Patchwork Paradise(7)

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.