She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, the contents of Em’s box of memories scattered around her.
She looked up at me and tears were rolling down her cheeks. Judging by the look of despair on her face, they weren’t the first, either. My heart plummeted.
“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her cheek quickly. “I just opened the wardrobe, and I found all this stuff of hers.”
I should’ve thought about that, but it all happened so fast. “Jesus. I’m sorry, too – I should’ve moved it.”
She started to pick up all the photos and put them back into the box on the floor in front of her. I knelt on the floor to help her, trying to ignore Em’s face staring back at me. And mine. And both of ours, together.
I placed a handful of photos into the box. “Are you okay?”
Seemed like a stupid question really, considering the amount of tears that had obviously been liberated.
She sighed, wiping her cheeks again, looking down at the handful of photos in her hand. “It’s just so real, suddenly. Looking at all these photos of the two of you together. I just… I hurt for you, for losing her, for everything you must’ve been through. And I hurt for her, too. For losing you.”
I had been right. I knew it with a certainty that made the room spin.
I reached over for her hand. “Who did you lose?”
She stared at me, her hand twitching in mine, as if she wasn’t sure whether to let go of me or not.
“I can tell you’ve lost someone,” I said gently. “I recognise the signs. You don’t talk about anyone, you lock it all way. I just want you to know that if you want to talk about it – about anything – you can. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
She didn’t answer me. That was all the proof I needed. If I was wrong, she’d have told me so. But she didn’t. She didn’t dispute it, she didn’t argue. She just nodded.
Then she withdrew her hand from mine and began collecting photos again, putting them back in the box. All I could do was offer to listen. I couldn’t make her talk, that was her mountain to climb. I just wanted her know that I was here, when she was ready. She was ready a lot sooner than I thought.
“I think I’m going crazy,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked up at me, fresh tears brimming in her eyes.
“What?”
She shook her head, as if she was afraid to say it again. I couldn’t just sit there and let her cry. She let me take her into my arms, and she grabbed fistfuls of my shirt, holding on tight. Then the sobbing started. Great, wracking sobs that shook her whole body.
I held her tight. I had no idea what was going on, no idea what to say that would help. I tried not to panic. I was there with her, she was safe. If that was all I could offer, then that would have to be enough for now.
We sat like that, locked together on the floor, for the longest time.
“What’s happening to me?” she finally whispered into my shirt.
I wish I knew.
“Come on,” I said gently, pulling away and getting to my feet. I reached down for her hand. “Let’s go into the living room.”
No good ever came from sitting on the floor, crying. Especially in that room. I knew that better than anyone.
We walked through to the living room and she sank down onto the couch. She made herself into a small, impenetrable fortress, pulling her knees up, wrapping her arms around them and bowing her head. It felt like she was shutting me out again, but I didn’t know if it was intentional or just a self-preservation thing.
Henry’s voice popped into my head from out of nowhere. Alcohol. She needed a short, sharp shock to her system to bring her round. Maybe then I could find out what the hell was going on.
I walked through into the kitchen and pulled two glasses out of the cupboard, along with a bottle of whisky. I poured a shot into each glass and immediately downed one myself, breathing through the burn as the whisky slid down my throat.
I took her glass back to the couch, hoping that one taste might bring her back to her senses. She had raised her head at least, but she was staring at nothing, her eyes red and swollen. When I sat down and laid a hand on her arm, I could feel her still trembling.
“Do you think you can drink this?”
She blinked, slowly, as if everything was too much of an effort. I stroked her hair and she closed her eyes, leaning into my hand.
“Come on,” I said gently. “Drink up. It might make you feel a bit better.”
She opened her eyes, and it took a few moments for them to find me. I could see the raw desperation shining out of her, begging me for help. It was so obvious, she might as well have screamed at me.
I handed her the glass and she took it. She took a small sip, screwing up her face and coughing violently.
“It’s whisky,” I said.
She handed it back to me, still coughing. Not knowing what else to do, I took it and set it down on the coffee table.
“What’s going on?” I asked carefully. “Talk to me, because I’m getting a really bad feeling here.”