Recovery
Once I’ve removed the froth of used tissues from the floor where I wept, downed a glass of water, washed my face and brushed my hair (Mum and I even managed to laugh at the latter), the three of us sit down to have dinner together. I’m ravenous, and devour two huge servings of spaghetti bolognese made with turkey mince — my parents haven’t allowed beef in the house since the Mad Cow hysteria of the mid-nineties.
“And now, some lovely fruitcake for dessert!” Dad announces, bearing it ceremoniously to the table. In what I take to be an effort to lighten the mood, he’s donned my paper crown.
“Hey — turkey and fruitcake, like Christmas,” I say.
“To make up for the one we missed with you,” says Mum, covering my hot, rough hand with her cool and moisturized one.
Symbolism
Back at the flat the next day, I bathe my face multiple times in warm water, hideous still from the crying jag. As I’m blotting them with the towel, my swollen eyes fall to the cup on the shelf above the sink, where my toothbrush and Luke’s stand at opposite sides, bristling stiffly away from each other.
“Too much,” I say to the universe.
Reality
“So. Johns Hopkins.”
Framed by the kitchen doorway, gaze downcast, Luke says, “What about it?”
“When were you going to tell me?”
He repositions himself so that he’s standing sideways, feet straddling the door. I watch him wind the doorknob tight, let go and recoil slightly as it shoots back.
“There wasn’t really any point.”
“If you want to break up, it might be worth just letting me know,” I say. “I mean, I’m getting the message pretty clearly as it is, but it’ll be over much quicker if you come out and say it.”
“Are you kidding?” he says with apparently authentic surprise. He actually sounds quite angry. “I don’t want to break up. Why? Do you?”
“No. I don’t.” I sit on my hands, so as not to bite my nails. “I assumed you wanted to. Why else would you keep something so big from me?”
“Because there’s nothing to tell.”
“What? They said you’d be there for six months — that doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“Who said that?”
“These terrible girls. Friends of Fiona’s who were at Polly’s dinner.”
“Yeah: Fiona’s going; I’m not.”
“Really?”
“You must have a pretty low opinion of me to think I’d just up and leave without telling you. And an even lower one of yourself.”
“Well…why aren’t you going?”
“Honestly? I didn’t think you were in the best place. To be left on your own.”
Puff-chested, I leap to protest. “That’s not really for you to—”
“Imagine if I’d been over in the States instead of here, getting those calls the other night. You throwing your guts up, sobbing down the phone, making absolutely no sense. Then Polly phoning in floods of tears, asking if she should get an ambulance, and how to put you in the recovery position. It was fucking scary, Claire.”
I quell the urge to defend myself. “Okay. Yeah. When you put it like that. I’m sorry: that was not how things were meant to go.” I straighten out my legs, line my feet up side by side. “I promise I’ll never…I promise I’ll try to never do that again. But you still should have told me.” He shrugs. “What even is this Johns Hopkins thing, anyway?”
He sighs and rubs his head briskly so his hair stands on end. “It was a six-month residency for junior doctors to work in the neurosurgery department there.”
“Luke! That sounds amazing!” A tense smile. “So what — you applied and they picked you?”
“It’s irrelevant. I’m not going.”
“Luke.”
“Yes, I applied, but didn’t think I’d ever get it—”
“But you did. You were offered a place.”
“Yeah, but—”
“You turned it down because you were worried about me?”
“Yes.”
“Without even thinking to tell me. Well,” I say, “we need to fix this.”
“What do you mean?”
“This isn’t how we work. You don’t get to make big decisions for both of us on your own. If you thought I was in such a bad way, you should have told me and we could have talked about it.”
“You’ve had enough to worry about. I didn’t want you to feel like you were holding me back.”
I laugh grimly. “How am I not? You’ve been so patient all this time while I’ve been stumbling around trying to sort out my life and career. Then an unmissable opportunity for yours comes along and you don’t take it because of me!”
“Yeah, well. I guess I love you.”
“I can’t believe you would do that for me. I can’t believe you care about me so much.” I thought I was all cried out, but feel perilously close to a fresh deluge.
“Claire, you’d do the same for me.” This pure, simple faith — in me, and my love — is like a steadying hand and somehow I regain control.
“You’re amazing. I know how much you must have wanted to take it, and how worried you must have been about me that you didn’t, and honestly I can’t really find the words to say how touched I am that you would make that sacrifice. But, Luke,” I continue, as gently as I can, “please tell me: how exactly does turning down an opportunity like this really help anyone?”
“Well, look, it’s done now. I’m sorry if you think I made a mistake, but I’ve already told them I’m not going, so we don’t need to have this conversation anymore.”
“No.”
He flinches: I know I’m speaking too loudly.
My voice is creaking with resolve. “You’re going to call them and tell them you are.”
“Claire.” Now he’s getting really annoyed: his hands have petrified into claws. “I can’t. I already…It’s unprofessional. They’ll think…It’s too late now to just turn around and say I’ve changed my mind.”
“I bet it isn’t.”
“Claire! Seriously.”
“Okay! Okay.” Sensing his limit, I relent for the moment, palms out in surrender, sitting back in my chair.
He continues, calmer now that he thinks he’s won the battle. “It’s fine. Which is more than I can say for you. Don’t take this the wrong way, but, God, you look absolutely awful.”
I nod fervently. “Thank you for not thinking this is how I look normally.” I touch my cheek. “I cried so much yesterday I think I cured myself.”
“Of…your hangover?”
“No: cured like pork, from all the salt tears.”
“Ooh, I’m hungry,” says Luke, clutching his stomach. “Is it dinnertime yet?”
Old habits
In the Co-op, we discuss what to eat, huddled in the chill of the refrigerator aisle.
“It’s your special night,” I say. “Anything you want.”
Luke says, “I can’t decide. You choose.”
I reach for a pack of salmon fillets.
“Or pizza?” he says.
—
We each head off to gather various things and arrange to reconvene by Oils & Vinegars. When I get there, he’s stooping, hands on knees as he surveys the bottom shelf: scruffy sneakers, the soft cardigan that used to be his dad’s hanging slightly too big on his frame. Little boy, old man, Luke through the ages. I set down the basket, and thread my arms around his waist.