Page 62 of Statistically Speaking
Instead, I decide that I can at least stay. I can just sit, and have a drink of Baileys, and let myself be comforted by the sounds of their chatter and their silly TV shows and their simple presence. I am quiet, and none of them try to force anything more from me—they just let me be.
It is soothing, and it calms me more than I ever could have imagined—but I am also genuinely exhausted. At the end of the episode I stand up and tell them all I need to go to bed for a few days.
“Fair enough,” says Margie, getting to her feet. “You look knackered, hon. Group hug!”
Before I can dodge out of the way, all three of them descend, laughing as they force me to accept another round of cuddles. We form a kind of rugby pile, Bill jumping up and down at our sides, keen to join in on the silly human fun.
It is silly, and it is fun, and as I make my way up my fourteen stairs, I hope I can hold on to that.
I open the door to my flat and feel both comforted and repelled by the silence. By the emptiness. I am trapped between worlds and worried that I might end up squashed.
There are signs of change all around me—there is extra milk in the fridge, two chairs left outside on the balcony instead of one. Karim’s “second-best jacket” is hanging on the peg on the back of the door; a spare toothbrush he uses sits in the bathroom. I am evolving, one inanimate object at a time.
I am also, I think as I crash down onto the sofa, glad to have this time on my own. It occurs to me that everyone I care about is actually happy right now, without me. Karim is with his family. Mum is with Sam. Margie is with Erin and Katie, and I know that Erin is a good person who will stay in Margie’s life.
If I were to disappear now, Margie wouldn’t be alone—she’d have a replacement me to help her. I could move on without leaving her in the lurch.
My daughter has not been in touch, and I am responsible for nobody else. That brings a sense of guilty relief that I hate. I don’t want to be like this, but it feels like an uphill battle to be anything else right now. I can only hope this is a temporary relapse.
I pull off my clothes, climb into pajamas, and lie flat on my bed. I stare at the ceiling, wishing there was something there for me to count. Maybe I should put up some wallpaper with a geometric design that would keep me busy during my idle hours.
I am exhausted but cannot sleep. My eyes are heavy but my mind is circling, leaping from one thing to another, overwrought and wasted. I am alone. I am safe. I should be content now—it’s always worked for me before. Now it is different. I am in limbo—not quite able to fully engage with the world in the way normal people do, but also not quite satisfied to be solitary.
I put the pillow over my face, willing myself to switch off, dreading the night ahead, knowing that I will lie like this for hours and wondering what I can do to avoid it. Every time I close my eyes, they ping back open.
When the knock on the door comes, I groan. I know it will be Erin, or Katie, or both—they will want to check up on me before they leave. They will want to hug me again. They will want to be my friends, my people, my allies. All I want is oblivion and a few hours of peace.
I sit up, drag myself out of bed, and walk toward the door. When I open it, I do a slight double take when I see Karim standing outside.
He looks tired, his hair sticking out at weird angles, and he needs a shave. He is wearing a T-shirt that says “World’s No. 1 Uncle,” and he is holding a cardboard box full of popcorn.
He smiles at me, sheepish, as though he is embarrassed at being here. Unsure of his reception.
“You’re supposed to be in Birmingham,” I say, confused. “Are you a mirage?”
“Nope, one hundred percent real. I just came back. I came home. I came here. I had a brilliant day, but—well, I knew you like popcorn. And I knew you had a less brilliant day. And I knew that you’d be up here, on your own, trying to sleep and not being able to...”
He hands me the popcorn, and I accept it with uncertain hands. I am baffled and bewildered and wiped out. I need to be alone, but seeing him, with his stubble and his smile and his simple sense of kindness, is undoing me. I am flooded with gratitude, with need, with so many things. I am thrilled and I am terrified at the deluge.
“I also brought you this,” he adds, passing me one of those necklaces made of candy on an elasticated string. I’ve not seen one of those since I was a kid and they used to come in Lucky Bags.
“I thought you could either eat it, or count the sweeties, or whatever.”
He drapes it over my neck, and I touch the pink nubs, my fingers tracing their outlines as I do, in fact, automatically start to count them.
“Can I come in?” he says quietly, and I realize that I have been blocking the door, staring at him silently.
“Oh! Of course you can!” I reply, backing up, walking into the kitchen, putting the popcorn down on the table. Popcorn. He brought me popcorn. What a man. He follows me through, and he does not speak. He seems to understand my mood, and he simply takes my hand and leads me through to the bedroom. He pulls back the covers and we climb in, and he pulls me toward him, snuggling me in so my head is resting on his chest and his arms are wrapped around me. I reach up and run my fingers over his jaw.
“I like the stubble,” I murmur, and sense his smile. “I like you. All of you. Even if I’m rubbish at saying it.”
“I know,” he replies. “And I left ‘like’ behind a long time ago when it comes to you, Gemma. Hush now. We both need some rest. You can explore my stubble in the morning.”
I grin, and I close my eyes, and I pull away from my limbo.
This is better, I decide, than being alone. We are better together.
Chapter 26
