The pain in my head is raging. Erik says that if I start to feel sick, we should go to the hospital, because it could mean a concussion. Just the thought of ending up there again is almost enough to turn my stomach.
Erik convinces me to take two aspirin and let him put the cold pack against my forehead. If I’d been even slightly in the mood for joking around, I would have suggested he use the pack of shrimp instead so it’s good for something at least. But I can barely get a word to cross my lips. Again and again, I catch myself taking his hand and holding it tightly. Because, at this moment, there is nothing I’m more afraid of than being by myself.
Perhaps Erik senses that it’s this fear, above all, which is bringing me closer to him; in any case, he doesn’t look pleased by my sudden trust. He takes care of me, changing the cold packs at regular intervals, squeezing my hand dutifully, but his thoughts are clearly somewhere else.
After just half an hour, I’m feeling better, at least enough to get up and go to the bedroom.
He helps me to get undressed, pulls the covers over me, then drags a chair over to the bed and sits down next to me. As if he were a father and I his child.
“I wanted to tell you again that I’m sorry about how I behaved earlier,” he says. “It was wrong to shout at you like that, and even more so to be rough with you. It was just … too much, all of a sudden. I know that’s no excuse, but…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He just stares at the floor.
I would nod, if it didn’t hurt so much. “OK,” I say instead.
“Then good night.” He moves to stand up, but I’ve reached out for his hand again. “No. Please.”
Now the expression on his face is one of disbelief. “You want me to sleep here?”
Yes. No. What I don’t want is to sleep alone; I don’t want my subconscious to completely take control and provoke me into jumping out of the window or doing something just as crazy.
“I want you to stay with me,” I whisper.
He looks at me for a long while. Gently touches the lump on my right temple. “You know how much I’d like to do that. But all this back and forth has to stop, Jo, it just hurts too much. I’m telling you, honestly, I’m at my wits’ end here.”
“OK.” I try to smile at him. “There’s a blanket, over there in the trunk and…”
“I know where our things are,” he interrupts me. “But thanks.”
Five minutes later, he’s lying next to me. Enough of a distance away not to be able to touch me, not even by accident. But on one occasion during the night, when I wake up for a moment, I feel his arm around my waist, hear his calm breathing behind me, and hope for a few seconds that I might be able to retrieve some memory of him after all. But there’s nothing. Nothing at all.
* * *
The next day I feel better, in every sense. The pain has subsided, along with the fear of losing control over my actions again.
As soon as he notices I’m awake, Erik gets up. “I’ll make us some breakfast.” He goes into the bathroom, and a few moments later I hear the shower being turned on. My stomach cramps up, but I remind myself that the scarves are gone now, the boiler is fine.
Ten minutes later, as I hear Erik go down the stairs, I get out of bed.
The sight of my face in the bathroom mirror is a shock. The swelling has gone down considerably, sure, but the right side of my face is bruised purple, from my forehead to the top of the cheekbone. The slightest of touches makes me wince. The fine jets of water shooting out of the shower head feel like pinpricks.
Should I put makeup on to cover up the bruises? I decide against it. Not unless I have to go out, be among people who might ask questions I can’t answer. I fell down the stairs. The classic response of abused wives.
But I will brush my hair so it covers part of my face, so Erik doesn’t constantly have to be reminded of my insane behavior every time he looks at me.
The scent of coffee drifts up toward me from downstairs, and I realize that I’m really hungry. A good feeling. A normal feeling.
“Sit down,” says Erik, pointing the spatula toward the already set table. “I’m making ham and eggs. Would you like some orange juice?”
My favorite mug, the foamed milk almost spilling over the edge. Ham, a little plate of cheese—everything the way I like it. Is it possible that he does know me after all?
He has barely set the plates on the table when the doorbell rings. My heartbeat quickens at once. Damn, is every noise going to throw me off like this?
“Maybe it’s the mailman,” says Erik with a sigh. “But whoever it is, I’ll get rid of them. Dig in, otherwise it’ll get cold.”
I nod, lifting the first forkful to my mouth, but let it sink again as soon as Erik leaves the kitchen.
What if it’s that psychologist again?
“Good morning!” A woman’s voice. “Yes I know, this is a bit of a surprise, but I thought I’d check on you both. I’ve brought rolls. And croissants!”
A few seconds pass before Erik says something. “Listen, I thought I’d made myself clear.”
“You did. You guys aren’t doing too well, that was quite clear. And that’s why…”
The sound of heels clicking on the floorboards. “Hey, that smells delicious.”
She is already standing in the kitchen doorway. Dark curls, short skirt, high heels and an almost aggressive cheerfulness. She gives me a beaming smile, teeters over to me, and stretches out her hand. “You must be Joanna, right? I say we go straight to first-name terms. After all, you guys in Australia are quite informal, aren’t you? It’s lovely to finally meet you!”
I let her shake my hand, completely overwhelmed in the face of so much energy. I notice how her gaze hovers over the right side of my face and then, as if I’d caught her in the act, glides away again.
Erik appears behind her, with the rolls she brought in his hand. “Jo, this is Nadine.”
He says her name like it should mean something to me, until my expression makes it clear to him that it doesn’t. “She’s a colleague. And—”
“We used to be an item,” Nadine interrupts. “But I’m sure you know that.” She turns to look at Erik over her shoulder. “Would you be a darling and make me a coffee too? That would be great, thank you.”
Just one glance at Erik’s face is enough to tell me that he wants to end this visit as soon as possible, but without the same means he used with Bartsch yesterday.
“Milk?” He asks. “Sugar?”
Her smile widens. “Come on, you know exactly how I like it.”
It sounds like she means something completely different. If my problems weren’t overshadowing everything else, including my vanity, then I’d be wondering about the contrast between Nadine and myself, in terms of our appearances. She’s obviously made an effort; her makeup is perfect, her blouse and skirt fit her so well it looked like she’d been poured into them.
Quite a lot of effort just to bring some breakfast to a good friend on a Saturday morning.