say why Iâm so convinced itâs her, but I am; Sweetie Nelson, the only connection between Ryan and Tyson Manley. It was her I saw this morning and she is the person ringing me now, holding on without saying a word, Iâm sure of it.
I run a bath and leave the door to Ryanâs room slightly ajar for Sheba to come and go as she pleases. I take valerian, two capsules, to help me sleep. I pour a glass of vodka and cranberry, a big one, light on the mixer, knock it back as I lie in the bath. It is almost ten by the time I get into bed and turn off the light. About twenty minutes later, I hear keys in the front door, know Lloydie has arrived back home. He does what he has been doing for the last seven months; stays downstairs with the TV on till he thinks I have fallen asleep.
There has been no intimacy since Ryan died, and part of me is glad because I donât know how to feel joy in my sonâs absence, cannot imagine how to kiss and be touched, feel thrill with the pleasure rise, no longer know if I am entitled or have a right. But Lloydie was never a talker, never really demonstrative outside of our bed. That was the place our disagreements were concluded, the only time he felt able to put aside his role as provider and supporter, husband andfather, the only place he allowed me to see his vulnerability, the strong man who never hurt me once, even the first time, who sometimes cried when he came. The absence of that intimacy is not just an absence of the physical act, it is an absence of the emotional bond we shared. I lie with my eyes open and listen to him and the effect is like the sound of a sad song. If there is a route to rediscovering our middle ground I do not know the way.
Despite the valerian-vodka cocktail, Iâm still awake an hour later, but when I hear Lloydie sneaking into our room, putting on his PJs as quietly as he can in the dark, I feign sleep. I do not move when I feel him slipping into the bed, careful not to touch or wake me. It is only when he turns his back to mine that I realize I am already crying.
3
THE NOISE OF THE SHOWER wakes me. My head feels groggy, maybe because I had the two valerian capsules or too much vodka, or both. It feels early, but a glance at the clock radio tells me it is nearly nine thirty. I open the drawer beneath it, dig out the packet of paracetamol, and take two with water from the bottle permanently on the side. My routine morning assessment; this is a bad day. I close my eyes again, put my head back down. After the funeral, Lorna insisted I get my doctor to refer me to a bereavement counselor; in fact, she said we should both go, Lloydie and I, but he wouldnât. Lorna was right, it was exactly what I needed; Jenny, her name was, such a lovely woman, with the eyes you would expect of someone who does such a job and does it well, brimful with empathy. I was furious with everyone at the time. My grief had made me fixated on blame, apportioning it as if it made any difference to what had happened. Tiny details were exaggerated in my mind till I was filled with rage for everyone including Lloydie, because of those boots. She helped me toget things in perspective. Seeing her then probably saved my marriage, such as it is.
One of the things that came out of it was my strategy for dealing with days like this; donât expect too much from yourself. Itemize what needs to be done and tackle them one by one. Complete each thing in order before moving on to the next. Keep your list short. If I cannot make myself begin, my day will be spent here in bed. It is a hard desire to fight but I will, not because I have anything specific to do, but because I know from experience that the longer I lie here and do nothing, the longer it will take me to find the strength to get up. If I do not force myself to get moving, I could be lying in my bed for days. Mentally, I make my list.
I will only lie here till Lloydie comes out of the bathroom and back into this
I run a bath and leave the door to Ryanâs room slightly ajar for Sheba to come and go as she pleases. I take valerian, two capsules, to help me sleep. I pour a glass of vodka and cranberry, a big one, light on the mixer, knock it back as I lie in the bath. It is almost ten by the time I get into bed and turn off the light. About twenty minutes later, I hear keys in the front door, know Lloydie has arrived back home. He does what he has been doing for the last seven months; stays downstairs with the TV on till he thinks I have fallen asleep.
There has been no intimacy since Ryan died, and part of me is glad because I donât know how to feel joy in my sonâs absence, cannot imagine how to kiss and be touched, feel thrill with the pleasure rise, no longer know if I am entitled or have a right. But Lloydie was never a talker, never really demonstrative outside of our bed. That was the place our disagreements were concluded, the only time he felt able to put aside his role as provider and supporter, husband andfather, the only place he allowed me to see his vulnerability, the strong man who never hurt me once, even the first time, who sometimes cried when he came. The absence of that intimacy is not just an absence of the physical act, it is an absence of the emotional bond we shared. I lie with my eyes open and listen to him and the effect is like the sound of a sad song. If there is a route to rediscovering our middle ground I do not know the way.
Despite the valerian-vodka cocktail, Iâm still awake an hour later, but when I hear Lloydie sneaking into our room, putting on his PJs as quietly as he can in the dark, I feign sleep. I do not move when I feel him slipping into the bed, careful not to touch or wake me. It is only when he turns his back to mine that I realize I am already crying.
3
THE NOISE OF THE SHOWER wakes me. My head feels groggy, maybe because I had the two valerian capsules or too much vodka, or both. It feels early, but a glance at the clock radio tells me it is nearly nine thirty. I open the drawer beneath it, dig out the packet of paracetamol, and take two with water from the bottle permanently on the side. My routine morning assessment; this is a bad day. I close my eyes again, put my head back down. After the funeral, Lorna insisted I get my doctor to refer me to a bereavement counselor; in fact, she said we should both go, Lloydie and I, but he wouldnât. Lorna was right, it was exactly what I needed; Jenny, her name was, such a lovely woman, with the eyes you would expect of someone who does such a job and does it well, brimful with empathy. I was furious with everyone at the time. My grief had made me fixated on blame, apportioning it as if it made any difference to what had happened. Tiny details were exaggerated in my mind till I was filled with rage for everyone including Lloydie, because of those boots. She helped me toget things in perspective. Seeing her then probably saved my marriage, such as it is.
One of the things that came out of it was my strategy for dealing with days like this; donât expect too much from yourself. Itemize what needs to be done and tackle them one by one. Complete each thing in order before moving on to the next. Keep your list short. If I cannot make myself begin, my day will be spent here in bed. It is a hard desire to fight but I will, not because I have anything specific to do, but because I know from experience that the longer I lie here and do nothing, the longer it will take me to find the strength to get up. If I do not force myself to get moving, I could be lying in my bed for days. Mentally, I make my list.
I will only lie here till Lloydie comes out of the bathroom and back into this
Similar Books
