After Before

by Jemma Wayne

  Vera shrugs, slowly, guiltily.

  “I mean, I suppose, well, you were doing what was right for him? Making his life certain? Settling him? Not thinking of yourself???”

  Vera does not hear the question marks. And so she says nothing.

  “Tell me something true,” he pleads of her.

  And it is time. She takes a breath. Then another. Luke smiles encouragingly. “I - I’ve been seeing Charlie,” she begins. “I’ve been seeing him because - ”

  Luke raises his hand. “Too much,” he murmurs. “Too much, too much.” He hangs his head low and shakes it gently. As they leave the restaurant and stroll out into the Piazza, Vera notices how the cathedral casts pools of golden light onto the square. People walk through them, unaware of the radiance that remains for a while on their shoulders. But Vera notices. And passes through it with Luke before leaving it behind. They walk together, separately, all the way from the Piazza back to the hotel and down the corridor. Vera’s hands twitch for want of holding onto Luke’s, but his are pinned firmly to his side. He is silent, and when they arrive at their rooms he gives her only a brief goodnight.

  Their rooms share a bathroom, plush, beautifully tiled, and Vera closes both doors before sitting on the edge of the marble-clad bath to run it. She turns the taps onto full and tries not to wonder what Luke is thinking on his side of the heavy door. Or, while she is at it, what Charlie is thinking on the other side of the sea. Or what Charles has been thinking for three years about the mother who abandoned him. Does he understand that he has been without a mother? Does he miss a presence he cannot remember? Would he want her back, if she could come back, if she could bring herself to be at the mercy of a man she does not love and who would lord his power over her for the rest of her life? If she could bring herself to give up Luke? Luke. Who is sitting, silent, just feet and a door away from her. Who unlike Charlie she does love, and admire and respect and feel sorry for, and who she has ignored and neglected, and perhaps blown everything with.

  Vera fingers her engagement ring, sheds her clothes and steps into the hot, cleansing water. The bubbles cover her with a welcome whiteness and the warmth of the liquid soaks into her bones. Immediately she feels calmer. Reaching for the purple hotel soap she begins to clean herself all over, then she closes her eyes and sinks further beneath the water. Without meaning to, she finds herself talking to God. Help me, she says, then in words with which she’s been learning to articulate herself better: Heavenly Father, in the Name of Jesus, I ask you to send your Holy Spirit to come upon me. I ask that I now receive your power by the Holy Spirit. I ask that the Holy Spirit come to live in me and be my heavenly Companion forever in life. Amen. She feels a weight upon her shoulders, heavier than usual but warm - hands supporting her. She breathes in deeply. Then the weight moves forwards and down her chest. She opens her eyes. Luke is standing in front of her. She hadn’t heard the door to his bedroom creak open, or his bare feet pad across the tiles.

  “I - ” he begins.

  Vera sits up. Luke removes his hands from her chest but as she moves Luke smiles and she realises that her change of position had sent the bubbles flooding away from her, dispersing her frothy shroud. Rearranging them quickly she remains under the water and begins to reach for the nearby towel. “What on earth are you doing in here? Didn’t you hear the water?” she asks, whispering, as though this might prevent either of them from hearing or noticing what is taking place, but Luke doesn’t whisper back. His voice is firm.

  “Don’t,” he says, intercepting her hand. “I want to see you. I want to touch you. I don’t want to wait anymore.”

  “What?” she stammers in disbelief, then, “We mustn’t. We said we wouldn’t. Luke, you said we should wait.” She continues to reach for the towel but Luke lifts it away from her.

  “We’ll be married soon anyway. And it feels right, doesn’t it?”

  “No.”

  He keeps hold of the towel, but now lowers it slightly, offended. “Charlie’s seen you.”

  At once, Vera feels tears threatening again. “Don’t do this Luke,” she implores him, opening her hand for him to relinquish the towel, and the moment. “It’s not the way you think - ”

  “You’ve given yourself again and again to Charlie.”

  She reaches once more for the towel. “You’re just upset Luke.”

  “You’ve been a whore for him.”

  “Luke,” Vera hushes. She takes a breath. “What’s wrong?”

  “You offered yourself to me before Vera,” he says in answer.

  There is desperation in his tone. Something is happening within him, though Vera doesn’t know what. Is his mother’s disease making him feel impotent? Does it make him need to exert some kind of control? Is it his guilt at leaving her? (She knows all about that kind of guilt.) Or perhaps it is Charlie? Perhaps Luke has concocted some imagining of what he thinks has passed between them. Better or worse than the truth?

  “I’m different now Luke. Now I want to wait.” Only as she says this does she know fully that it is true. It isn’t like before. She no longer wants raw physicality. Now, she wants intimacy, commitment, and to undress their souls slowly, so that they can be truly naked before each other. As husband and wife. She wants Luke. Forever. Quite how much she wants this is reaffirmed for her suddenly.

  “Vera, come on. It’s what you wanted.”

  “How can you even ask me to?”

  “How can you deny me?” He hangs the towel over the radiator on the far side of the room then sits on the edge of the bath, dipping his hand into the water and reaching for her thigh. She stands up. Luke smiles as she drips in front of him, an edgy, dangerous smile that months ago Vera would have done anything for. But now she storms over to the other side of the room and retrieves the towel. A choking sadness tightens around her lungs.

  “How can you do this?” she demands wrapping the towel taut around her. “After everything you’ve said to me? After all your rules and principles and values? Do they not apply because I’ve had sex before? Because I gave up my baby? Because I’ve sinned? Will I always be a sinner to you? Is there no coming back?”

  Suddenly, Luke’s smile changes. “We’re all sinners, aren’t we?” he says, his voice wavering ambiguously. “I knew that you had to see that. That was all. It was a test sweetheart. Just a test. And you passed it.”

  With that he kisses the top of her head, leaves the bathroom, and closes the door. And Vera stands, wet, her whole body shaking.

  It is almost an hour later that, while quietly collecting her toiletries from the bathroom, Vera hears the muffled sound of heavy, male sobs. Her heart constricts painfully and she rests her palm on the adjoining door. Hands push her forwards. But she shrugs her shoulders until they feel free of interference. She does not open the door. She does not say goodnight, or goodbye. She is careful not to make a sound long after she has walked the glorious corridor that takes her to the lobby, and into a taxi, then to the airport, and London again.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Seven

  Emily was hunched up, her knees to her chest in the corner of the art room when Lynn came in. The front door had sounded almost 20 minutes before, then Luke’s footsteps on the path, and the only noises since had been the bubbling and then bubbling over of lunch, but still Emily had stayed where she was, staring at the paintings in front of her. Trying to swap these images for the ones in her head.

  “I turned off the lunch,” Lynn said flatly from the doorway, without blame but rubbing her side and stooped over in a way that even a week earlier she wasn’t.

  Emily felt a wave of guilt, but she said: “Why did you do that?”

  “Because otherwise it would have been ruined,” replied the older woman.

  “Why did you make me see him again?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You do know,” insisted Emily. “Your son. You know he reminds me of… ” she trailed off.

  “Who
?”

  Emily was silent.

  “Of course I don’t know who he reminds you of,” Lynn said pointedly. “But don’t you think it’s time you told me Emily?”

  Still Emily said nothing. Luke’s eyes flashed before her. Quickly she looked around the room. A new painting, swirling with unhinged colour was propped against the easel. On the walls and leant against them were the landscapes and portraits she’d studied now so often during her visits to this room. But the painting she had stared at the last time she had fled there, the unfinished one of the luminous girl, was now covered. It had been set by itself on a chair, and a heavy sheet was wrapped around it.

  “It’s not easy to uncover things that have been hidden,” Emily said to Lynn finally.

  “I know Emily. But you must let your secrets out to be free of them. Trust me, you’ve inspired me to do that too.”

  “Then why is that painting covered?” Emily asked bluntly.

  Without answering, Lynn strode as quickly as she could to the canvas. With gargantuan effort she unwrapped and lifted the heavy sheet, then she turned the painting towards Emily. It was finished now. The blond, youthful figure stared out of the paper with boldness and fearless questioning. And such radiance. Emily looked up at Lynn.

  “It is you,” she remarked carefully.

  “No it’s not me,” dismissed Lynn. “It’s nothing like me. I’ve never been anything like her.”

  Emily looked again. “It’s you,” she repeated.

  Now Lynn inspected the painting more closely. Her eyes traced the contours of the strokes as though seeing them for the first time, as though it was not she who had held the brush that painted them. Sadness and confusion crept across her brow. Slowly, she lifted her thin hand to her wrinkled face, touched her white hair, and looked at the image harder. Then she shook her head woefully, holding onto the chair for support. Crumpling.

  Emily stood up. Her legs shook and a lump wobbled in her chest. Her head was reeling. She needed her own chair to hold on to. But she stepped towards Lynn.

  “I will try to tell you,” she said resolutely. And taking Lynn’s fragile arm, both women leaning in as they had grown used to, they made their way to the lounge.

  They sat with tea just like the last time, fetching it slowly together and sipping for a long time before either said anything. Lynn waited patiently and seemed to regain her composure with the infusion of the hot brew. Emily shook. She felt she had barely survived the last encounter. But the important thing was that she had. She supposed. And grown even, a little, just as Lynn had promised. Lynn who had revealed herself. Who had trusted.

  “Let it out,” Lynn encouraged.

  Even in her weakness, there was such authority to Lynn’s voice, such confidence and inspiration.

  “Where was I?” Emily asked, the dizziness growing even before she had begun. Luke flashed again before her, then another two-toned memory. She shut her eyes. “Was I with them?”

  “You were with your mother,” coaxed Lynn. “You were back home. Ernest was helping you. You had escaped from the fire at the church. You were alright. You were sleeping.”

  “I was sleeping,” Emily repeated, un-calmed by this.

  “You were sleeping,” soothed Lynn.

  When she next woke up it was morning. Her brothers had already left their beds and were gathered with her parents at the table, except for Cassien who was standing by the window with his face flat against the wall so that it couldn’t be seen.

  “Ernest’s candle is up,” he reported suddenly and moved quickly towards the door to unlock it for their neighbour before returning to his guard.

  “Emilienne, there’s some breakfast,” Mama said, pointing to a small bowl in which some of Ernest’s mangoes had been sliced. Emily helped herself and let the sweet fruit slide against her tongue and down her throat. The slurping of its juice seemed loud and a little obnoxious. Rukundo and Simeon were silent. Papa and Mama said only what was necessary, but Emily felt talkative. The fresh light of the morning had calmed her fears and removed some of the rawness of the previous day. It filled her with hope.

  “Can we play kweti today?” she asked.

  “Cassien, leave the window. Sit with us,” Papa instructed, not answering her.

  “I’m keeping watch,” Cassien responded.

  “Come and sit Cassien.”

  Reluctantly, Cassien began to move away, then all at once he froze.

  “What?” Emily pestered, taming another slice of mango. “What?”

  But when he turned towards them, the terror on his face made her stop mid-bite, and he need not have answered.

  “They’re coming.”

  Emily opened her eyes. Lynn nodded.

  “I don’t know if I can,” whispered Emily.

  “You can.”

  “I don’t want to,” said Emily.

  “You do. You know you do.”

  Emily closed her eyes again. Want was not an option. She had begun. It had her.

  “They’re coming,” repeated Cassien.

  They all flew to the window.

  “They’re coming from the side too. What shall we do?” Rukundo panicked.

  Mama placed her hand on his shoulder.

  “Run,” she said calmly, then she turned more urgently towards all of them. “Now.” Emily reached for her hand but her mother shrugged it off. “Get up!” she screamed at her, the way she used to when Emily didn’t want to pray the rosary or when she tumbled into the house covered in scrapes. “Get up! Run! Go now! But hide alone. All of you. Remember to hide alone.”

  Emily’s legs began to shake uncontrollably. She’d hardly begun to stand and already she was falling.

  “Move Emilienne,” Cassien shouted now in tandem with her mother, then she felt him grab her shirt and pull her towards the back door.

  Behind them, their parents didn’t move. “Mama! Papa!” she cried as Cassien dragged her away, but they remained where they were standing, her father picking up a small cooking knife, which was the only weapon they had, both of them calm, waiting. To their side, Rukundo and Simeon also loitered. “What are they doing?” Emily pleaded in panic as she and Cassien broke through the back door, over the fence and into the graveyard. “Why aren’t they running with us?”

  “You were sleeping,” he answered, pushing her on.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Run Emmy.”

  “Wait. Cassien. What about the others?” She slowed to look back.

  “Run Emmy.”

  “We have to wait for them.”

  “No. Run.”

  “Why aren’t they coming?”

  “They are.” He pushed her forwards hard. “Emmy, they’re coming behind us. I promise. Just keep running. Don’t look back. Go faster. There, up that tree.”

  Behind them, men’s voices were beginning to clamour, then the clatter of glass shattering, and screams that were at once too familiar and too alien, disconnected from the bodies they belonged to, as though they’d been torn out from the inside.

  “Cassien!” Emily cried from the branch he’d helped lift her onto. “Cassien. Come up here with me.”

  “No, we have to hide alone Emmy. Don’t worry. Be quiet. I’ll find you after they’ve gone. I promise. Just stay there Emmy. Don’t move. Don’t come down no matter what. Promise me.”

  “Cassien!” Emily whispered again. “Cassien! Okay, I promise.” But he was already gone. From her perch she could see him running again, away from her, away from the two Hutu men who had suddenly appeared beneath her tree. Gasping, she muffled herself with her free hand, clinging to the branch so tightly with the other that she felt a shard of wood sink beneath her skin.

  “There he goes!” she heard one of the men scream in frenzied elation just feet below her. “Come back you shitty little cockroach! You can’t scurry forever! It’s time you were cut down to size.”

  The other man called her brother by name. “Cassien, come out. Make it easier,” he bel
lowed, the voice deep with a hint of laughter that Emily recognised.

  Ernest.

  Gasping again, Emily clasped her hand more tightly over her mouth. She tried to stay quiet like Cassien had said to, but the mango she’d eaten, Ernest’s mango, began to rise up inside her stomach, its sweetness suddenly reacting with her body like a poison.

  I heard you were a smart one Emilienne, Ernest had told her once. Take one each. How could he have brought these men to them? He knew what they were capable of. He’d fretted over it with Papa. One for your mother. And thank her for the salt. Then the truth hit her. He hadn’t brought the men, he had come amongst them. Emily threw up into her hand. The mango was still in chunks, undigested. She held the mess tight to her face to stop it from dripping. When she inhaled, it went back up her nostril and burned. Still she remained silent. Clenching shut her eyes, she began another conversation with God and finally the frenzied voices began to recede, to grow more faint, to seem less real. Nervously she loosened her grip on her face and allowed herself to exhale, but before she could so much as breathe in again the voices returned, and now they were louder than ever. Just twenty metres away she heard Ernest.

  “Be still Cassien,” he was shouting. They had him. The other man laughed and jeered and told him that if he didn’t stop struggling they would make him. “Where is your sister?” Ernest demanded, and Cassien, whose thin voice told Emily that he had already been badly wounded, promised that he didn’t know, that she hadn’t been with him. Through sharp breaths she heard him pleading with their neighbour, their friend who had once been so jovial and indulgent, she wasn’t here, please Ernest, Uncle, please, she wasn’t with us.

  Suddenly Emily heard a grotesque slicing sound and Cassien screamed, a blood-curdling yelp, like an animal being slaughtered.

  “So don’t tell us,” the second man laughed. “If we don’t find her today, we’ll come back for her tomorrow. Where can she go?”

  “Let’s return to the others then,” Ernest agreed. “Bring him.”