Mum's sister arrived and gave me the opportunity to return to my home. Even though I had only been away for a night, it felt like returning from holiday, or a job interview where I didn't get the job. I picked up my post. I picked up my shoes. I moved my bag. I did the washing up I had left. All the things I had left to do, assuming that they would be done that evening. I had assumed that I would come home and pick up exactly where I left off. I felt unable to remember that person that I was and found it very difficult to find the motivation to tidy the house. I switched on the television and the coffee machine. I sat down and pressed the channel button over and over again. It all seemed so trivial and meaningless; silly people pretending to be silly other people. People worried about their sex life, their career, their skin - I switched off the television.
I didn't feel like cooking anything and the fridge was not inspiring. I didn't want to leave the house again and so I ordered a takeaway. It occurred to me that people had takeaway menus in their house usually. Perhaps I had some somewhere, but I couldn't think where I may have put them so I had to find somewhere on my phone. It was almost impossible for me to think of the names of any dishes so I accidentally ordered egg fried rice and plain chow mein. It was an odd combination and half of it ended up in the fridge. I put a lot of milk in my coffee and sat back down on the sofa. I found an Agatha Christie on tv and lay down to watch it. I had started watching crime drama more and more as I got older. There was something pleasing and satisfying about the completion of each episode. I had lost all patience for long run dramas and shows with long seasons that continued and were always too numerous to catch up on. I needed the short term resolution of crime drama - punishing the offender and resolving the crimes all in an hour.
At three o clock, I woke, still fully dressed and on the sofa. My skin was cold to the touch and the room was dark. I staggered up to bed and slept the rest of the night in my clothes.
My sister phoned me at 7:45 to ask if I was ok. I couldn't get back to sleep afterwards and lay in bed watching the room turn grey in the light. I was sort of aware that it was Saturday and I needed to go shopping. I always went shopping on Saturday and even though I wasn't expecting to be at work on Monday, I felt obliged to go.
I walked to the supermarket. There was a Tesco up the hill, near the swimming baths where I often went on Saturday morning early, but I knew I could only manage the Asda down the road. It wasn't as big. The small trolleys were almost all gone, it was packed. I hadn't made a list, instead I wandered up and down the aisles and kept having to retrace my steps as I changed my mind. I got milk and broccolli, Pepsi and Ribena.I needed butter. I chose a loaf of white bread and a tin of tomato soup. At the checkout, I scanned and packed and carried three bags out of the store. It was then I remembered that I had walked to the supermarket and not driven. I had milk, Pepsi and Ribena. My bags were quite heavy. For some unfathomable reason, that tipped me over the edge and I sat down on the wall and started to cry. My sobs came suddenly, silently, but the tears that filled my eyes were hot and huge and heavy and splashed on my top that I had worn for three days.
Remarkably, no one seemed to notice. Or perhaps a sobbing woman on the wall next to Asda car park was a usual occurrence.
"Claire?" I looked up to see Anna in front of me. She is a friend, but not the sort of friend I cry to. More the sort of friend I talk to and watch films with. "I'm so sorry about your dad." I couldn't seem to answer. She turned away for a moment but stayed close to me. She must have been getting her husband to put her twins in the car and take them home. The next thing I knew, she was taking me by the hand, picking up one of my shopping bags, the heavy one, and walking me home.
"I forgot I didn't drive." I managed to say, even at the time conscious that that statement made me sound like the sort of person who had forgotten they ever learned.
Anna, like the good mother she was, rather like my sister, took me to the kitchen, put the milk away - something I would not normally have done for another 2 hours and switched on the coffee pot from last night. We sat at the kitchen table and I wiped my nose with kitchen roll. For the first time in my life I felt as if I understood what it meant to pull myself together. I felt I could see the parts of me sagging to the sides, like a peeled banana. Somehow I stretched out my arms and gathered the weak and painfully loose edges of myself into some semblance of the person I was two days' ago and zipped myself back together, squeezing those parts in.
"I didn't know he was ill," Anna began gently.
"He wasn't...it was a car accident, he was with my mum..." I pause but Anna goes to ask something else so I add quickly "She's fine."
"And when's the funeral? And what are you doing today? Do you want me to stay?"
"No. And Tuesday. And no thanks. I am ok. I didn't seem like it. Sorry."
"Don't bloody apologise. We do too much of that as it is. "
She went after another coffee and promised to call me. I cut a thick slice of bread and ate it in front of "Ben and Holly". I mus have slept again and by 4 o clock it was starting to get dark again. I thought I could smell myself and somehow managed to shake myself into running a bath. The water was too hot and I couldn't lie down for a few minutes. It seemed to be cathartic. I wept again, but not uncontrollably. It hurt, but just a bit.
Out of the bath, there were three missed calls on my phone. My sister, wanting me to ring my mum. So I did. Normally when I phone my mum I empty the dishwasher and perform useful tasks. But today I saved those things to keep me busy when I had finished on the phone.
"Hi mum."
"Hello darling, what have you done today?"
"Nothing much...saw a friend." I felt a bit like I was lying but it didn't seem right to have any grief. My mum was the sad one, not me, I forced my voice to be a little bit higher and brighter.
"I chose some music." My mum said. I realised she meant the funeral. "What do you think of Bob Dylan?"
"Well, all sorts, but for dad? Maybe Miles Davis?"
"Oh... I'll ask your sister."
I realised my helpful suggestion had been taken as a criticism. I wished I'd been quiet.
No comments:
Post a Comment