Chapter 3
I’m down to five emails. It’s not enough when I have endless hours to kill.
So I save them for later, pushing my laptop off my lap and gazing around the lounge.
A sofa. A coffee table. A TV I rarely watch.
Endless boxes stacked in every corner. I get up and wander over to a pile, gingerly pulling the flap of one open, wondering if today will be the day I finally brave facing the contents.
My heart begins to race, and my soul’s invaded by the long-lost sound of laughter from my past. Smiles I won’t see again.
This box, like every other one it’s stacked on, and every other unpacked box in this apartment, is like Pandora’s box.
Many boxes that should never be opened. I’m stable enough to know I’m existing in dark places.
Stumbling through this life aimlessly, my goal simply to make it through each day alive. These boxes might end me.
I quickly snap it shut again. I can’t face it. Will never be able to face the boxes.
A chime sounds as I step back, pulling my attention over my shoulder to the couch where my phone is sitting on the arm.
A text. My messenger inbox feels like Pandora’s box too.
I shake my head and walk over with purpose I don’t feel, snatching it up and slamming my thumb on the screen to open the message.
My heart drops into my stomach as I read the words, and then the anger rises.
My solicitor still hasn’t received the papers. Come on, Camryn. I know you’re busy, but it’s just a signature. Sign the papers and get your PA to post them so we can proceed.
I toss my phone on the couch, untold pain hitting me in the gut, forcing me to fold to the floor and curl up into a ball.
But I don’t cry. The tears don’t come anymore.
I experience every telltale sign of pain and loss—the ball in my throat, the tightening of my chest, the wobble of my lip from time to time—but never tears.
My eyes have dried up. Empty. No more tears to give.
I’m hollow. A broken, empty vessel of a woman who once smiled and celebrated life with a partner. Those happy times feel like eons ago.
I clench my eyes closed and ball my fists, wishing the day away so I can get on with my working week.
“Fuck you,” I yell at my phone, slamming my fist into the floor.
“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” I stand abruptly and march into the kitchen, swinging open cupboard door after cupboard door, searching for something that’ll numb this relentless agony.
Empty.
They’re all empty.
“Goddamn it!” I slam the last door shut with such force, it jumps off its hinges and hits the floor, narrowly missing the bridge of my foot.
It clatters around until it settles. “Fuck,” I breathe, dropping to a chair.
I wedge my elbows on the table and rest my head in my hands, my fingers clawing my dark hair, pulling at my scalp.
Breathe.
Half hour later, I’m still taking in controlled breaths, still staring at the tabletop, my head hanging.
I stand, holding the edge of the table, and take a few moments before reattaching the door and going to my bedroom, pulling my hair into a ponytail on my way.
I tug on some baggy jeans, thick socks, a roll-neck jumper, and slip my feet into my Merry People boots—oh, the irony—wrapping a scarf around my neck and swinging my Dry Robe coat on.
Pocketing my mobile, his message unanswered, I leave my apartment and start the five-mile walk, hands in my pockets, head down.
Unable to face the world.
I have to take a few moments outside before I push my way through the glass doors, as I always do.
The heat smacks me in the face, and I make quick work of stripping out of my coat and scarf, draping them over the crook of my arm before signing myself in.
The lady behind the reception desk, I forget her name, doesn’t greet me, just nods, before pressing the door release button to let me through.
Glittery tinsel and fake snow adorn the corridor, baubles in every colour and size dangling from the ceiling on ribbons.
Another gauntlet to run. Taking a deep breath, I walk on fast feet, looking straight ahead to the door at the very end of the corridor.
Another breath before I enter.
The room is dark, the curtains drawn, only a glimmer of the winter sun peeking through a small gap at the edge.
I see her silhouette on the bed, hear her light snore.
The second the door clicks closed, she stirs, so I hurry over to the lamp and flick it on, letting the soft light illuminate the room so she can see me when she opens her eyes.
Then I pull a chair over, draping my coat and scarf over the back, take a seat, and wait.
Her head turns, her eyelids flicker, and the moment she opens her eyes, I know today is a bad day.
Her frown confirms it. “It’s Camryn,” I say, watching as she tries to figure out who I am.
If she knows me. Most of the time, she doesn’t, is adamant she’s never seen me before in her life.
It’s just another layer of pain to the endless pain.
Her grey eyebrows pinch more. “Where’s Noah?”
I swallow, feeling my back pushing into the chair. “He doesn’t visit anymore.” I don’t bother telling her who I am beyond my name. It’s a waste of time and energy and only stresses her out. “Have you eaten?”
“What do you mean, he doesn’t visit anymore? He was here just yesterday.”
“He was?” I say, just as the door opens and a nurse enters.
“Camryn,” she says, smiling mildly as she assesses my mother. “It’s been a few days.”
I smile tightly, not feeling the need to explain myself. “It’s been crazy at work.”
Her hum is borderline condescending.
“Who’s Camryn? I don’t know no Camryn.” Mum starts struggling to sit up, her emaciated arms flailing, every vein visible through her paper-thin skin. “Get out!”
“Now, now, Celeste,” the nurse coos, calm as can be. “This is your daughter.”
“Where’s Noah?” she yells, her voice broken, unrecognisable. “I want to see Noah.”
“Excuse me.” I get up, feeling the walls closing in on me, and make my hasty exit, resting my back against the wall in the corridor, looking up at the ceiling briefly before the endless baubles force my gaze to my boots.
The nurse joins me after a few moments. Her smile is drenched in sympathy I just can’t take. “It’s the Christmas carols service soon. It would be lovely if you could join us.”
“I’m working.”
“But I haven’t told you when it is.”
I push my back away from the wall and pull my coat on as I walk away. “She won’t want me there.”
“She can’t help it, Camryn,” she calls. “You know that.”
“I know that, Deirdre,” I murmur, pulling my phone out of my pocket as I reach the double doors that lead into reception. I hit the button to alert the lady on the desk I need letting out, my eyes scanning the space for her as I make a call.
“Hey,” he says in answer.
“You need to come see Mum.” I hit the button again, getting hotter and hotter.
“I did.”
“When?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“It was the end of October, before you went on a three-week holiday.”
“I’m busy, Cam.”
“So am I.” I see the lady appear behind the reception area, but she doesn’t look this way and disappears again into the office, so I hit the button repeatedly, my breathing becoming laboured.
“You’re the daughter. It’s your job to look after her. I’m paying for that outrageously expensive care home, Cam. I do what I can. You’re local, it’s easier for you.”
“Easy?” I blurt, starting to pound the glass with the side of my fist. “You think it’s easy coming here for her to look at me blankly? For her to ask for—”
“It’s a good distraction for you.”
“Fuck you.”
“God, you’re poisonous.”
I hang up. “Will someone please let me the fuck out of here?”
The door clicks, and I push my way through, rushing across the space and practically falling out onto the street, gasping in the cold air until my lungs scream. It takes a solid ten minutes to calm myself down until my hands aren’t shaking and I can type out a shitty message to my brother.
And then I start the long trek home, taking endless detours down the safe, Christmas-free side streets, hating the awful disease that stole my mum, hating my egotistical, misogynist brother. Hating my soon-to-be ex-husband.
Wondering if my life will ever hold any joy again.