The anniversary, p.8
The Anniversary, page 8
At the ryokan, I removed my shoes and stepped through the doorway into the hall. An old woman came out from a back room carrying a pile of threadbare white towels. We greeted one another; the woman at the morgue had phoned ahead and so my arrival was expected. I was shown the way upstairs and given a key to a small beige-coloured bedroom that had a large window looking out on to the mountains in the distance. There was a kettle in an alcove by the bathroom sink and next to this a hotplate with a saucepan, should I want to heat up food of my own. She did this for Westerners, the woman told me, who always like to eat packet soup at midnight.
I hadn’t said why I had come to that northern town, and she didn’t ask. But she saw something in my face then that made her own soften as a mother’s might when looking upon a child’s suffering. She passed the towels to me and, bowing her head a little said, Here, you need tea and a hot bath. Then rest. I will go now. Later I will bring you food.
I did as she said, filling the kettle and putting the water on to boil. I felt weak with exhaustion. All distinctions between wakefulness and sleep had been eroded: I was a misplaced creature in the daylight, a nocturnal animal wrongly passing through hour after hour in which the world seemed too bright, too strange. I was, again, queasy with fatigue, disorientated by my new location. I could be anywhere, I felt I was nowhere. How many rooms had I slept in since we departed for the cruise? It had been three weeks since I’d lain in my own bed and now I was somewhere so unfamiliar that I did not know where to buy milk and food, how the garbage was collected, what plants were in season, how to turn the heater on, whether I could drink unboiled water from the tap, how to get a subway ticket, if there was a subway. How to get home. I heard a knock at the door. When I opened it the old woman was again standing there, this time holding out a shiny pink paper bag with ribbons for handles like the kind in which one might place a birthday gift. Potatoes for you, she said. From the garden. In case you get hungry in the night and have no soup. We eat many potatoes here. I thanked her, then she bowed and turned away. The bag was heavy, full, as she said, of unwashed potatoes that smelt of damp earth. Behind me the kettle clicked off. I rested the party bag by the hotplate and pinched out some green tea from an open packet left in the small cupboard under the sink. I dropped this into the bottom of a large earthenware mug and filled it with water.
In my handbag my phone rang again. It rang and rang; whoever it was wouldn’t take no for an answer, they knew I was there. All day it had been the same number, no caller ID. At last I reached past the papers and the scrunched-up tissues and the tangle of headphone wires and pulled out the phone.
It was Max, Patrick’s manager. I had his mobile saved in my contacts, but he was calling from home.
I don’t know, I said, when he at last coughed out his question about the funeral. The very word made me feel ill, as if a strange pressure were closing in around my head and chest. I really haven’t thought that far. I mean, I can’t—
Because it would be good to have it nearby, and soon, he said. I mean if you’re not up to this, I can … I know he wasn’t born here, but there’s just so many people. And this was his home. If you let me know what his family, I mean what you decide, then I can get started. It’s just that, things are heating up here, the news of it is everywhere. I’m really sorry to have to ask this but it would be great if you could say something, do a brief interview perhaps, put your voice to the story. I know how hard this must be. And yes, we need to decide about the funeral.
We. I. Me.
God, Max, I said. I really can’t talk about this now. I’ve just come from— I can’t think … The line’s bad and—
Outside, in the streets below, I could hear sirens. One after another and another. Max started talking again. I walked over to the window. In the distance I could see a mass of grey swelling and moving towards me. I didn’t know if it was rain or smoke and watched, transfixed, as the haze engulfed the village below, and then the trees on the hillside, and eventually the ryokan. The room that was, only moments before, lit by pale sun now grew suddenly cold. I took an old cashmere jumper from my suitcase and put Max on speaker while I tugged it down over my face. As I did so I caught the residue of Patrick’s cologne. Last signs. Last traces. The horror of human ephemera. Listen, he said. I was talking with Carla and she thought we could maybe fit—
Carla?
The second assistant. The new girl. Woman, I mean.
Oh, right, of course.
She thought we could book the—
What he was saying made no sense to me. I was finding it hard to follow. All the names and the numbers. The mention of caterers, venues. Something about the possible order of service. Heavy rain started to fall. Somewhere below, the landline was ringing. Then I heard the old woman clambering up the stairs, calling my name.
Look, I said to Max. I’m sorry, I’ve got to go, there’s someone— and before he could answer I hung up.
Miss Blackwood, the old woman called again. A telephone, she said, from international. My stomach tightened. I left my mobile on the windowsill and followed her back down to the small table by the entrance where the phone sat. I held the receiver to my ear for a moment before speaking. On the other end of the line there was static which sounded, at first, like distant frogs or crickets. Through this someone was breathing, a stiff inhalation followed by a sigh. A person waiting. Hello? I said.
Oh my God, she said. It’s you. Oh my God, I’m so sorry. It was Ada, my publisher. I just heard yesterday, she said. I don’t know why I only just heard, and it’s been a total nightmare trying to find you. No one seems to know anything. There’s no record of anything. I’ve been trying to call. I phoned, like, every hotel on the island asking for you. I even called your sister, she said. I thought she might have known how to get hold of you, but it was even hard to get in touch with her. It sounds like she’s been unwell? I’m not sure of the details, but she really wants to talk to you. And your mobile, what’s happened to that?
Of course it was Ada who tracked me down. We’d worked together for nearly a decade and over that time she had become one of my closest friends.
I’m so sorry, I said. There had been so many calls. At some point I couldn’t look any more, couldn’t answer and must have forgotten—
Listen, I’m flying out now to come get you.
You don’t need to do that, I said.
Rubbish. I do. I’m coming to get you whether you want me to or not.
I’m sorry, I said. I’m so sorry. I mean I don’t want to be—
Don’t be stupid, she replied. What the fuck, I mean what the fuck happened?
I started to cry then and through my tears blubbered something about how, yes, please come, actually please do, about how I hadn’t even thought of how to get home, that I was so exhausted. But what I couldn’t say because I didn’t understand it yet was that over the course of the last several days I had become irremediably alone, permanently alone, alone in the deepest and strangest parts of myself. Just as Patrick was – alone when he fell, alone when he drowned, alone when he passed over into the afterlife or alone when he did not, and in my aloneness I could keep the idea of him company, keep faith with his final state. On the table where the phone sat someone had placed a small vase of flowers. I picked the petals off a daisy. Loves me, loves me not. Loves me.
Wait there, Ada said. Just wait there and don’t do anything and don’t go anywhere and I’ll be with you soon. We can talk about all this then. I’ve spoken with Valerie, she’s going to call. There’s other things too, that we need to— Hang on, wait a second. A car horn could be heard in the background. Sorry, she said. That’s my lift. I’ll be there tomorrow.
It was mid-morning when Ada arrived. Oh darling, she said, over and over again, hugging me tight. Oh darling, I’m so sorry. Now you just sit down here and let me look after you. She fussed around with the little saucepan, finding food somewhere from downstairs, pulling other supplies from her handbag. She cooked me rice and eggs, and while I ate she ran me a bath. Oh shit, I called out to her, suddenly remembering. What about the prize? I hadn’t thought about this at all since the accident.
Just forget about it, Ada called back. You don’t need to think about that. That’s the last thing you need to think about.
But what will happen?
I’ll talk to them, she said, stepping out of the bathroom.
It was going to be a surprise, I said. For Patrick, I mean. I hadn’t told him. Even the shortlist wasn’t announced until after the accident.
Oh honey, said Ada, and she reached out and put her hand on mine. We stayed that way for a minute while I let this sink in. Then I finished the last of my coffee and Ada went to turn off the bath water.
I want to do it, I said when she came back. I want to go.
You don’t have to, you know, she said. It’s only been a matter of days, hardly a week. Valerie’s worried about you too. We both thought that maybe we should just do this one quietly, step back a little.
No, I said. It’s better for me if I just push through. You know that. And I don’t want to drop the ball now. I want to go big with this. I want to put everything behind it. Can we do that? It’s what Patrick would have wanted too.
I knew what I was in for: the prize and the publicity that would follow – interviews and panels and all the rest.
Can you go ahead and organise the events? I asked. Whatever they are. Really – I need to. Please.
Hang on, said Ada, let me think. It’s what, just gone ten here and we’re thirteen hours ahead of New York. If we leave like, now, and get a flight today we’ll fly in on the afternoon of the awards ceremony. We might just make it. She looked at me and squeezed my hand. Are you sure? Are you really sure?
I nodded. Absolutely.
It’s too early over there to call Valerie now, she said. It would be what, two in the morning or something. I’ll text her from the airport, or on the plane. OK. You go have a bath and let me make some calls.
While I lay soaking in the hot water I heard her repacking my bags, doing up the zip and re-clicking the florescent safety straps that wrapped around my suitcase. When I got out she passed me a pill and a glass of water. Valium, she said. Take it. You can do this, she told me. I know you can. You’re so brave. And you’ve worked so hard. To be honest, I don’t know anyone who has worked as hard as you. Everything is set. You just need to get yourself dressed. And when it’s all done, we’ll get you home. I swallowed the pill and dried myself, pulling on a pair of jeans and a shirt that belonged to Patrick. I knotted the long tails at my waist and left the collar open. Then I sat by the window in my dark glasses and stared at the sun while I waited for the drug to take effect, for the chemical tang to sprout in my mouth, the sharp, slightly acrid taste spreading across my tongue. I felt my muscles begin to slacken, and slowly all nearby sounds – bird calls, human voices, cars passing on the road below – drifted into the background until they smoothed out and became continuous. Ada leant over me and lifted my sunglasses away: Are you ready?
She held my hand during take-off. I had the window seat and as we rose up, higher and higher, I peered down at the forest, at the island, at the sea. Far below the shape of the land revealed itself: oval, rising up to a range of green mountains in the middle. But what stunned me was the way the island faded into the sea at its edges – the water transparent in the shallows, then turquoise, shifting to dark blue where the ocean deepened. From my vantage point, the portion of land that was above water appeared tiny, its existence so fragile – how close the sea was, how far it spread, how easily it would re-consume dry ground. A sense of vertigo overwhelmed me, a feeling that had nothing to do with being in the air and looking down, but which was caused by the sudden comprehension of this tenuousness, the sense that liveable earth was just an afterthought, sheer chance – the island balanced so precariously in the great mass of that cold and ever-moving water.
We took a budget flight because it was all that was available at such short notice. It didn’t land at JFK but at some smaller airport upstate. While we were waiting for our luggage Ada’s phone pinged. That woman is amazing, she said, looking down and scrolling. The message was from Valerie. She’d booked our hotel and organised a driver. He should be waiting, she wrote, just outside the baggage collection. Sure enough there he was – I could see him past the barrier holding up a placard with my name on it. We followed him out and he swung our heavy bags into the boot while we slipped into the back seat. I fastened my seat belt and closed my eyes while Ada made small talk so that I didn’t need to, then she unwound the window a little so I could smell the grass and the farmlands. You just rest there, she said. I turned to stare out of the window.
I dozed and woke, and after we had been travelling for some time a series of signs appeared at the side of the road advertising a kiosk half a mile ahead. Ada asked the driver if we could pull in here and stop for a break.
The cab dropped us off at the front then went to park, the dust billowing behind it. A cool breeze blew. The place looked as if it hadn’t been touched since the 1950s, the building having been made of old weatherboard and corrugated iron. Hanging along the guttering was a long strip of bunting fashioned from small triangles of decorated vinyl or plastic, as if some bored housewife had cut up all her outdoor tablecloths and then gone on to make milkshakes. The bunting flickered in the wind, the sound of rain, the sound of applause, and we stepped under this and through the fly-screen door.
Ada ordered a coffee. I ordered a strawberry milkshake. I hadn’t had such a thing since I was a child, but the milkshakes, I could see, came in those large metal cups with striped paper straws – red and white, pink and blue. Patsy Cline was playing on the radio. We sat at the counter, a high bar with tall stools. Once perched there my feet didn’t reach the ground and I rested them, like bird claws on a branch, on the narrow metal railing that ran between the legs of the stool. I was going to send Joshua a message while we waited for our drinks, but as soon as I turned my phone on it started pinging with missed calls and new messages and I got distracted.
God, Ada said, you’re a wanted woman. She watched as I deleted most of these and only skimmed some. Everyone sent their condolences; each message was prefaced with shock and sorrow. But there was also work that couldn’t and wouldn’t wait. The last few months had been frantic for Patrick as he raced towards the deadline for a new film. Before we left, he’d signed over the final tasks to his editor, who now wanted to talk to me. Scenes needed to be reshot, and because we’d developed the early drafts together the script supervisor wanted my opinion on the suggested changes. Worse still, the film’s financiers were getting cold feet in the wake of the accident. And reporters kept on texting and leaving messages. These were not anonymous journalists calling me, but people with whom I’d had contact before and who therefore had my number; journalists who must have interviewed me at one time or another, whom I had spoken to over the phone. But now the less I said the more they hounded me. It was this that I really couldn’t stand.
Our drinks came. I sipped at my milkshake and kicked lightly at the metal wall behind the bar. Ada reached over and stroked my hand very gently. Years before, at a party, she’d flipped my hand over and read my palm: a long and happy life, full of glory. She tipped back the dregs of her coffee; I’m just going to freshen up, she said. And then, as an afterthought, watching me diligently work my way through the giant milkshake, said: Don’t go making yourself sick there.
When she came out of the bathroom we nodded to each other: yes, we were ready to go. The bell above the door tinkled as we left. Ada waved at the cab, which soon reversed, and we repositioned ourselves in the back seat. You should get some more shut-eye, she said. Shut-eye. A phrase I hadn’t heard in how long? My father’s second wife used to say this, my Joany. But something about the way Ada said it, the concern in her voice, made tears spring to my eyes. I brushed these away. I knew I had to keep it together. We had a tight schedule – the driver would drop us at the hotel and I would have maybe half an hour to get myself ready for the evening and hop back into another cab. We turned on to a long, empty freeway and Ada asked the driver if he could speed up a bit, explaining that we were pressed for time and actually, she realised now, we probably shouldn’t have stopped just then. I was shaking a little – I thought perhaps it was the drugs, one Valium before take-off, another once we were on the plane and a third halfway through the flight. They’re a pretty weak prescription, Ada had said, as I washed down that last pill with a cup of Shiraz. My throat felt tight. Saliva sprang up at the back of my mouth. Then it hit me. Oh God, I said. Oh God. Oh God. Stop the car – I said, leaning forwards, I think I’m going to be sick. Ada reached across and patted the driver on the shoulder, Pull over! Pull over! she cried. But he’d heard, all cab drivers must be highly attuned to those words. He skidded on the gravel at the roadside and I stumbled out into the dust. I was close to throwing up but not quite there, and in my dazed state I wondered about looking for a spot to vomit when really it didn’t matter where I vomited so long as it was not in the car, or on my person, or anyone else’s person. But, like an animal looking for a safe place to give birth or a quiet place to die, I moved this way and that, searching for something to lean against while my body spasmed. I stopped at a tree, crouched down with my hand against its trunk and spewed up a long stream of bright-pink milk. I was dimly conscious of Ada behind me, rubbing my shoulder, holding my hair back. There, there, she said. There, there, as a mother might. And when it was all over she passed me a tissue from her purse. You know, she said, laughing a little, as I sat down and leant my head back against the tree, You’re elegant even when you’re being violently sick. I flapped her comment away and closed my eyes. I’m so sorry, I said. I’m so, so sorry. You don’t need to do this. I’m sorry you had to see that. I started to cry.
