Chapter 2
Present Day
Adam was just 34 when he died. He could have lived longer, perhaps many years, but motor neurone disease was slowly affecting more and more of his body. When Naomi met him he was tall and confident, with short dark hair and a swimmer’s shoulders. At the end he was diminished, walking with crutches, he could barely speak, and he was struggling with his hands and arms. He had researched online websites giving advice on how to commit suicide, and had picked a day when Naomi was going to be out at work all day.
His funeral filled the local crematorium and most of the mourners came back to the house afterwards. Now they have mainly gone; just a couple have stayed to help Naomi clear up.
“I don’t want any food left over; Micky, could you and Rose take the rest with you? It’s all from our shop,” she smiles. “‘Guaranteed local and organic’. I’ll never eat it all.”
“If you like, that’s fine. Are there some plastic tubs somewhere we can use?”
She sorts out some containers, and goes back to check the other rooms and to accept goodbyes. Gradually the remaining guests leave, until at last only Owen is still here, bringing through glasses from the sitting room and stacking them in the dishwasher. Even in a dark suit he looks scruffy, hair unbrushed, three days’ stubble. He puts several large bouquets of flowers into the sink to be sorted out later. Naomi leaves him to the mess and walks through the house. There are the remains of the party everywhere, the crumbs of food, the wine spilt on a tablecloth. In the study, now Adam’s room, she stops and breathes in the smell of Adam, still in the air. On the wall Adam had put his favourite picture, a print of one of Hockney’s swimming pool pictures, a male swimmer diving into broken water. He moved in here when nighttime spasms in his legs had started to disturb her sleep, and he was struggling with the stairs. With her eyes closed the room is full of him, familiar after 5 years of marriage.
She hears Owen walk in behind her and he puts his arms around her, kissing her hair. She feels a moment of guilt, and then relaxes back against his chest; solid like a comfortable pair of waking boots.
“Thanks for coming.”
“Of course I came. I want to be with you. I’m not just the bakery guy I hope. Shall I stay?”
“Yes, stay. I need you here. It’s been grim.”
She looks round the room again and then heads out, closing the door quietly behind her. Her hand goes to her neck, and she turns to look behind her, as if unsure whether to go back. “I still haven’t found my necklace. I should have worn it for him.”
“It’ll be here somewhere, don’t worry.”
“But I should have worn it today.”
“He’s not here. He won’t know.”
She walks into the kitchen and puts on the kettle. Behind her a phone buzzes, and she checks the time on her watch without thinking. 6.50. Adam’s phone, sitting on its charger on a shelf, always buzzes at this time. He set it as a joke to remind him to watch the end of the local news and the weather forecast before being allowed to pour himself a glass of wine.
“You should turn it off,” says Owen. “Or at least unplug it, let the battery die.”
She picks up the phone softly, looks at it, and then returns it to its place. “No. It’s Adam’s phone. I like it there.”
“You need to sort out his things. You have said goodbye, you need to start moving on. We need to start moving on.”
She turns to him. “I can’t just get rid of him like that. I need time. It’s you I want to be with; but I didn’t want him to die. And not like that.”
“That’s OK. Take your time.” He pours hot water into two mugs. “And what was that with his sister earlier? It looked like she was having a go at you.”
“Bitch. She practically accused me of killing him. ‘Where was I when he needed me’. He didn’t need me. He wanted to control everything. He always did.” She pauses for a moment, and looks at Owen, and then away. To herself she says “where is he now that I need him?”