Patchwork Paradise(8)

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 darkly. “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.”