Instincts urged me to tell her I was fine, but instead I said, “Please,” and I meant it.
I am emotionally floored. That’s how I would describe myself at the moment. Floored and exhausted from living on a cocktail of such high emotions, and such low ones too. High, because Two Fishers Way is now mine. My home. And I am utterly staggered at the prospect of being a homeowner, overnight. The bills. The upkeep. And of course, the scope, the possibilities of everything this beautiful house could be. And the lows of missing Eliot. Of days and weeks passing since I’ve felt his strong arms around me, seen his face, heard his voice, watched the comforting sight of “typing” next to the gorgeous circle of a photo of him on WhatsApp, and waiting, smiling, for his next message.
“You’re running on nothing but adrenaline,” Rosie had said, packing me off upstairs with a towel. “Your amygdala is having a hoedown. We need to chill it out. Shower first. The rest, later.”
And that’s where I am now. Showering, at Fox and Rosie’s request. My friends. My family. Two people I have realized I trust with everything, and two people who are clattering pots downstairs, and firing up vacuums and washing machines, all for me.
I wash my hair, and then blow-dry it. I open the curtains and throw up the windows in my bedroom and get dressed into proper clothes. Jeans. A tank top. It’s turned warm since we entered April, and outside, new leaves the color of gooseberries begin to grow on the old oaks.
I tread downstairs, and already the house appears brighter. I can smell lemon disinfectant and hear Rosie shouting something to Fox from the kitchen to him in the living room, over the loud whoosh of the vacuum.
“Much better,” says Rosie, rubber gloves on, wiping down the now clear sink. Everything washed up and put away.
“Thanks, Rosie,” I say, and she nods to the table.
“Sit down. I’ll make us a cuppa, then Fox is going to make lunch. And then you’re gonna get your life in order. The moping cycle has officially ended.”
* * *
Rosie and Fox stay for four hours, cleaning, scrubbing, helping me bag up some of Louise’s things, which they take for the local charity shops when they leave. The kitchen and bathroom sparkle, and Fox has somehow made the cluttered, dusty living room cozy and warm-feeling. It smells like furniture polish, and before he leaves he lights some candles I didn’t even know I had. Rosie has even made dinner for later—a curry that smells like coconuts. Something she said her dad makes when she’s run-down or sad.
“It works. I give less of a shit once I’ve got a bowl of this baby. My nan’s works the best, though. Fuck knows what she puts in hers. Men’s souls, probably, and rightly so.”
And I feel lighter having been with them. We laughed most of the afternoon, chatting, bundled on the sofa, over sandwiches and cups of tea, and it was nice seeing the little looks they threw each other, all sticky eyes and beaming smiles.
“You really like him,” I’d whispered to Rosie, and she had put her fingers to her lips. “Shut up,” she replied, wide-eyed, then we’d giggled when she said, “I think I fucking do, you know.”
I sit now at the kitchen table, gazing out the window, the radio on as Louise always had it after dinner. I miss her, when I sit here, looking at the chair she’d sit in. I remember the way seeing her here, in the mornings, comforted me, made me feel less alone. So many meals we ate together at this table, and how much we’d laugh when Eliot joined us. I gaze now out of the window, up at the stars. The Eta Aquariids are soon. In two weeks, I think. There’s a pull in my heart at the thought. It actually hurts. I just want to talk to him. Hear his voice. Say his name out loud.
I pick up my phone from the table and before I’ve even let myself mull it over, let my fear, my heart talk me out of it, I press a thumb to his name. Voice mail, as usual. Instantly voice mail, the way it is when a phone is switched off. I never leave voice mails. But this time, I can’t bring myself to hang up.
The beep sounds.
“Hi, Eliot,” I say, bright, breezy. “It’s just me. I was just wondering how you’re getting on down there. Or—up there. We definitely know geography isn’t my strong point, eh? Ha. Yeah, um, it’s no big deal. I just wondered how you were, how you’re settling in. It’s getting warmer here, and in true Brit style, I’ve already seen a few bare chests in the aisles of Tesco as if it’s Saint Barts in August. Bet you’re missing us over here now I’ve mentioned that!” I pause. Chuckle. Heart racing. “But yeah. Um. We haven’t talked in weeks and… I just wanted to know you were okay. But listen, don’t worry about calling back. It was just a quick call to check in, really. Anyway. Better go. Loads to do! Speak soon!”
My cheeks are raging hot when I hang up, and I feel sick. At the brightness. At the breeziness. I miss him. I miss him so much that it hurts, and the sadness in his face before he left that hotel room door replays in my mind. The way he was with Louise does too. With Marv. Everything he did for me. And I call him and practically sing down the phone? What am I doing?
I call again, cheeks burning even hotter now. Voice mail again, of course.
“Hi,” I say this time. “I’m sorry. I—I rambled like an idiot and sounded like I really didn’t care if you called me back or not, but… I do. I really do. And I forgot to tell you again that I’m sorry, Eliot. I’m sorry for the mess that I am, and… I miss you. I really miss you. And I wish you were here, actually. But. Canada deserves you. With all its… maple syrup and pretty blondes in furry hats and snow and… I hope you’re well. I hope you’re happy. Bye, Eliot.”
I hang up. The house is silent, besides the soft mumble of the radio. I look around at the now glistening kitchen. My kitchen. I look at Louise’s empty chair. I look at the pot of gingery, coconut curry on the hob.
Order. I need order in my life. Rosie’s right. The wallowing cycle is up. It’s time to find out who I am. Without Balloon Boy. Without the fear Robert Morgan planted within me, like an arrow I couldn’t pull out, the night of the Summer Ball. Who am I, without the fear of that one night? Without Eliot. Without the need for anyone to complete me. Mum. Marv. A partner. Children. Eliot told me once I was enough, without all of that. And like the constellations and stars and obscure music facts, he is right.
I am enough.
I click open the padlock of the notebook Eliot bought me and turn to the first fresh page. And with Louise’s golden pen, I make a list.
* * *
From: [email protected]
Date: April 10, 2019
Dear Ms. Emmie Blue,
Thank you for expressing interest in the position of Junior Counselor for Fortescue Lane Secondary School. This email is to confirm that we have received your application and will be in touch shortly, should the employer wish to organize an interview.
I only remember one Easter in my life, and that was when I was seven. Den and I went to an egg hunt at the local park, and when we got home, we cooked messily, over multiple open recipe books, a roast dinner. Lamb. Potatoes. Peas that Den insisted we stirred mint sauce into. We all sat at the table that afternoon—Den, Mum, and me—and I remember staring out of the window as we ate, willing people to walk by, on their Sunday afternoon walks, and to look in, to see how much we looked like all those families on TV. To wish they could join us. Tomorrow will be the first Easter I’ve celebrated since then. And I’ll be with my dad. I will be with my sister. I’ll be with my family.