CLEO. Helen Brown E.

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СКАЧАТЬ would’ve had to climb a ladder to get up there to accomplish his graffiti. It was typical of our son to dispel expectations with a joke. If he was telling us anything it was he thought we were idiots for wallowing in our misery.

      Never. Sam would never grow up and savor the ecstasy of falling in love, the joy of seeing his own children born. Forever. He was lost to the world forever, remembered as a golden boy who never had the chance to become a man. The only way to stop the words spinning through my head was to go to the picture window—one that couldn’t be taken to the paint strippers because it was attached to the house—and attack it with a small crimson paint scraper. Never, forever, never, until my wrist ached and my fingers were bleeding and on the brink of bursting into flames. The view through the picture window of city, hills and harbor felt malignant, but it was the frame that needed scraping. With each stroke I stripped another layer of pain. Maybe when the wood was finally bare and smooth my heart would be healed. One time (was it daylight or dark?) Steve led me gently away from the window that had no solution. My pointless, obsessive behavior was disturbing.

      On the few occasions I ventured out into the world—the impersonal stage set of shops and offices—I had no qualms burdening strangers with the facts of my recent tragedy. “My son died,” I’d confided to the woman behind the post office counter. “Yes, he was run over three weeks ago. He was only nine.” The woman had turned pale all of a sudden, narrower and taller. She seemed to want to dissolve into the poster advertising a new series of pictorial stamps. Collector’s items, an excellent gift for friends overseas, convenient to post. Glancing nervously towards the door, she’d said she was sorry. Her tone was flat and quiet. Sorry about what? That I’d used her as a receptacle for shocking information or that I’d walked into her post office in the first place?

      A fleeting wave of shame had washed over me. What business had I ruining the day of a normal person who was simply trying to earn a living? She’d had every reason to think I was mad, lying, or both.

      I told the bank teller, too. His reaction was similar. What was this need to expose my wounds, so horribly raw, to strangers? The satisfaction of witnessing their shock and discomfort had been minimal. I must have had some kind of need to redefine my place in the world, to wear a label for strangers to read and, ultimately, force myself into accepting the unacceptable. Perhaps there was logic in olden-day mourners wearing black for a year. It would be a signal that the wearer was at best unstable.

      While I resented roosting at home to be the target of compassionate visitors, I was in no shape for the outside world, either. Walking down the main street searching for new clothes for our surviving son, children’s designer clothes of a quality so fine he’d be protected and sheltered forever, I became suddenly lost and disoriented. Awash in a tide of faces, all of them unfamiliar and disengaged, I fought an urge to cry out. Glossy shop windows leaned forward, threatening to crush me on the pavement. My knees weakened. An acquaintance spotted me and guided me back to the car. Humiliated by my need, I thanked her and sent her away.

      Gulping breaths in front of the steering wheel, I knew exactly how I must’ve looked. A human skull with hairs protruding from its scalp. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I was astonished to see a twenty-eight-year-old woman, unaccountably young, with red eyes.

      We tried to resume normal life, whatever that was. A couple of weeks after the funeral, wearied from my weeping and yelling, on top of the burden of his own secret grief, Steve packed his bag and headed off like a sleepwalker for a week at sea. I hoped he might find serenity in the routines and order of shipboard life.

      A few days later I heard the knocker pound against the front door. Sheltering in the shadows at the end of the hallway, I contemplated the figure behind the frosted-glass panel. While the silhouette appeared feminine, its shape wasn’t familiar. It seemed tall for a woman, the hair short and shaggy.

      Rob glanced up from the kitchen table, where he was building a space station with his new Lego set. In past weeks he’d been showered with toys and clothes, all blindingly bright in their shiny wrapping. Rata, once a reliable guard dog, maintained her prostrate position in the doorway of the boys’ old bedroom and pricked an ear. Ever since the accident she’d been immobile, inconsolable, and would barely lift her head. Whenever anyone tried to comfort her, she rolled a mournful eye.

      “Let’s not answer it,” I said. “They’ll go away in a minute.”

      Another visitor was the last thing we needed. Exhausted and numb to the core, I wasn’t capable of conversation. The story would have to be told again. He—or she—would gaze at me with whirlpool eyes while I explained how our two beloved sons went down the road and only one came home. Retelling the story, reciting it like plainsong in an empty cathedral, wearied me. I didn’t want their tears, was tired of their cancer-ward voices.

      Alternatively, perhaps our visitor was one of the people who’d brought food. Countless plates laden with sandwiches, muffins, roasted chicken, food for uncertain appetites had appeared on the doorstep over the past three weeks. I was grateful to those cooks for their practicality and restraint. Their anonymous gifts were a welcome relief from emotional confrontation. Even though food was of no interest to me the meals seemed to disappear.

      A guilt-inducing pile of empty plates was growing taller on our kitchen counter. I had no idea who had brought them. Perhaps the visitor was one of those benefactors, with sufficient courage to revisit a house of sorrow and reclaim her plate.

      No, I wouldn’t open the door to whoever was hovering behind the frosted glass. He or she could leave the food, flowers or sympathy card oozing saccharine prose on the mat and retreat to a life without pain.

      As I stepped backwards to the safety of the kitchen, the figure tapped on the glass. Rata leapt to her feet and let out a simultaneous bark. It was the first time we’d heard her emit anything other than a whine since Sam’s death.

      “Good girl!” I said, stroking the lovable rug of her back as she lunged towards the front door, her tail wagging.

      The head behind the glass shifted expectantly. Whoever it was had heard both the bark and my response. There was no choice now. Refusing to open the door would be plain old-fashioned rudeness.

      Looping Rata’s collar through my fingers, I turned the latch. Sunlight stabbed my brain. The graceful figure belonged to Lena. Attached to her long elegant arm was her son, Jake, who was the same age as Rob.

      Most people had kept their children away. All except one or two of Rob’s closest friends had maintained their distance. Understandably. The death of a grandparent is enormous enough for a child to encompass, let alone the annihilation of someone their own age. Who knows what effect the sudden departure of someone from their own generation could have on their unformed nervous systems? And there’s no proof tragedy isn’t contagious.

      I wasn’t confident about my reactions to other people’s children yet, either. When names were mentioned, especially boys Sam’s age, vengeful rage would boil inside. What right has your son to be alive when mine is not?

      Lena’s son stared up at me unblinkingly, then at Rata joyously bursting to escape my grip on her collar. Jake peered around me into the hallway. Perhaps this was going to be a half-normal visit after all, refreshingly free of the old “I’m so terribly sorry. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

      “Would you like to see Rob?” I asked the child, in case Lena wanted to express the platitudes I’d learned to expect. “He’s building a city on the moon.”

      Jake stood still, a smile flickering on his lips.

      “You could use the toilet if you like,” I blabbered, trying to stop Rata’s flailing tongue СКАЧАТЬ