Detachment

by Shae Banks

  With my wash bag, towel, and change of clothes, I made my way right back down and hoped I wouldn’t see Lyla. It was inevitable—we lived under the same roof now—but I could hope for just one night to adjust before I faced her. I needed time to plan what I was going to say.

  Reaching the bathroom without incident, I locked the door and breathed a little easier, but immediately mentally chastised myself.

  I couldn’t avoid her. I shouldn’t. She was my best mate’s sister, and from what I’d been told so far, she needed support, not to be treated like a leper.

  I needed to get my shit together. If not for me, for Lloyd. I owed him. I owed her. If I’d done things differently, we wouldn’t be here now. Lloyd would be here giving her hell for screwing his friends. For taking over his house.

  But that wasn’t ever going to happen. Lloyd wouldn’t come home again, and that was something all of us had to get used to.

  19

  Lyla

  After managing to pick my way through half the bowl of pasta Ryan had left, I’d taken my pills and fallen asleep. While the rest was probably good for me, waking up at two in the morning wasn’t.

  Lloyd’s—my—room was silent. That self-correction had been a long time coming. Two weeks—one of them spent sitting in a hospital room waiting for the infection to respond to the antibiotics. But it finally came and my feelings over it were conflicted. He no longer needed it, but claiming his space as my own felt wrong somehow. I lay here and listened to the silence for a few moments more before my bladder spurred me into motion.

  Finally getting out of bed, I went to the loo, careful not to close any doors too loudly. I didn’t want to wake anyone up. I was still uncomfortable, but I’d managed to reduce the pain killers and I only had three days of antibiotic left to take. The highlight of my week was going to be having my stitches removed. The internal ones were dissolvable, but because of my weight—for a change—the surgeon had opted for a good, old-fashioned, non-dissolvable type. They really knew how to bolster one’s self-esteem.

  With that particular need met, I washed my hands and carefully maneuvered down the stairs. I hadn’t been down since I got home, but I’d drank the glass Ryan brought me with the food, and I was parched, and I could probably handle something more to eat.

  The stairs creaked beneath my feet and I cursed them with every step. As a teen, I used to run downstairs to avoid putting any extra weight on them for too long, but the stitches made that impossible. I didn’t want Ryan or Thom to come and start fussing, I needed to get my head together and get back to doing everything for myself.

  Okay, not everything. I was grateful for their help, that they’d given me time and space to get my shit together, but I missed them. Ryan had been far more persistent than Thom, but he was still cautious. That needed to stop. They’d lost Lloyd too. It wasn’t all about me.

  Safely down the stairs with no sounds from above, I pushed open the kitchen door and went straight for the fridge. Momentarily blinded by the sudden light, I pulled out the milk, closed it, and turned. My intake of breath was sharp.

  “Ohmyfuckinggod,” I whispered on my exhale, pressing my back against the fridge door, and clutched the milk carton to my chest in a death grip.

  “Brew?” His smile was uncomfortable, the motion of his hand to raise his mug in a question was awkward.

  Getting my breath back, I tried to relax. The light coming into the kitchen from the hall was enough to see by, but not enough to communicate well. Before answering, I took the few steps back to the door and flipped the switch on the wall.

  I wasn’t really dressed for a first meeting, but that was becoming my usual when it came to my brother’s friends. So when I turned to face him, I forced a smile. “If you’re making. You must be Sam.”

  He looked young. He wasn’t, I knew he was in his thirties like the rest of us, but he clearly had better genes. His hazel eyes were soft, his eyelashes long, and his lips were clearly defined. Returning the smile, he got up from the table, heading directly for the kettle and flicked it on. “It’s nice to meet you, Lyla.”

  There was another sentence missing, and I could tell he was fighting with himself over whether to part with it or not.

  I saved him the trouble. “Shame it’s not under different circumstances. Lloyd would have enjoyed winding you up a little if he were here.”

  Moving to the mug cupboard, he bowed his head. “Would he?”

  He was shorter than Thom and Ryan, probably my height, but broader across the shoulders. His hair was cut short, and when he turned, I saw a tiny fringe left at the front that was probably meant to be gelled up. He was wearing shorts and t-shirt as PJ’s, and when he reached up to retrieve my mug from the shelf, the muscles across his back rippled.

  Sitting at the table, I laughed. “Oh yeah. He’d find something to say to embarrass you. I’d give him hell for being horrible, he’d call me miserable…” I trailed off as he leaned against the worktop, staring at me. “What?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t believe them when they said you weren’t like him, but you’re really not.”

  I frowned. I’d spent my life being one of a pair, to be told his closest friend saw nothing of him in me was strange. “Is that bad?”

  He continued to look at me for a few seconds, then grinned and shook his head. “Nah, you’d look mental with that hair and a beard.” When I snorted with laughter, he added, “I’m glad to see you’re recovering well.”

  I looked down at the table. “If Ryan hadn’t come home when he did, I wouldn’t be recovering at all. I passed it off as something else, just like Lloyd did.”

  Reaching over the table for the milk, Sam cleared his throat. “Something you have in common then.” His use of the present tense didn’t escape me, and I smiled as he finished making our drinks. When he set my mug down in front of me, he announced, “I’m kind of glad you don’t have a beard.”

  I cupped my mug in my hands and raised it to my lips to hide my amusement. It was far too hot to drink, so I breathed in the aroma of tea and sugar. I hadn’t told him I used sweetener. “I got rid of that years ago, had to after years of Lloyd calling me Hagrid. Amazing what lasers can do these days.”

  He fought not to snigger into his mug and failed miserably. “Sorry. He’s told me a few stories over the years, and that nickname came up more than once.”

  Mirth tugged at the corners of my mouth and I barked out a laugh. Only to instantly regret it when it pulled at the stitches. It took me a minute to breathe through the pain, but I refused to let it cut the conversation short.

  “He was so mean!” I exclaimed in mock dismay.

  “Kids are,” he agreed, placing a packet of biscuits in the middle of the table and retaking the seat opposite me while still chuckling. “Bet he had your back though.”

  I smiled fondly. “Yeah. Yeah, he did.”

  We sat in comfortable silence, each lost in our own thoughts for a while. I was remembering. Lloyd’s twisted sense of humour wasn’t always appreciated, but it was guaranteed to provoke a reaction whatever the circumstance. Francis hated it. His sarcasm. His quick wit. His immediate response to any remark my ignorant husband happened to throw his way. I grew to love it.

  I’d gotten through half my mug of tea before I realised I’d drifted off into my memories, and the silence had become uncomfortable.

  “I don’t want you to feel guilty,” I told him, abruptly. “Comparing how it went for me, I think he was lucky to have you by his side. Beats almost dying alone with your hair matted with your own vomit.”

  Sam glanced up at me, but didn’t raise his head. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

  I didn’t know why, but I felt the need to reach for him. I went with it, placing my hand over his. “Sam, please don’t torture yourself. Horrible things happen every day. We were both unlucky. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The only thing that could have changed this for either of us would have been to be checked out far soon
er. As much as it hurts me to say it, this was our own faults for fobbing it off.”

  He didn’t answer, but he did move his other hand over mine and gave it a gentle squeeze. I had to assume it was in thanks, because I wasn’t prepared to push for a verbal reply. Another long silence followed, which Sam eventually broke.

  “Is he…” He gulped. “Has the coroner allowed him to come home yet?”

  “Yes,” I answered in a whisper. The army had arranged all that for me, including providing and covering the cost of any casket I chose to put him in, and Lloyd was now with the funeral directors we’d used for Mum, awaiting his own funeral. I hadn’t handled those details yet. I hadn’t done much of anything and that needed to change. Clearing my throat, I added, “I have to arrange the funeral this week.”

  “Are… are you allowing visitors?”

  It seemed like a strange question, but from the way his fingers tensed around mine, I knew it was important to him. I’d always assumed anyone could visit those places. “Of course, I mean, I hadn’t really thought about it, but I wouldn’t deny anyone the chance to say—” I couldn’t finish. It was too final, even in that context. Instead, I said, “Sam, I know you were close. If there’s anything you think I should include in the service, anything you especially want to say, just let me know and I’ll make sure it’s accommodated. You’re his family too.”

  There was so much more I wanted to say, but he wasn’t doing so well. I didn’t notice it before, but his eyes were dark underneath and he looked a little pale. I could relate, I hadn’t been much better myself, but I’d had time to reflect and began to deal with my loss. Sam had only just gotten home.

  “We should probably try to get some sleep,” I suggested, glancing at the oven. The clock there read four o’clock. “I’ve buggered up my sleep pattern, but I think I’m going to set an alarm and get myself up and moving later.”

  He pressed his lips together and nodded. “Yeah. I’ll wash these mugs and go up. Hope you sleep well.”

  I smiled. “You too. Are you working tomorrow?”

  He shook his head. “Nah, they ma—gave me some leave. Got a few things to sort out, but I’ll be around if you need me.”

  I heard him stumble over his words and wondered what had caused it, but didn’t pry. Sliding my hand from beneath his, I drained my now cold tea and got up. “Yeah, me too. Please don’t feel like you need to keep to yourself. I’m here if you need some company.”

  His eyes glistened as they met mine and my heart broke for him. The guilt he was living with was understandable but unfounded. It was just bad luck.

  “Thanks,” he whispered thickly, swallowing hard before he pushed his chair back. “I’ll see you later.”

  Respecting his need for space, I smiled and nodded, then left the room.

  He needed a minute. I respected his privacy and went straight upstairs, but paused on the landing. Thom’s room was right in front of me. Part of me longed to go in. To climb into bed with whoever was there—I didn’t know where Ryan was sleeping—and feel normal again.

  Those few minutes with Ryan the previous day had helped so much. I hadn’t meant to push them away, and thinking back, I’d probably hurt them by doing so.

  My chest tightened and I fought back tears. Not out of grief, but out of guilt. They’d tried to help me, support me, love me, and I hadn’t allowed them to.

  I kept myself together until I reached my room, got into bed, and pulled the quilt up and over my head. Then the tears came. Not for me. Not for Lloyd.

  I hadn’t considered Thom or Ryan or their loss. And now Sam was suffering far more than me, and I couldn’t watch my brother’s best friend beat himself up like that.

  I cried silently and listened for Sam coming up the stairs. I didn’t want him to hear me. I didn’t want him to think he had upset me. Not when the opposite was true. He’d made me smile for the first time in two weeks. I hadn’t been ready with Thom or Ryan, and somehow, Sam had seemed easier to talk to about Lloyd.

  I dried my eyes and began the slow process of trying to get back to sleep when the floorboards on the stairs creaked and the bathroom door closed quietly.

  I traced his progress through the house, up the stairs, and across the room above mine. A small thud made my eyes flutter open, and I listened harder, but no further sounds came.

  I hoped he managed to get some rest.

  20

  Lyla

  Thom pulled the car to a stop at the curb, but I made no effort to climb out. The sun beat down on us through the windscreen, but it did nothing to warm my insides.

  “You don’t have to come in with me if you don’t want to,” I repeated for the fifth time since we’d left. Sam had changed his mind about seeing Lloyd. I couldn’t blame him, and once Ryan learned where I was going, he’d left the room with a muttered curse about it being too soon.

  Thom reached across the car, his fingers linked with mine, and squeezed. “I don’t want you going through this alone. And I’d like to see him.”

  Taking comfort from him, I murmured, “Thank you.”

  After a moment of the car being quiet, he asked, “Are you ready?”

  “No, but it needs to be done.” I unbuckled and climbed out before I could change my mind. A funeral home was the last place I should be seeing my brother.

  Pushing through the door, the first thing I noticed was how cold the air was, and a low hum could be heard behind one of the walls. Pulling my cardigan closed to ward off the eerie feeling, I felt Thom step closer to me, as if he was feeling the same thing I was.

  An older gentleman with a wrinkled face and gentle eyes pushed through a door off to the side and greeted us. He was wearing the typical charcoal grey suit, white shirt, and tie, with his salt and pepper hair combed neatly in a side parting.

  “Hello,” I greeted, forcing a smile. “I’m here for an appointment, umm, arrangements for my brother, Lloyd.”

  His understanding smile was calming. “Would you like to see him first?” he inquired, glancing from me to Thom.

  “I…” I looked desperately to Thom.

  His hands rubbed my shoulders and I basked in the small gesture. “You don’t have to, Lyla. We can come back another time when you’re feeling up to it.”

  I couldn’t leave without seeing him, even if deep down I didn’t want to. Lloyd would tell me the same thing he used to as kids—suck it up and get it over with.

  I swallowed the lump forming in my throat and nodded. “I’d like to see him.”

  The older man walked over to a door and placed his hand on the handle before giving me and Thom his attention. “You can come out at any time. I have no more appointments for a while, so the reception area is all yours. Take as much time as you need.”

  “Thank you,” Thom answered. I was grateful for him taking the lead, because I doubted I’d be able to push the words out.

  I grabbed his hand to keep me grounded as the door swung open. Thom walked forward, only to come to a stop when I didn’t follow behind him. “Lyla?”

  I was frozen to the spot. My eyes were fixed on the simple coffin placed in the middle of the room with an embroidered, white net draped over the top. I could see his favourite hat resting on his stomach and I could see his short brown hair peeking above the coffin. He must’ve recently had it cut, otherwise the ends would be curling. Guilt ate at me when I recognised the clothes he was wearing. Someone must have brought them while I was stuck in that bed, thinking only of myself.

  Thom caught my attention when he pulled something from his pocket with his free hand. “I’ve brought you some aftershave, Lloyd.” Thom looked to me as if to ask permission, and all I could do was nod. Why hadn’t I thought to do that?

  A bench rested against the wall to the left side of where Lloyd lay, so I released Thom’s hand to sit. I made sure to keep my eyes off Lloyd’s face and instead watched Thom as he peeled the netting back off the coffin, and then pulled the top off Lloyd’s aftershave.

  A couple
of spurts against his top had the room smelling of Lloyd. My eyes welled with tears at the familiar scent, but I didn’t wipe them away.

  Thom’s arms rested on the side of the casket, his head bent. “Gunner’s taken to Lyla, although that might be because she lets him on the furniture. Sam got home last night. Ryan has beers sitting in the fridge, waiting for him to get his shit together. God, Lloyd.” His words choked off and his shoulders heaved.

  I wanted to comfort him, but I was too caught up in my own misery and I didn’t know how.

  “I promise, we’ll do everything we can to take care of Lyla for you.” His voice dropped to a hush, as if he hadn’t wanted me to hear his words, but it was impossible with him being only two feet away.

  We were led from the chapel with its overzealous air conditioning and formal furnishings, and into the house that fronted the site.

  A large Victorian building, which I vaguely remembered was a former vicarage, it was cosy and welcoming. That welcome was further extended by the funeral director who led us into a sitting room that overlooked the front gardens.

  It was the same one I’d sat in years before with Lloyd when we were planning Mum’s funeral, and as far as I could tell, very little had changed. The leather sofa, lined with age, creaked as I sat down. Thom took my hand as he sat beside me and I gave him a small smile before gazing around the room a second time. Opposite us was a large, cast iron fireplace with a stack of ornamental logs in the grate. On either side of that were two alcoves that each held four thick oak shelves. Those shelves were lined with books of varying ages and genres.

  Between us and the fireplace was an oak coffee table displaying an array of pamphlets, a fresh posy of flowers in a lilac glass vase, and a tray holding a steaming pot of tea, three cups, saucers, sugar lumps, milk, and a small plate with an assortment of biscuits.