Seven Days of Us(88)

Olivia


THE SPARE ROOM, 34 GLOUCESTER TERRACE, CAMDEN, 8:00 P.M.

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Every part of Olivia’s body hurt. Pain seemed to be rushing toward her and around her like the incoming tide—up to her neck and over her head, as she tried to gulp in some air. She opened her eyes, but the room strobed in and out and she thought she might be sick again, so she shut them. Now, instead of the red blackness of her own eyelids, she saw Sean’s eyes looking back at her. She could see them in pin-sharp focus—the splotch of gold by one pupil, smile lines fanning to his temples, violet crescents stamped by a night shift. Her heart felt like it might implode, as if her body understood what had happened, while her brain refused to follow. She kept reliving the last time she’d seen him, yesterday. She’d been hurrying, because her father was outside in the car, and had left the room with breezy kisses and a promise to celebrate soon. Why hadn’t she asked to check his bloods, to see a spinal tap? What was she thinking, taking the ICU monitor’s word for it that he was fine, when he’d only tested negative three days ago? She opened her eyes to escape Sean’s, and lay looking at the spare room walls without seeing them.

She remembered a perfect night in Liberia. They’d been sitting on the beach at dusk, barbecuing a fish he’d just caught. He’d looked so pleased with himself—like a small boy—that she’d teased him until he’d grabbed her in a fireman’s lift and run toward the waves threatening to dunk her. She remembered being pleased, despite herself, that he could throw her around like a fledgling. She liked the way he got into the sea, stumbling through the surf till he fell over, then bobbing up with a seal’s slick head and lashes like spears. That night was the happiest she’d ever seen him, and not just because of the fish and the beers and the sunset. He’d told her, afterward, that it was the moment he knew he was in love. And she remembered feeling the same, and that being so at ease with someone was even more exquisite than the rush of a first kiss.

The enormity of having his baby, the baby he would never see, thudded into her yet again. She tried to push it aside—she was only seven weeks. But the fear that Sean’s child would tether her to this day, to Haag, forever was deafening. She clamped her eyes shut, hating herself for even thinking of her future, for considering life after now. She heard his voice in her head, the way he said “O-livia.” And she found herself wishing she’d told her mother who he was at the airport. And now it was too late.





Andrew


THE KITCHEN, 34 GLOUCESTER TERRACE, CAMDEN, 8:18 P.M.

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The raw chicken sat on the side, naked and chilly-looking. It had been ready to go in the oven just as the news broke, but would have to be binned now. Olivia had begged to be left alone, but it still felt wrong for them to feast as planned downstairs. Andrew had no appetite anyway. Seeing him look at the bird, Emma seemed to remember to act like herself—or a caricature of herself. She jumped up as if she’d sat on something hot and yelped: “The chicken! It’ll never cook through in time—quick, put it in, Andrew!”

“But we aren’t going to do all that now, surely?” he said.

“We still have to eat,” said Emma. Her eyes had the alarmed look they got in airports. “Especially Wiv, in her condition. She has to keep her strength up. I can take her a tray—or maybe she’ll come and sit with us later.”

Andrew doubted that Olivia would welcome Emma’s tray of food. Or that she’d come down tonight—or even tomorrow. All the same, his wife’s faith in roast chicken was touching.

“But won’t she, uh, mind us all carrying on as normal?” he said. He knew how quick Olivia was to take umbrage, and wouldn’t blame her if she resented them tucking in downstairs. Their new rapport still felt fragile.

“Of course she won’t. Rituals are comforting,” said Emma.

“Emma, really, I don’t think . . .” He tailed off. “Couldn’t we just put it in the fridge, have it another day? I couldn’t eat a thing myself.”

“But it’s darling Jesse’s last night!” she said, turning to give him a clutchy embrace. The brandy must have gone to her head. Still, it was rather a shame to part on such a bleak note.

“Jesse?” he said.

“Guys, please, don’t do anything on my account,” said Jesse. “Although Emma’s right, I guess, rituals can be grounding.”

Andrew realized it was up to him to make a decision. It was a novel feeling.

“Right, well, since it’s all done, we may as well stick it in and have it cold tomorrow,” he said.

“Good-oh,” said Emma, yanking open the oven and nearly dropping the whole chicken in her hurry. She straightened up, looking for the next task. “Would she like a bath? Jesse, perhaps you could start running it. I’ll go and tell her,” she said.

“Wait,” said Andrew quickly. “Better she’s left alone for now, I think. But Jesse, do see if you can track down your younger sister—you’ve got her mobile, haven’t you?”

And as he said so, he realized it was the first time he’d thought of Jesse as a brother to his daughters.





Phoebe


SUGAR RUSH, HOXTON, 9:33 P.M.

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