I sit on my bed in the apartment above the bar and stare at the crate that was delivered by courier on Thursday; it’s now Sunday morning. I’ve gotten as far as undoing the top and that is it. I’ve approached it a total of eleven times these last two days, but I still can’t bring myself to look at the contents. I know what is in there; I’ve known what is in there for years. The contents had moved with us from Sean’s loft in Docklands to the house in Hampstead, to the farmhouse, then to my parents when the farm was packed up and sold, and never at any time have I had the courage to look at anything inside. Sean had told me many times to look; he wanted me to read the letters, cards, poems and songs. He wanted me to watch the videos. He wanted me to understand what he was going through when we were apart, but I never felt the need to open up old wounds. Now, with him gone, I want to know everything I can, every thought, every feeling. I had the box crated up and flown over from England, containing not only the letters and videos from our four years apart, but also Sean’s diaries come notebooks that he kept with him constantly. They weren’t diaries as such; they were where Sean wrote down thoughts, feelings, phrases, anything he thought he might use as part of his song writing. There were dozens of them and they were all sitting in the large crate, staring me in the face right now.
Getting up, I make myself a coffee and bring it back into the bedroom with me. I sit on the floor and stare some more, sipping on my coffee.
“What shall I do, baby? Can you tell me? D’ya want me to read them?” I say aloud. I know I sound like a weirdo, but I know he can hear me; don’t ask me how or why, it’s impossible to explain, much like the love that we shared. I couldn’t put the reasons into words. I just knew.
I sip on my coffee, wait for some divine intervention and nearly throw the contents of my mug over myself when my phone rings, blasting out Sean’s voice as he sings “With You”.
“Morning, Jim.”
“Hey, G, how’s it going, babe?”
“Yeah, I’m doing okay. Just woke up and made a coffee. I have the whole day and night off.”
“Is that a good thing? Are you not better off keeping busy?”
“I will be busy; the crate arrived Thursday, and I’ve done nothing but sit and stare at it since.”
“Are you sure about this, G? You don’t think reading all that stuff is gonna set you back?” Jimmie had been the one to organise the shipping of the crate over, but she hadn’t been entirely convinced it was a good idea. I told her that now I was away from England, I felt stronger and more able to deal with the crate’s contents. It wasn’t entirely true and I don’t think she entirely believed me, but she sent it anyway.
“I think they will help me move on, Jim. I’m looking forward to reading his thoughts; it’ll be a new part of him, a part I’ve never had before.” My stomach churned just at the thought of reading Sean’s words, and I’m not sure if it is due to excitement, fear or the fact that I am lying to myself.
“How’s everyone there?” I ask, wanting to change the subject.
“Yeah, okay. I’m missing you. It’s freezing cold. The kids are getting hyper about Christmas and blah, blah, blah, same ol’ same ol’.” This isn’t like Jim at all; she is always an upbeat girl and she sounds a little off.
“You okay, Jim? You sound a little down.”
“Just tired. Len’s been busy working on some new project with Marley and away a fair bit, and the kids have just got so much on between school and concerts, football, dancing and every other bloody thing they do. I swear, the kids have a better social life than me; you know how it is.” I know she didn’t mean anything by what she said, but I instantly have a lump in my throat. I would love to know what all of that feels like. I would love to know how it is. I would love to be rushed off my feet looking after my husband, running around after my kids, but I don’t. There is still a possibility that I won’t, not ever.
“Oh, George, sorry. I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t mean…” I can hear the tremor in her voice and I hate that she feels she needs to apologise to me, of all people. Jim has always been one of the few people who have never tiptoed around me. She has always been straight-up and told me to get my shit together, so now, alarm bells are ringing.
“Jim, seriously, stop saying you’re sorry. What’s wrong? What aren’t you telling me, and why’d you ring in the first place?” She is quiet for a few seconds too many. “Jim?”
“I found a condom in his suit trousers pocket,” she sobs.