‘Maybe,’ I murmur absentmindedly and walk into the bedroom.
I made the bed earlier, the window is open. Fresh air mixes with the faint scent of laundry detergent. Looking for a shirt for tonight, I open the wardrobe.
Plain or with a cool print? Thoughtfully, I let my fingers glide over the shirts. Blue or green or maybe black after all?
Abruptly, I stop.
Somewhere behind this stack, it lies. The thing that is really just a piece of paper but at the same time so much more. Carefully I push the shirts aside; in the darkness of the wardrobe I can only make out the sheet, yet I can feel its presence.
What are you running from?
That’s what Nyla wanted to know. Then suddenly it was there, the memory, and with it the pain. Still, I’m here today. Torn, but not broken.
My breathing quickens, my pulse speeds up, yet I reach out my hand and feel for the paper.
There.
I feel it, it crackles softly.
Until yesterday I thought I was still the man I had been at Camee’s funeral. The one who broke his promise to her. The one who doesn’t know how to cope with her absence. But maybe I don’t have to be that man any longer.
Up to now I’ve been running away. From the pain. From the memory. From the grief.
What would happen if I stopped?
I should do it. Pull out this sheet, hold it up to the light and read what’s written on it. I should find out whether I can bear it, and catch a glimpse of what might come after.
A tomorrow that, as of yesterday, had still been impossible to imagine.
A life that outlasts the moment.
A future that is now taking shape before my mind’s eye.
The house – with a new façade instead of the cracked walls, colorful shutters instead of the tattered blinds, and a garden in the once-neglected backyard.
Nyla – with a contented smile on her lips, dancing in a summer dress, flowers in her hair. Her hands gently stroke the small curve of her belly.
Me – sitting hunched over a medical textbook at my desk, a picture of Camee in my line of sight. I can feel how proud it makes her to see me studying again.
None of this is real, I know that, and yet I lose myself in this vision and wish it could become real. That one day I could be a man who has more than just the now.
The paper in my hand is the key to that. I feel the rough surface, the sharp edges, the many creases I have added to the sheet since Camee’s death. Carefully I pull it forward, but before it can be caught in the cone of light from the lamp, I hear the apartment door being unlocked.
‘Hello?’ Nyla calls.
I let go of the paper, grab a T-shirt, and close the wardrobe door.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
NYLA
The kitchen is small but cozy. Warm light falls onto the countertop, and the smell of freshly sautéed vegetables surrounds me.
When I arrived here an hour ago, loaded down with shopping bags, I could barely string a sentence together, I was so excited. And that even though cooking dinner here with him, something I can eat without worry, is so much easier than sitting with him in a bar full of people.
It’s because of Jaden, because of the way he looks at me, because of what his presence does to me. Because of the way he’s studying me now with feigned seriousness.
‘Ready for the operation.’ He points at the avocado lying in front of him on the cutting board, then picks up the knife.