Lingering | From the Stovetop Issue #3
At first, I assume I’ve slept through my alarm. It’s the sort of tiredness that feels like you’re wading through molasses. Every movement is sluggish; your eyes drag open against their will only to slam shut again.
Then, Suze screams. My eyes fly open. I’m not beside her.
She’s sat up in the bed, clutching the arm of a man next to her. I rush forward. Who the hell is in bed with my wife? Suddenly, I recognise his face.
He’s curled up, peaceful.
Standing beside the bed, I can hardly see myself in him.
I look small. My face is drained of all its colour. The paunch of my chin has settled against the pillow.
Suze sobs as she desperately shakes the stone version of me. Her long red nails dig into his bicep a little. I can feel her grip against where I know my bicep to be, like a phantom limb. It makes my stomach dip.
‘What’s happening?’ I finally ask, but Suze doesn’t hear me.
She climbs back to her side of the bed and pulls out her phone.
‘No, no no,’ she keeps repeating to herself as she dials three numbers.
I squat down and survey my own face.
The crow’s feet are noticeable; Suze was right about that. Should have used the damn eye cream she kept going on about.
Am I dead? I don’t feel dead. I feel…lighter. Like a weight has lifted, of sorts. But not dead. Maybe it’s one of those out-of-body experiences you hear about. But instead of peyote or acid, maybe all I needed was KFC and a football match to reach this level of enlightenment. Then again, with that logic I would’ve been enlightened every weekend for the last forty-six years.
I try to ignore Suze’s conversation, but it’s impossible. She’s gulping, stuttering, shaking. I can hear the dispatcher trying to calm her down, to get the facts. So far, the facts are:
‘My husband won’t wake up.’
‘No, he doesn’t take drugs.’
‘I don’t know, I’m not a bloody doctor!’
There’s a gentle knock at the door. My gut twists. That dip in my stomach launches into a tidal wave.
Cara.
I leap toward the door, but pass right through it. She’s standing on the other side in her Bluey pyjamas. Her hair is sticking out in tufts. I want to scoop her up and take her back to bed.
‘Mummy?’ she reaches for the doorknob.
I try to pull her hand away, but I pass through her too.
Cara’s hand recoils from the doorknob. She looks around.
Could she feel me?
She holds her pudgy hand. Her little face scrunches as she thinks for a moment. Then, she begins to cry.
I’ve never been a great father, but I’m a hopeless one now.
Suze appears in the doorway. Her face is puffy, her eyes bloodshot.
She picks Cara up and rests her head on her shoulder before she can see.
‘What’s happened?’ Suze pulls the bedroom door closed and leads her to the living room.
‘My hand is so cold,’ Cara sobs.
I decide not to follow them. I don’t want to see Cara’s face when Suze breaks the news.
Over the next few hours, people come and go from the room. I lose track of how many. They’re paramedics, mostly. The police show up, but there’s not much to see as far as they’re concerned. Some bloke keeled over in bed, and his wife is in bits
‘About what you’d expect,’ one of them grumbles.
I can hear the shrill sounds of Suze’s mother, Sylvia, warbling from the kitchen. I stay in the bedroom.
It’s strange, hearing the way people talk about you when they think you’re gone. One of the paramedics calls me stocky. Never been called that before. It takes three of them to get my body on the gurney. Nobody comes in to say goodbye.
Then, the room is empty.
At first, I’m furious. How can I be dead? I eat well, mostly. Quit smoking years ago. Work’s been a bit stressful, but that’s what happens when you run a business, isn’t it? Everyone’s stressed. Anyone who isn’t is either rich or a child.
Then I start to think about Cara and Suze, and their lives without me. No more Christmases together, no more school runs, no more Test matches where the both of them look bored shitless.
I think of my Mum and Dad. How did I end up going first? All my life, I’ve been mentally preparing to say goodbye to them. Pointless.
The bedroom door creaks open. It’s Sylvia. Her beady eyes scan the room. A wrinkle of disdain crosses the bridge of her nose, leaving her face pinched. I’ve been mentally preparing to say goodbye to her too, for different reasons.
Cara closely follows behind her. She’s changed into some stripey leggings and a unicorn t-shirt. She’s clinging to her stuffed dog, Padso, that we won at the fair. Her movements are cautious.
Sylvia extends her hand toward Cara.
‘Come on then.’
Cara takes her hand and follows.
I don’t like this.
Sylvia perches herself at the foot of the bed. Cara remains standing. The sheets are still rumpled from where I—where my body was. Cara stares at it. For a moment, I consider crouching over there, just so I can feel like she is looking at me.
‘His spirit might still be here, Cara. Is there anything you’d like to say to him as he goes off to heaven?’
She gives Cara’s hand an encouraging squeeze.
My eyes roll so hard into the back of my head that the sockets ache.
My daughter looks to her grandmother, then back to the empty bed. Her chin juts as her bottom lip quivers.
‘I’ll miss you forever, Daddy. I hope you get to meet that cricket player you liked.’
Her eyes water, but she doesn’t cry. Sylvia’s presence does that to people.
‘I miss you too, kiddo.’ She doesn’t hear me.
‘Well done,’ Sylvia whispers to Cara. She wipes a tear from her eye before it can fall.
An odd feeling whirls through me. A flourish of warmth that spreads through my chest. I blink.
In this moment, I am grateful for Sylvia.
’Are you going to say something too, Nanny?’ Cara wraps her arms around Padso and waits.
Sylvia straightens and looks at my pillow. Her eyes narrow.
‘You did your best, Jeremy. Your girls will miss you. Safe travels.’
My gratitude evaporates. Even in death I am an inconvenience to my mother-in-law.
The threshold squeaks. We all look to see Suze standing there.
’Come on, Cara, time to let Mummy say goodbye.’
‘Okay.’
Sylvia pats Suze on the arm as they pass. In that moment I realise she’s just a parent, looking out for her kid.
Suze shuts the door behind them and crosses the room to her side of the bed.
She climbs under the doona and rifles through her bedside drawer for something. When she finds it, she keeps it in her fist and pulls her knees up to her chest.
Suze pulls out a cigarette, tosses the packet of Winfield reds toward her feet and sparks the lighter.
I promised to quit smoking if she did, and I kept that promise, so why am I the one that’s dead?
After a couple of long drags, Suze glances to my side of the bed.
She exhales.
‘Fuck you for leaving.’
She takes another drag, looking out the window as she exhales this time.
‘I loved you, well, tried to. We made it work.’
Part of me knew this. Hearing her admit it, though, stings all the same.
‘What the fuck are we going to do now?’ Suze takes a decisive draw of her cigarette, right down to the filter.
‘I don’t know.’
She carries on discarding the cigarette butt, unaware that I am here.
From the kitchen, Sylvia shrieks, ‘Are you smoking?’
Time starts to move differently. People seem to keep up with it, floating along like it’s a current that I must swim against.
I don’t go to the funeral. Even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t. The names for the days of the week are starting to elude me. Instead, I’m marking time based on people or silence, light or dark.
If it’s silent and dark, I assume it is night. Silent and light, a weekday. People and dark, evening. People and light, weekend.
The conversations around me have become muffled. When I get up close its easier to hear, but part of me feels sick at the thought of it. The stomach dip feeling comes on a bit more often now. I wonder if I’ve caught a virus in death. That’d be my sort of luck.
Faces are becoming a problem too. Can’t remember my own anymore. I expect my name will slip away with the days of the week very soon.
Other people are easier, like Suze and Cara. Always Suze and Cara.
My best mate Ollie came round the other day. That was a nice surprise. He helped Suze sort through some boxes in our room and stayed for tea. A frozen casserole from…what’s her name? The scowling woman, always looked at me like I smelled.
The three of them laughed at how bland and beige it was. It was nice, seeing them laugh. When Suze put Cara to bed, Ollie helped with the dishes. Good man.
I didn’t stick around for long after that, mostly because they were talking about me and it felt strange to listen. Although I did notice as Ollie left he gave Suze a kiss. Or, at least I think that’s what I saw. Hard to say. Things get blurry, every so often. Maybe I’ve got glaucoma in death too.
I’m having the good dream again. My favourite one, with the girl with the warm voice.
The girl is laughing at the table. This time, it’s because of something the man has said. The man whose face I recognise, but can’t name anymore. And the girl, I know her too…Cara, that’s it. Her mum said it earlier when she asked her to set the table.
I don’t remember coming here. I won’t remember leaving. It comes and goes these days. These visions. The people are familiar, but distant. It feels as though I am watching an old film. I’ve seen all the actors in other things before, but the scene before me is new.
The girl at the table looks to the kitchen where her mother’s back is turned.
‘How much longer?’
‘One minute!’
Their voices echo. It’s rather nice, actually. There’s a lilt to their sounds.
The mother waddles into the room holding a pot. She sets it on the table between the bowl of tortilla chips and various toppings.
The man leans over and inspects it. The girl notices.
‘Ollie, haven’t you had enchilada soup before?’
The man quirks an eyebrow at the girl and shakes his head.
She beams and slides onto her knees, ‘It’s the BEST! Daddy’s favourite, wasn’t it Mum?’
The mother glances at the man named Ollie, who is looking back at her. She nods at her daughter.
The man rises and begins to serve the three of them. He motions for the mother to take a seat.
She sighs with relief when she does. Her belly sits between her and the table.
‘Cara, Ollie and I—sit on your bottom, please. Cara, Ollie and I want to ask you something.’
The girl slides onto her bottom and looks at her mother. The man puts down a bowl of soup in front of her. The steam billows.
‘We’d like to name the baby Jeremy, what do you think?’
The girl regards them both for a moment. The way her eyebrows knot together reminds me of a little boy who used to love cricket. No idea who he is or how I know him, though.
The girl begins to giggle and shakes her head, ‘That’s silly.’
Her mother and the man share a glance.
‘Is there another name you’d prefer?’ The man settles into his seat beside the girl and across from her mother.
The girl considers this for a moment. Then a bright smile spreads across her face.
‘I like Legolas.’
So do I, Cara. Perhaps that shall be my name.
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Originally shared on Substack.
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