Page 6 of Things We Never Said
‘It’s horrible. I get that, too.’
‘I’m seeing someone tomorrow lunchtime, actually. A counsellor or something. My friend Sinead saw her when her brother died. Sinead said she was good, so I thought, why not? I mean, it can’t do any harm, can it?’
‘No, you’re right, it can’t. That’s good. If you feel you need it, that’s good.’
‘Have you thought about seeing someone?’
‘Oh, I’m not really the seeing-someone type,’ Sean says. ‘You know that. I think I’m OK though, considering. But let me know how it goes.’
April yawns loudly, then says, ‘Sure.’
‘You go back to sleep, sweetheart.’
‘OK, talk later, Big Daddy.’
‘Sure thing, Little Daughter.’
Once the phone call has ended, Sean stands and crosses to the refrigerator where he retrieves – and sniffs at – a bottle of milk. This he places on the kitchen table along with a packet of muesli, and a bowl and tablespoon plucked from the dishwasher.
He’s been feeling nauseous ever since Catherine died. He supposes that he, too, should probably try to eat something.
He pours the muesli, adds milk and raises a spoonful to his lips. He chews unenthusiastically, then forces himself to swallow, before pulling a face and pushing the bowl to one side. No. It’s still too soon for food.
He pulls the box towards him and removes the wrapping paper, revealing a baby-blue shoebox. At the sight of the lid, he inhales sharply.
Across the top someone has written:All about us. The handwriting looks a lot like Catherine’s, but in capitals and written in chunky marker, it’s hard to be certain. He runs his finger across the lettering as he thinks about this, then chews his bottom lip as he removes the lid, revealing one small package and a neat wad of white envelopes stacked end up, like index cards.
His hand shaking, he takes one from the pile and inspects it, then another, and sees that they are numbered and in order. Each envelope seems to contain a small object, the size of a box of matches.
He spins the shoebox around so that the numbers are facing him and pulls out the first envelope. It reads:Week Two. He hunts for Week One and then finally lifts the small parcel from the box. The inscription says:Start here. Open me first.
Written in ballpoint pen, the handwriting is clearly identifiable as Catherine’s messy scrawl. He slowly rips the paper from the package, revealing a small Dictaphone and a single Polaroid photo.
‘Oh God,’ Sean murmurs.
He picks up the Dictaphone and moves his finger towards the play button, then puts it back down and studies the photo instead.
Snapshot #1
Polaroid, colour. A woman lies in a hospital bed. A man is beside her, his head laid gently on her shoulder. The woman is wearing men’s striped pyjamas, and from the buttoned chest sprouts a cluster of cables, which run across her free shoulder to a monitoring device. Despite the oxygen mask, which covers her mouth, one can see from the shape of her eyes that she’s somehow managing to smile.
Cassette #1
Hello Sean.
Well, this is spooky, isn’t it? The voice of your late wife. ‘Late wife’ – you hadn’t thought about that before, had you? Well, yes, having been absolutely obsessed with being on time my whole life, I finally get to be ‘late’.
I’m recording this on Friday night. I started off writing you letters but I kept having to bin them – you know how insecure I’ve always felt about my dodgy spelling – and one of the nurses came up with this idea. I’m sure April would tell me I can do it on my iPhone or something, but I’m far more comfortable with these little cassette things, even if they do seem to cost a fortune. Seven quid each, apparently! Can you believe it?
Anyway, this system has seemed to work better for me, so it’s probably worth it. Plus, you get to hear my lovely voice instead of trying to read my spidery handwriting, and that’s got to be a blessing.
Have you looked at the photo yet? It’s the one that April took with that new Polaroid of hers. Isn’t it funny that something as old hat as a Polaroid camera should become fashionable again? I think it must be because people are fed up with looking at screens.
You have both just left the hospital and they’ve given me one of those horrible adrenaline pills to get my blood pressure back up, so I’m galloping like Patti Smith’s Horses.
I’ve been putting off recording this last tape because, well, it’s my goodbye message, I suppose.
That’s an idea that neither of you have been able to get your minds around, I know. Just this evening, you said, ‘Oh, you’ll outlive us all,’ which, considering the state I’m in, is pretty much a dictionary definition of being in denial. But the truth is, I’m pretty sure you’ll be listening to this before the end of the month.
