Why was he so sad?
“I wanted to see you. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“It is.” I could hear him walking around. “I’m on my way. I’ll be on foot, though, I’ve been drinking.”
“You don’t have to. I can make it to yours before the light goes.”
“Look up through the trees.”
I looked up through the trees, to the portion of his studio jutting out from the foliage in the distance, and the light twinkled, on and off, on and off.
“You’ll blow a bulb if you keep doing that.”
He laughed. “Keep walking,” he said. “Straight ahead, over the shallows of the brook, and up. You’ll see the points of the fences I cross. I’ll meet you halfway.”
The thought thrilled me.
The fields were steep on the approach, and the fences were awkward and made me feel a fool as I scrambled over them. It was cold, too. My breath was frosty and my hair was crisp from the winter chill and the light drew in quicker than I expected.
And then there was a twinkle in the distance. A twinkle that was moving.
The relief flooded me, and my heart jumped in recognition of its missing piece. My legs found reserves of enthusiasm and my lungs felt bigger and stronger, and I pushed on, faster and faster, until Mark’s outline was visible and his torchlight found me.
And I ran.
I don’t even know how I had the energy left, but I ran.
His arms were waiting and they ate me up, and his breath felt so right against my cheek and his lips felt so right as they pressed to mine. My heart found its home again, and it soared, but then it fell. It fell as I felt Mark’s sadness.
I could see it in his eyes, even in twilight. I could feel it in the air around him, in the strain in his breath, which smelled of scotch.
“What?” I said, “Is something wrong?”
He didn’t speak, just took the bag from my grip and hitched it over his shoulder, and reached for my hand. His fingers squeezed so tightly, but he wouldn’t look at me, just kept walking, staring into the distance as we climbed the field to his.
“Mark?”
“We’ll be home soon. Don’t worry.”
I pulled back until he was forced to turn to me. “What is it?”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.” He tugged at me. “Let’s get home, Helen. It’s cold and dark, and your legs must be like jelly.”
“Not just from the walk,” I said, and trudged along.
He tried harder with conversation, spouting off a load of questions about my day and my presents and how good my turkey was, but my heart wasn’t in any of them. My mind fluttered and whizzed, panic dashing through all the things I may have done, or may not have done, or may not have been. Shit.
“Did I do something?”
The question made him stop dead. “God, no. Helen, of course not. I just… I didn’t expect to see you…”
“I can go,” I said. “I didn’t mean to… I thought you’d be…”
“Happy?” he said, and he pulled me into him. “I am happy. I’m very happy.”
“Then why are you so sad?”
“You’ll see,” he sighed.
***
Mark’s house had boxes everywhere. Some were full and taped up tight, some were half-empty and surrounded by things – all kinds of things, trinkets and photos and old films, and books, and an old sewing machine.
I looked up at the mantelpiece and realisation dawned. Anna’s picture had gone.
“Why?” I said. “You didn’t have to…”
He picked up the sculpture of us and placed it in the empty spot, and it choked me up to see it there. Me and him, in her place. So beautiful and so sad, all at the same time.
I felt tears, in my throat, just waiting. “Mark, you don’t have to do this… not for me…”
“It’s for me,” he said. “I just… I didn’t expect company. I didn’t want you to have to see this, Helen.”
“See what?”
“Me,” he sighed. “Like this.”
“But I want to,” I said. “I want to see you like everything, no matter what that everything is.”
“You shouldn’t have to.” He dropped to his knees, packed more photos into the box beside him. “This isn’t something you need to deal with.”
“Mark, please,” I said. I joined him on the floor, shuffled over until my hands were on his. “Don’t shut me out. I’m right here. I want to be right here.”
I looked around, picked up an old snow globe. It had hearts in it, hearts and snow and scrawly font on the bottom. My Darling Wife.
He took it from me and shook it, holding it up to the light as the hearts swirled. “I gave her this at the beach, one rainy Christmas when we were first together. She liked silly novelty toys, and desk ornaments, silly random things that I never saw the pleasure in. But I did see the glint in her eye when she spotted this amongst the tat in one of those cruddy souvenir stores.” His eyes were wistful, and he laughed and the sadness in it hurt my heart. “ She wasn’t even my wife then. You’d think I’d bought her the earth the way she reacted.”