After his next consultation, he stopped by my desk.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Dr Vermeulen’s daughter is coming in for an hour, so we can take a long lunch and she’ll man the desk. And Okkie’s bringing a picnic we can take to Mike.’
I don’t know how he organised all that and saw a patient in the space of one consultation, but it was too late for me to voice any objections. I’d never done anything like this before, so I had no idea what Mike would think. But, I reasoned, maybe it would startle him out of his coma. Maybe this was the kind of thing that I’d missed. Mike was a social guy when he was awake, so why would that have changed? And suddenly I remembered how much Mike loved surprising me with picnics. It was his thing. I haven’t thought about it for years. It seemed so obvious suddenly, so I smiled warmly at Ewan. ‘That’ll be great,’ I said.
And it was great. Mike didn’t wake up, but Ewan and Okkie are so easy and fun that I relaxed. And then Julia arrived and I felt almost like part of a normal family, introducing people, and when Edward popped in it was complete. A really good afternoon.
But it’s left me feeling flat and doubtful. Suddenly all the choices I’ve made all these years, the careful way Julia and I have lived to avoid pain, seem hollow.
I should have found a way to keep Mike at home with us.
I should have had a busy, happy life going on around Mike, with guests and Julia’s friends. My friends.
I should have pulled myself together, and held the grief further apart. I should have had therapy.
I tell myself that I did the best that I could, that my grief was too heavy, that I was too broken from those hours in the car. I did my best. And as I listen to my inner voice, I realise something. I’m thinking about my grief and my pain – my whole identity – in the past tense.
And once I realise that, I don’t know what to think.
Claire
I was intending to carry on with my day through the hangover. I have a meeting with a client and I need to plan a Twitter schedule and also bake some scones for the PTA meeting this evening. But when I get into my car, I can’t face any of it.
I cancel the meeting, let the PTA know that neither I nor my scones will be able to make it tonight, and I head home, intending to sleep.
I actually change back into my pyjamas – I don’t like sleeping in clothes and I really like my pretty pyjamas – and I climb into bed. But then I can’t sleep because my brain is all over the place: last night, Daniel, Janice and Tiffany, work. Mackenzie, always Mackenzie. And then my phone beeps and I’m almost grateful I have a legitimate reason not to sleep.
It’s a message from Laurel, and I open it expecting a standard ‘Thank you, had a nice time’ sort of message. But instead it says, Received a Facebook friend request from every single one of your sheeple. What to do?
I laugh. Accept them, I type back. They’re nice if you give them a chance.
She’s typing an answer before I can even think about putting down the phone. Will I have to wear the uniform? she asks.
Oh, definitely. We do inspections every Thursday. Hey, did we get run over by a truck last night? I type. I feel terrible.
Laurel takes a few minutes to respond and I wonder if I’ve somehow said the wrong thing. But then her message comes.
Sorry. Had to vomit. You were saying . . .
I laugh out loud, and send a crying-laughing emoji. As I’m waiting for her to type, another message comes through on a number I don’t know: Hi Claire. Rob here. From last night. Want to go out some time?
I quickly message Laurel: Which one was Rob?
Why?
He wants to go out some time.
He was the really hot one.
I turn to my photos of last night. The guys look equally hot.
Can’t tell which is hotter, I type. Then I pause. Why does it even matter – it’s not like I’m going to go out with anyone. Just realised it doesn’t matter, I message Laurel.
That’s the spirit, she answers. Go out with either! She follows that with a whole lot of eating, drinking, dancing emojis.
As if, I type.
I’m about to respond to this Rob person when my phone rings. It’s Daniel. But there’s no point putting it off.
‘You seemed to be having a fun time after I saw you,’ he says before even saying hello.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘Facebook,’ he says. Christ, is everyone in the world glued to Facebook twenty-four seven, waiting for Claire Marshall to post something?
‘Can I help you, Daniel?’
‘No need to be grumpy.’
‘I’m not grumpy. I’m tired. You know, from having a rare bit of fun last night.’
‘Who’re the guys?’ asks Daniel. I can hear that he’s keeping his voice carefully neutral.
‘Just some guys,’ I answer. ‘Did you phone me for a reason or just to interrogate me?’
‘Just showing some interest,’ he says.
‘Well, don’t,’ I say.
‘Okay, well, I wanted to know if you could keep Mackenzie this weekend. Julia’s really frazzled and having Mackenzie around is very tiring for her.’
I pause. ‘I’d love to help out your pregnant, back-stabbing mistress, Daniel,’ I say. ‘But I’ve got a date with one of those guys from last night. So you’ll just have to take care of your daughter.’
‘Which guy?’
‘The hot one.’
‘Oh,’ he says, and I’m tempted to ask him if he knows which one that is. ‘Which night?’
I improvise. ‘We haven’t decided. Both,
