by Indra Vaughn
Cleo stared at me, and her bottom lip began to tremble.
“Hey,” I said. When I looked down, I noticed I was holding one of Sam’s soft cashmere sweaters. I brought it to my nose and inhaled. His scent hit me like a sucker punch. “I can’t do this,” I whispered. I looked at Cleo and held the sweater out. “How do I do this? Help me, Cleo.”
Her face cracked and she ran at me, hugging me hard and crushing the sweater between us. I wanted to shove her away and fold it, but she wouldn’t let me.
“We’re here,” she whispered. “Oh, Oliver, we’re here for you. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. If I hadn’t insisted you come out that night . . .”
Her grip on me loosened, and I pushed her away, holding her arms tight so I could look at her. “No,” I said firmly, giving her a little shake. The awful urge to shake her really hard washed over me, but I didn’t. “This is not on you.”
It’s on me.
Work gave me a week off for bereavement leave, and I took another three weeks’ vacation because there was no way I’d be fit to join the general population after seven days. I stayed with my mother for a while, but I grew antsy there. I kept thinking our house still smelled like us, and I was missing it. Soon he’d fade away completely, and I wouldn’t remember his scent, or his voice, or what he looked like. I’d never know him when he was old. I’d never get to see him with gray hair.
I went home and slept a lot. I received a ton of phone calls I continued to ignore. My mom stopped by a few times, and I managed to pull myself together for long enough to shower and see her, but as soon as she was gone, I went back to bed. I could tell she was worried about me. It bothered me in a vague way because I knew she was grieving too, but I didn’t have the energy to think too much about it.
I wondered what was going to become of me. What about the house? It belonged to Sam. We hadn’t bothered signing any sort of contract because we were getting married anyway. I had no idea what would happen to his bank accounts or his savings, and I honestly couldn’t care in that moment. Sam would’ve wanted me to have it all, but he wasn’t here to stand up for me anymore.
“I miss you,” I whispered into his pillow, and I could hear his voice, almost clear as day, telling me, I know.
Crying again, I pulled my phone from underneath my pillow and dialed his number. Apparently he had fallen on top of our mobiles. The attacker had only taken my watch and Sam’s wallet. An onlooker had grabbed our things and given them to a paramedic. Sam’s battery had gone flat a long time ago, but I hadn’t canceled his service yet.
“You’ve reached the voice mail of Samuel Mathieu. I’m not available right now, but please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
I cried until my throat was sore, with my mouth wide open, until his pillow was drenched in tears and snot and saliva. I really needed to change the sheets, but the idea of washing even part of him away was enough to make me throw up with anxiety. I couldn’t do this. How was I supposed to do this?
Then, a few days before I was supposed to go back to work, I couldn’t stay in that bedroom a moment longer. I didn’t know what came over me, but the urge to get out was so overwhelming I ran down the marble stars, almost slipping on the runner on the landing. I stood panting in the hallway, looking at my front door, where a pile of mail should’ve been gathering on the doormat. It was empty.
I opened the double doors to the living room. In Sam’s favorite chair sat my mom, blanket over her knees, book facedown in her lap, asleep with her lips parted. Cleo lay stretched out on the couch, her feet stuffed under a fat pillow. I had no idea what time it was, but it was definitely not the middle of the night.
“Guys?”
Mom jerked awake and smacked her lips. “Oh, darling. Finally.”
“How long have you been here?” I asked, keeping my voice down as I eyed Cleo. She was out like a light, and she looked awfully thin and tired. I tried to dredge up the slightest bit of concern for her, and couldn’t.
I walked over to hug my mother. She patted me gently on the back before pushing me away. “We’ve been here for two days. If you hadn’t come down by this evening, we’d have dragged you out of bed. Have you eaten? You look so skinny. And darling, no offense, but you need a shower. Desperately.”
“Okay,” I whispered, shamefaced. “I’ll go do that now.”
Mom rose to her feet. “Is it . . .” She wrung her hands. “Is it okay if I refresh your bed? I peeked into your room last night, and the smell is terrible.”
“Yes,” I said. “But you don’t have to do it. I will.”
She patted my shoulder. “Don’t feel bad, Oliver. No one’s blaming you for wanting to hang on. We’re here for you, and we want to help.” She smiled a little. “And trust me when I say I’ve washed worse. You go shower. I made lasagna, so I’ll go turn on the oven, and I’ll have your bed made by the time you’re done.”
She was right. When I stepped back into the bedroom, the stale smell hit me like a brick. In an attempt to hide at least some of it before Mom came upstairs, I opened the curtains and the windows, even though a light drizzle was falling. I found myself some fresh clothes—fighting the urge to reach for one of Sam’s shirts—and turned toward the bathroom. As always, I had to wait forever for the water to heat in this old house. I vaguely wondered if I’d enjoy the novelty of having instant hot water in whatever new place I ended up renting.
Oh God, I was going to have to move. To someplace where Sam had never been, where his presence had never lit the rooms. I stepped under the stream of water to halt that way of thinking, even though it was still too cold. I shivered and waited for the heat to come.
One step at a time, Ollie.
I nodded and reached for the shampoo. “Okay, Sammy.”
Cleo looked terrible by the time she went home, and I knew I should reach out to her and the others, see if they were okay, but I lacked the strength.
Mom had wanted to stay another night, but I sent her home with the promise I’d call first thing in the morning. I mentally prepared myself to return to real life: work, grocery shopping, and eating meals at regular times. Everywhere I went, people would look at me with pity. I’d have to smile and go on and pretend I was already healing, because no one liked to be reminded of death and loss for too long. And each day I’d come home to an empty place.
The huge living room felt small for once. The walls closed in on me, and my clothes were too tight. I struggled upright and ran into the kitchen, where I threw open the back door and breathed the summer air. Sweetly, agonizingly familiar, our garden, and all I wanted was to scream.
I kept my mouth shut. Silently I closed and locked the door. Time stretched out in front of me like a dark abyss. Just like that, the sleep that had given me solace for all these weeks became elusive.
From the bay window seats in my living room, I watched night fall. The vibe of the city around me changed, but I remained safely in my cocoon. To feel less lonely, I turned on the TV, but in my mind I walked through the house and thought of all the things I’d have to go through at some point. Decide what to keep, what to give away, and what to throw out. In a self-flagellating way it made me feel better. The thought that I’d have to part with his things fed an anger I had no idea how to deal with. It churned along with the guilt in my stomach. I tried to cry, and couldn’t.
Am I already feeling less sad? I thought. When I reached within to find that hard core of hurt, that monster, I touched a tender scar. The gaping wound was gone. Surely I should mourn him for longer than this?
“Do you think he sees us?” Cleo sat in the chair opposite mine, bare feet curled in my lap, and she managed to rub my belly with her toes.
“Sam? I don’t know.” Throngs of people passed by us. We’d left for Antwerp’s city center at the busiest hour, and I felt like an exposed nerve. “Do we have to do this?” My head throbbed with lack of sleep, and my skin crawled with claustrophobia.
She eyed me dark
ly. “You haven’t breathed fresh air in three and a half weeks. Yes, we do.”
I scrunched up my nose at the diesel fumes wafting toward us. “I’d hardly call this fresh.”
She huffed and ignored me as she sipped her coffee. We were sitting on the Groenplaats, outside one of the only cafés I really didn’t like. The inside was huge and cold, designed to hold a lot of people. I preferred the cozy little treasures that were hidden throughout the city, with their rickety wooden tables and surprisingly delicious foods.
The terrace of this place was normally not so bad, but shoppers had descended en masse on Antwerp’s July sales season. It seemed as if everyone stared at us while they sat packed around the tables, enjoying the summer weather.
I decided to ignore them all. “You doing okay, Cleo?” I asked. She looked better than she had the day before. Maybe all she’d needed was a good night’s sleep.
“Yeah, I have a whole week off next week.” She stretched her arms above her head with glee.
“How about Imran?”
She faltered for a second, then plastered on a smile so fake I could’ve peeled it off. “He’s been great. He took the week off too. But this whole thing has been hard on him. We’ve all been friends for such a long time, but he understands that it’s . . .”
“Extra hard on us,” I finished.
“Oh, babe.” She sat up so suddenly she gently hit me in the balls, and I made a squeaky noise. She gripped my hands tight. “I don’t mean to imply that my hurt is as big as yours.”
It’s not; it can’t possibly be, I thought, flinching at the anger behind the thought. I pushed it aside and took a deep breath. “I know that, Cleo. But you’ve been friends . . . You were friends with Sam as long as I was.”
“Yeah.” She stared out over the market square, and I saw her eyes swim.
Oh please God, don’t start crying. “How’s work?”
“Tough. I had trouble dealing with blood for a little bit there, but I’m doing better now.”
For a second I wanted to tell her that every time I closed my eyes last night, I’d seen the blood bubble up out of Sam’s wound all over again, just to see what she’d say. I looked out toward the crowd. “We should go out sometime.”
Cleo’s head whipped up, and she stared at me. “What?”
“Not to . . . not the Nine Barrels. I don’t think I’ll be able to go back there. But maybe dinner, or something. Get everyone together again. I don’t want us to . . . splinter.” I thought of Thomas for some reason, the look on his face as he’d wiped dried blood off my cheek.
“That’s not a bad idea.” She chewed her lip, and her eyes narrowed. “How about we do a barbecue at your place? Backyard. Like we used to.”
“I don’t know.” That’s our place. Ours. The anger caught me by surprise. I’d been incapable of feeling it until now. The idea of losing the house hadn’t shaken me. Now, imagining anyone coming over and laughing and wandering around like they belonged . . . I studied my hands. They’d knotted themselves around my coffee cup, and I hadn’t noticed it was still hot. My palms stung, so I let go. “I don’t know how long I’ll be living there.”
“Oliver!” Cleo gaped at me. “You’re not thinking about giving up that place, are you?”
I shrugged, confused by this urge to shock her, hurt her almost. What was I doing? She was my best friend, and I wanted to make her feel bad. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to the house. We weren’t married yet. He had a will but . . .”
“Did he leave it to you in the will?”
“Yeah.” It was his, it had been ours, but it didn’t feel like it should ever be just mine.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine. Don’t go looking for trouble, Ollie. And, oh.” She sat there with her hands covering her mouth, eyes finally spilling over. “Your wedding day,” she whispered.
“Yeah.” I lifted my coffee, but my hand shook so hard it spilled over the rim. I carefully set it down again. “It would’ve been this Saturday.”
“I know. We got . . . we got the cancellation notice. Did you contact everyone? The caterers and stuff? Do you need me to do anything?”
I shook my head and looked away. I could see it in her eyes, the doubt and hurt that I hadn’t asked her for help, but I’d needed to do it all by myself. For once, Cleo didn’t press. We sat in silence and watched city life pass us by.
“Oh my God,” Cleo said, pointing toward the square. “Look at that.”
The benches placed around the Groenplaats were known for their homeless occupants during the day. On one of them, a disheveled, long-haired man with an unmistakable hard-on under his sweatpants was staring at a girl waiting for the tram. She didn’t know where to look. Poor thing was maybe twelve or thirteen. My heart began to hammer in my chest, and I’d half risen to my feet when I saw someone stride toward the pervert.
“Hey!” My back straightened, and a smile lifted my cheeks. “Isn’t that Thomas? Check him out!”
Cleo and I watched as Thomas ripped the guy a new one. He was too far away for us to overhear what he was saying, but his gestures and the man’s hasty retreat were obvious enough. Thomas went to the girl, crouched beside her without touching her, and asked her something. She nodded. He pointed to a policeman who was cycling up the street. She shook her head. He asked her something else. She nodded before she got on her tram.
By the time Thomas stood, Cleo and I had jumped to our feet, and we were cheering so loudly, he heard us. He gave us a quick smile. Then he saw who his audience was and bowed extravagantly. With a ridiculous swagger in his step, he walked up to us and bowed again when he stopped a few feet away from our table.
“A real knight in shining armor!” Cleo said, clapping her hands as she bounced. “What did you tell him?”
“You don’t want to know,” Thomas softly said. He always spoke pretty quietly. I’d liked that about him from the beginning. He wasn’t timid. It was . . . soothing. His eyes fell on me, and he sobered. “Hi.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “How are you?”
My heartbeat slowed. “Good,” I said, and was shocked to realize I meant it. For a whole two minutes I had been free of the weight of death.
Cleo glanced between us. She smirked and sat down. “Join us,” she said. “Want a drink?”
“Sure. Is that all right?”
I frowned at Thomas. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
He shrugged lightly but wouldn’t meet my eyes. I didn’t get it.
“Hey.” I put my hand on his shoulder, and he looked up. His dark eyes were a little bloodshot, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well. “I’m sorry I never returned your calls, okay? I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just . . .”
“Oh, I know that,” he said and offered me a half smile. “It’s fine.” He was wearing his hair loose today, and he dragged his fingers over his scalp, lifting the thick strands off his shoulders and back. In the sun, the brown gleamed with gold and red.
The waiter interrupted us. I watched Thomas flirt with him, feeling the sadness creep up on me all over again. Life went on after death, sure. It just went on a little faster for the others than it would for me.
When the waiter turned his back, Cleo lifted her phone off the table and said, “Oh, Imran wants to meet me for a late lunch.” I stared at her. There hadn’t been a message on her phone. “See you guys later, okay?”
“Cleo—” I began, but she gave me a little wave, kissed Thomas on the cheek, and darted away.
“What was that about?” I turned to Thomas, who was fiddling with a napkin.
“No idea.” He glanced at me, then went back to the napkin. “So . . . how have you been?”
How did I answer that? When I’d started accepting calls again the day before—from those who still bothered calling—I’d mostly fended off with a fake smile in my voice and an “Okay, all things considered.” But this was Thomas. One of my best friends. Still, this whole situation felt really awkward, and I had no clue why.
; “It’s been a pretty shitty month,” I said. He met my eyes, and I grinned weakly. “All things considered.”
He snorted and shook his head lightly before he reached out and squeezed my arm. “I feel like I should’ve been there more,” he said. “But I had no idea how—”
“I know.” I patted his hand, and he let go. “It’s fine, really. I’m . . . heartbroken, obviously. And for the past month I’ve basically buried myself under my blankets. But I can’t go on like that.” That was what people expected me to say, wasn’t it?
The waiter interrupted us again, but this time Thomas thanked him absentmindedly and stirred his coffee. “Did Cleo drag you out of bed?”
I threw my hands in the air. “Literally. There were threats.” He laughed, and I shrugged. “She looked pretty bad last time I saw her.”
“You noticed that, huh?”
I looked at him, latching on to this chance to talk about anything but me. “You saw it too? What’s going on?”
He stuffed some of his thick brown hair behind his ear and drank his coffee. “I don’t know what I should tell you,” he said. “I don’t want to talk behind their backs, but there’s been some trouble with Imran.”
“What?” I leaned forward and pushed my empty cup aside. “What kind of trouble? Is he okay? He’s not sick, is he?” Shit, I really had been completely self-involved.
“No, nothing like that. Ah man, I shouldn’t be gossiping about this.”
“You’re not gossiping. Cleo would’ve told me, but she obviously thinks I need to be handled with care right now.” I rolled my eyes.
“Well, she was convinced Imran had cheated on her with another nurse.”
“No!” I gasped. “That little shit. I’m going to rip his balls off and—”
“Okay, whoa, no. He said he didn’t, she didn’t believe him, they broke up for a little bit, but they sorted it all out. Apparently he didn’t cheat.” To my utter astonishment, Thomas went puce to the roots of his hair.
“But that’s not all.”
“Um. No.” He spun his coffee cup around and around and wouldn’t look at me. “We, uh—” Thomas glanced at me and then looked toward the Groenplaats as if he was hoping he could go save another girl from harassment to get out of this conversation.