Page 42 of Statistically Speaking
I have more than I had this time last year, I remind myself. I have Margie and Bill. I have Katie and Erin. I have the man who is lying in my bed. I have more than I had—but right now, at this exact moment, it feels like nothing at all. It feels empty and hollow and sour.
I hear the door open behind me, feel a warm hand on my shoulder. I do not look round. I don’t want him to see that I am crying. I don’t want him to see me like this at all.
Karim doesn’t go along with that plan and crouches down in front of me. He is only wearing boxers, and must be freezing out here in the damp, not-quite-awake air.
He puts his hands on my knees and looks up at me. I bite my lip, and swipe away those stupid tears, and meet his eyes.
“Anything?” he asks. There is no need to explain. He knows exactly what I am doing out here. We have not discussed it, but of course he knows. He insisted on staying over last night,even though he has to take the school’s football team on an away match to Manchester later.
I shake my head and close my eyes. I don’t want to see his sympathy. It might break me.
“Well, it’s still early,” he says gently. “Not everyone gets up before six, especially teenagers. Come back to bed.”
I let him lead me back inside, and I clamber under the sheets with him, and he wraps me in his arms and kisses the top of my head as I cry.
“You’re right. It’s too early, isn’t it?” I say eventually. I don’t know if I mean it’s too early in the morning, or too early for her to come anywhere close to forgiving me.
“It is too early,” he agrees. “Everything could change. For now, just stay here, nice and warm with me. Lie here and see if you can get some more sleep.”
“I don’t think I can,” I reply, letting my head rest on his chest, feeling his hands stroke my hair.
“Just try,” he murmurs softly. “Just breathe, and keep your eyes closed, and try.”
Some kind of small miracle occurs, and I actually do fall back to sleep. This time, it is deep and solid and devoid of dreams. I don’t know whether it is because of Karim’s comforting presence, or because my own mind understands that it really must rest.
I sleep, and I sleep, and I sleep. When I finally come to, it is a gradual and gloriously gentle thing—a slow stretch of arms and legs, a fluttering open of eyelids, a luxurious emergence into consciousness.
I know, of course, that this is where the problems usually start, so before I even pull the covers back I tell myself that I have had my indulgence for the day. That I will not spendevery waking moment checking my phone. That I will not cry, or mope, or sacrifice myself on the altar of self-pity.
I will be my own mother and set my own boundaries. I will allow myself to check my phone once more today. No, I decide—that’s not realistic. I have to be realistic. Five times, I think, sounds more like it. Five more times before midnight, I will let myself hope, in the full knowledge that hope can be crushed as completely by nothing as by something.
Karim is gone, a note left again on my pillow. It is a scrawled doodle of a love heart. Nothing more, nothing less, but enough to make me smile.
I take my time getting up and potter around the flat, tidying and cleaning things that are already clean. I have slept through the whole morning and some of the afternoon, and by the time I emerge into the world it is almost 2:00 p.m.
I do some grading and prep for a meeting on Monday, and I read about a job that the recruitment agency has sent me. Head of History for sixteen-to-eighteen education at a school sixth form in Norwich. It is a good job, the logical next step for me—but it is in Norwich, and my life is here.
Even thinking that scares me. I reply to register my interest, agreeing that they can pass on my details. There is no harm in finding out more, I think, in keeping my options open. If nothing else, it will be something tangible to think about—I will not move. I will not run. But it might give me a little boost if they want me, a small win in what might be a short term that is not littered with wins.
I check in with Margie, agree to her invitation to have dinner with her later, and take Bill with me to walk round to Erin and Katie’s house. The rain has settled into a gray drizzle that coats my hair and seeps through my jacket, and the people Isee are hunched and hurried, keen to get back inside their cars and their homes.
I smile as I reach their house. The whole of the outside has been decorated with balloons, birthday-girl banners, and a giant cardboard cutout of Katie herself, with “18 Today!” emblazoned across it.
I can hear music blasting inside, and all the lights are on to fight off the seeping dimness of the day.
I take the now slightly soggy envelope from my pocket and quietly slip it through the door. I know I could knock. I know they would welcome us inside, feed me cake, allow me to share in their celebrations.
But I also know that it would be wrong. I don’t want to intrude on their happiness, or to suck them into my own turmoil on a day that should be all about Katie.
They both know what this day means to me as well, and they are both too damn lovely not to try to make me feel better.
I hear the card gently thud onto the mat in the hallway, and I turn away quickly before I can change my mind. Before I am lured in by the soft light and the laughter and the promise of the kind of familial warmth I have always longed for.
I walk with Bill for another hour, in and around the dunes, along the beach, to the coast guard station and back. I would have been content to carry on, but Bill is a dog with his own strong opinions, and when he simply started walking back toward home I had no choice but to follow. Margie opens her terrace doors and he slinks off inside, shaking rain from his shaggy fur and making her yelp as she gets splattered.
I give her a wave and go back upstairs, where I fill in more time with a long bath, with a book I’m too distracted to concentrate on, with a random episode of Ru Paul’sDrag Race,with cooking. I make a huge pan of spaghetti Bolognese to go with the garlic bread and tiramisu that Margie has promised. I suspect there will be alcohol as well, and I also suspect that she has been very deliberate in this dinner plan.
She, like Karim, knows that today will be difficult for me, and she is providing me with respite care for my worn mind.
