know it.’
Larry nods. ‘Can’t keep a good woman down,’ he says, and Edward laughs. I have a brief vision of that flying hand.
It’s an easy afternoon, despite all the heavy topics and the trickiness of Lizette. But I feel comfortable with Edward and Larry, like the three of us are old friends. I find myself wondering if Larry really believes Miriam will wake up, but then I think about how she moved. They all believe she might be fine. I’m the only one who knows the truth.
Since The Accident, during the few times I have forced myself to socialise, I have usually found myself wishing away the hours and longing to leave. But today ends before I am ready, and suddenly everyone is saying goodbye and hugging and promising to stay in touch.
‘I’m not the sort of person who makes empty promises,’ Lizette assures me as she takes my number.
Larry says goodbye to me last.
‘It’s been really lovely meeting you,’ I say, and he looks so uncomfortable that I wonder if I have misread him completely and he doesn’t like me at all.
But then he speaks. ‘I know you’re married and all,’ he says. ‘But would you, maybe, like to have dinner sometime?’
‘That would be lovely,’ I say. ‘I’d really enjoy that.’
I can’t believe how I have suddenly started making friends, and that it feels so good. I wonder what Mike will think.
It’s only when I’m driving that I think about Larry’s wording more carefully. If he was asking me to dinner as a friend, why would he mention that I’m married?
Oh God, I think. Have I just agreed to go on a date?
I start to smile, and I am still smiling when I drive past an accident scene. I can’t stand accident scenes. I’ve been known to actually stop and vomit after driving past one. And this one is bad – there are two cars, and both are completely destroyed. There is glass and metal all over the road, and as the emergency services slow cars down and wave us round, I see a body bag on the road. I wait for the usual feelings of horror and revulsion and fear. But they don’t come. And within a few minutes I’m smiling again, thinking about my day.
I don’t like to say it. I don’t like to even think it. But my last thought as I fall asleep is that maybe I’m finally getting better.
Maybe I’ve done what all those books and friends and things told me was possible.
Maybe I’ve learnt to live with my grief.
Claire
When Mackenzie and I touch down in Mauritius, I know I’ve done the right thing. For the first time since this all started, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. I don’t have to worry about running into Daniel. I don’t have to worry about seeing Julia and her baby bump. I don’t even have to worry about my friends and what they’re thinking about me and how I should act. I can just be. I can’t remember the last time I could just be.
Mackenzie looks around the airport with wonder. ‘Are we staying here, Mummy?’ she asks.
I laugh. ‘No, baby. This is the airport. We’re going to a hotel. It’ll be even better.’
At that moment, I see a bored-looking man standing holding a sign with my name on it. He has two beautiful floral leis draped over his arms. I walk towards him and he perks up.
‘Mrs Marshall?’ He drapes a lei around my neck. ‘Little girl,’ he says, putting one on Mackenzie, who is entranced. ‘Welcome to Ile de Maurice. We will make sure that you enjoy your stay.’
I look down at Mackenzie, who looks so happy and entertained, and I silently thank my father for paying for the best sort of Mauritian hotel.
‘I think we’re going to have a wonderful time,’ I say. ‘I don’t think we’re going to want to leave.’
Part of me thinks that the good feelings must fade, that something must go wrong. But we get to the hotel and it is perfect and beautiful, and Mackenzie is delighted. We have a swim in the warm sea, and then I have a gin and tonic while Mackenzie has a chocolate milkshake, and we watch the sun set over the sea from the edge of the pool.
‘This is a really fun place,’ says Mackenzie.
‘And you haven’t even seen all the fun stuff there is for kids,’ I tell her.
‘It feels nice being here with my mummy,’ she says.
I’m so happy in that moment. Everything’s going to be okay. I’m going to be okay without Daniel, and so is Mackenzie. This holiday for the two of us was the perfect idea.
The perfect beginning to a new, happier chapter in our lives.
SUNDAY
Julia
Daniel’s not in bed when I wake up. I hadn’t really expected him to be, because I knew he had plans. But it feels very early, and the bed feels cold, like he hasn’t been there for a while. Daniel might be selfish about doing his own thing, but he’s even more selfish about getting his sleep. He doesn’t get up early on a Sunday for anything. I lie in bed for a moment, holding my baby bump, trying to persuade myself that my uneasy feeling is ridiculous.
Eventually my bladder persuades me that it’s time to get up. I pad through to the bathroom. Something is off, but the baby is sitting on my bladder, so I attend to my most urgent need first. I want to brush my teeth because my mouth feels dry and unpleasant, but when I reach for the toothpaste, it’s not there. And my toothbrush is alone in its cup. The toothpaste and Daniel’s toothbrush have vanished.
It feels like time is slowing down.
I open the bathroom cupboard and take inventory. Daniel’s deodorant is gone. His shampoo is gone. His razor is gone. But his other things – a spare razor, some painkillers, the special soaps he likes to stockpile – are still there. I wonder if there’s any chance I’m dreaming, but a sharp kick from my baby assures me that I’m awake.
‘This isn’t happening,’ I say out loud, but I go over to our wardrobe in the bedroom. When I started getting the nursery ready, we finally found a way to squeeze most of Daniel’s clothes into my wardrobes. This mostly involved me giving away a lot of my own clothes, and storing the rest on the top shelves in the nursery. I even took a suitcase to my mother.
At first I feel relief: Daniel’s clothes are still there, his suits lined up in a regimented row, ubiquitous jeans neatly folded over hangers. Collared shirts like a small linen rainbow. I can smell Daniel wafting off his clothes.
I open the cupboard on the side, the one with shelves. Daniel’s shelves are always organised and neat, but now the T-shirts are all over the place, and his few pairs of shorts are gone. Like he grabbed a few T-shirts from the middle of the pile and didn’t have time to straighten it up. Because it doesn’t matter.
I look at his underwear drawer. Almost empty. Underpants gone, except for a pair that are almost worn out, which I’ve been begging him to chuck. He always agrees, but doesn’t do it. The socks are still there.
I look down at where he keeps his shoes. Work shoes, present and accounted for. But his two pairs of flip-flops and his sandals are gone.
It’s like he’s left me, but only for the weekend. And
not very well at that, given that even warm Johannesburg is now chilly with early-winter cold.
‘Maybe he was drunk,’ I say to no one. Then I remember all the bashing I heard when he came home last night. And that I’d thought he must have been drunk.
He got drunk and when I told him not to worry about me, when I didn’t return all the love he was showering on me, he decided to leave. Only he was so drunk, he packed for a month of warm Sundays.
This is not a problem, I think. One phone call and he’ll understand how much I need him, and we’ll laugh at all this. We’ll be telling our baby about the time Daddy packed his flip-flops in the middle of winter. This is one of those stories couples need. I’m almost happy that this has happened.
I pick up my phone and call Daniel, but it goes straight to voicemail.
‘Daniel,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry if I didn’t make you feel loved yesterday. Please come home now.’ I laugh. ‘And anyway,’ I say, ‘you need a jersey.’
I put the phone down, wondering where Daniel slept last night. Or did he sleep with me, and then wake up drunk and leave? As I’m trying to figure it out, my phone beeps.
I’m surprised – it’s a message from Daniel – even though his phone was off a moment ago.
I’m sorry, Julia. This is what I need to do.
I immediately dial his number, but it goes straight to voicemail again.
I look at his WhatsApp profile: he’s offline.
I sit down slowly on my bed.
Daniel has left me.
The realisation comes slowly, but I know that it’s true.
But where would he go?
Like a punch, I know. He’s gone back to Claire. Without even thinking much about what I’m doing, I dial Claire’s number. Her phone goes straight to voicemail too.
That’s all I need. I feel sick, and only just make it to the toilet before I vomit. Daniel has left me. They must be together, laughing about foolish Julia.
I don’t know what to do next, so I lie down in my bed. My bed, I think, that was never really our bed. I expect to lie there tormented, but I fall asleep.
When I wake up a few hours later, I know what I need to do.
I need to go to my mother.
Claire
I wake up with the sun streaming through a gap in the curtains onto my bed. Mackenzie is curled up in the bed next to me, fast asleep, her mouth slightly open, with a small patch of drool pooling on the pillow. We went to sleep late, and the sun already seems to be high in the sky. I watch her sleep for a while – wondering when I last took the time to just breathe her in. I’ve been so focused on survival since Daniel left that I’ve barely been present in my life. I lean down and inhale the smell of little girl and shampoo and a slightly sour morning breath.
‘What are you doing, Mummy?’ Mackenzie says without opening her eyes.
‘Smelling you,’ I say.
‘You are very weird, Mummy,’ says Mackenzie, still lying with her eyes closed. ‘Are we still in Maurish?’
‘We are. I’m thinking we should get up and have some breakfast and go exploring. What do you think?’
‘What do Maurishes have for breakfast?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think you can pretty much have anything you want.’
Mackenzie opens her eyes. ‘Anything?’
‘Well, not chocolate. Or Coke.’
‘A whole plate of bacon?’
‘Sure.’
‘And messed eggs?’
‘Definitely.’
‘And choccy milk?’
‘Pretty sure we can get that.’
Mackenzie smiles. ‘Let’s go, Mummy. What are we waiting for?’
‘Maybe we should put on some clothes instead of pyjamas,’ I suggest.
‘That’s a bad thing about hotels, eh?’ says Mackenzie, making me laugh.
We get dressed and go to the hotel dining room, where we opt for an outside table overlooking the pool and the sea. I take Mackenzie into the restaurant and show her how the buffet works, and what all the different choices are. We debate which fruit juice looks nicer, and whether we should start or end our breakfast with pancakes. Eventually, after Mackenzie decides to start with pancakes and I opt for a bowl of fresh fruit, we go back to the table. The waitress brings me some tea, and Mackenzie a chocolate milk. I feel completely relaxed as I take my first sip of tea.
‘Mummy,’ says Mackenzie, ‘can I have juice and milk?’
‘Sure, baby,’ I say. ‘Can you get it yourself, do you think?’
‘Yes!’ yells Mackenzie, excited by this high level of responsibility. I smile as she runs into the restaurant, her hair swinging behind her, catching the sun.
I close my eyes for a moment. This was totally, absolutely the very best thing I could have done for Mackenzie and me. It’s almost that being in a different country from Julia and Daniel has liberated me. Freed me to be myself; and to finally see clearly that I’m happy on my own. I have a good life. Daniel is charming and funny and charismatic, but life with him was always all about him and his needs. It’s taken him leaving me to see that, but now I realise that I’m actually happier without Daniel.
I stretch, eyes still closed, making a promise to myself that this is the beginning of everything.
A shadow falls over the table and I open my eyes, squinting as I readjust to the light.
‘Morning, babe.’
Daniel is looking down at me.
Helen
Julia was two when The Accident happened. Mike had won an incentive week in a private game reserve that we would never have been able to afford ourselves, and it was a great opportunity, but Julia was just a bit too young. She was furious when we decided to leave her with my parents, even though it meant that she would have them all to herself for once. Mike and I argued about whether leaving Julia out of the trip was the right thing to do. We’d been arguing, in our gentle way, ever since we’d made the decision to go ahead and book it. I was adamant that Julia was too young for hours of looking at animals. A four-year-old could be entertained and would like the animals, but it was too much for a two-year-old, I said. And malaria, I argued, although Mike very reasonably pointed out that we were not going to a malaria area.
Fighting was never our way, and Mike was never happy about the decision.
We dropped Julia in the afternoon. It took longer to settle her than we’d expected, and we were worried about the time when we left. Before we went, I phoned the game lodge from my mum’s phone. They said not to worry, we could check in any time, the reception was open twenty-four hours a day.
‘It’s probably better,’ Mike said. ‘It’s more comfy driving when it’s cool.’
I nodded, pleased that he had decided to see the good side of things, sure that this meant the fight was behind us.
But we had to stop a few times, and soon it was dark . . . dark like it can only be on a narrow highway in the middle of nowhere with no street lights. There was almost no traffic, but cows or even buck could step into the road at any point, and we both knew stories about accidents like this. A cow, hit at the right speed, is surprisingly lethal.
‘Drive carefully,’ I said. ‘There’s no rush.’
‘I am driving carefully,’ Mike snapped. ‘It’s hard.’
We saw the lights of the truck approaching from a long way away. It was barely of any interest, except that we hadn’t seen much traffic for a while. I watched it approach – not with a sense of foreboding, but because it was all that there was to watch on that road.
Suddenly, out of the blue, as the truck drew level with us, the driver swerved. Nobody ever knew why. The truck swerved on to our side of the road; everything became loud and black and hard and for what felt like forever, I didn’t know what was happening – it was all lights and noise and the screaming of brakes.
The truck hit the driver’s side, almost ploughing through us. The wonder is that they weren’t killed on impact. Like the truck driver. Because on the driver’s side of the car was Mi
ke. And behind him sat our four-year-old son, Jack, who we had thought was old enough to enjoy the trip to the game reserve. Jack, our first child.
Jack, the brightest, funniest, best-looking little boy that ever lived.
Jack, who was asleep in the back of the car when the truck hit.
I screamed, ‘Jack, are you okay?’ and he said, ‘What happened, Mummy?’ and my heart released because he was alive and that was all that mattered. I thought that someone would come past soon, and help us. Jack was alive. Everything would be okay.
And then I looked over at Mike, and he was very still, and there was blood trickling out of his nose. But I could see that his chest was moving slightly and I knew that he was alive too. I remember thinking, This is terrible, but we will be okay.
But I was completely pinned to my seat. The airbag was holding me in, and a piece of metal from the truck had landed across me. I tried to fight it, to get to Jack, but I couldn’t. Eventually, I worked my arm free, grazing all the skin off my forearm in the process, and I reached behind me to Jack. He found my hand.
‘Jack,’ I said.
‘Mummy,’ he said. ‘Mummy, I have blood.’
‘Where, baby?’
He laughed. Actually laughed. ‘Everywhere, Mummy!’
‘Does it hurt, love?’ I said, because I was starting to feel my own pain – in my foot and along my side where something had grazed me, and my arm that I had just hurt working free.
‘A bit now, Mummy,’ he said. ‘My tummy is a bit sore, Mummy.’
‘Okay, Jackie,’ I said. ‘Mummy’s here. Someone will come help us soon. It’s gonna be okay, my baby. It’s gonna be okay.’
But nobody came. And I started to remember how empty the road was as we drove, and I managed to move my left arm, the one that was still caught, so that I could see my watch. It was 10 p.m.. If the roads were already empty, it’s unlikely they would get any busier now.
The Aftermath Page 17
