Page 29 of The Love of My Afterlife
I screw my face up because all memories of what I said last night and to whom have already squirrelled themselves away into the corners of my brain. And how does Aled even have my number? I puzzle for a moment before remembering I had to input it into the form to get my library card. Rolling my eyes, I shove my phone back into my shorts pocket and head next door.
Mr. Yoon is tucked in at his kitchen table, beavering away at the crossword. The bright sun lights up his coarse grey hair, making it look silver. The fresh ashtray I laid out earlier is already three cigarettes deep.
I think of the morning after I got a birthday card from Mr. Yoon. Despite my best efforts, I hadn’t managed to eat the entire cake myself, so I took a slice over to his house to say thank you. He cut the cake slice into two, sharing half with me, and we sat at his kitchen table, not saying a word but somehow knowing that what was happening was needed by the both of us.
“Morning,” I trill, opening the fridge to get some milk. It’s almost bare. Mr. Yoon is usually good at keeping himself well stocked with groceries. But it seems like he’s completely forgotten to make his order. I catch sight of the red circular emergency button he had installed on his kitchen wall a few years ago. It’s from a company called London Home Team. If he’s ever in any trouble or becomes unwell, he can press the red button and someone will turn up to help him. I don’t know if it’s a private or council service, but either way I make a note to call the number on the laminated card beside the button. Maybe they offer grocery shopping services? Or perhaps someone could come in and help Mr. Yoon in general? If all of this goes tits up and I’m gone, then things should be set up so that he’s got the help he’s clearly starting to need.
After we’ve finished the avocado on toast I made us, I go to his cupboard and pull out the framed photo I saw earlier. I want to let Mr. Yoon know that I think it’s super cool that he played the violin so brilliantly that he won an award for it.
“This is awesome,” I say as I place the frame on the table in front of him. “I love the sound of the violin. I can’t believe you won a prize. And look at the size of that stage! You must have been epic.”
Mr. Yoon stares at the photograph for a moment, and then his face crumples, first into sadness and then a sort ofwide-eyed anger. He opens his mouth a few times, but of course nothing comes out. I’ve clearly done something very wrong, because while I might catch a huff or a scowl from Mr. Yoon, he’s never been openly annoyed at me. I move to grab the frame and take it back to the cupboard, but before I can, Mr. Yoon swipes it off the table with an energy that contradicts his age. The photograph crashes onto the wooden floor, the glass shattering.
“I’m so sorry!” I stutter, not quite sure what I’ve done to provoke this reaction. “I’ll clean this up.”
Mr. Yoon shakes his head furiously, his lips pressed in on themselves. With a shaking hand he points to his door, then at me, and then back towards his door.
“You…you want me to leave?”
He nods three times, his mouth downturned like a child’s picture of a sad face.
“But…Who will clean the…You might step on the glass and…”
I don’t get a chance to finish because Mr. Yoon stamps his foot and points again at the door, his face red with upset.
I hold my hands up. “Okay, okay, I’m going. Just sit down and breathe. I’m going, jeez!” I back away until I’m out of his apartment, and dive straight into mine. My own hands shake with the shock of Mr. Yoon’s anger.
I walk slowly over to my sofa and perch on the end of it.
And then I do something I’ve not done in a very long time.
I cry.
It takes about twenty whole minutes for me to get a hold of myself. Jeez. I wipe my eyes and take a deep shaky breath. It’sfine. Everything isfine. That was just an outburst. Mr. Yoon is pissed off at me, maybe for being nosy, maybe because I never really explicitly asked him if it was okay for me to go there every morning to make his breakfast and snoop around and interfere.
I shuffle into the bathroom to get some toilet paper on which to blow my nose, only to find that Merritt is sitting on the edge of my bath staring at herself in the mirror and smiling. It’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“For fuck’s sake!” I yell.
Merritt pivots to face me.
“We don’t have proper mirrors at Evermore,” she says, smoothing down her T-shirt, which is emblazoned with the sloganRespect Romantic Fiction!“Some people lose their reflections when they arrive, and mirrors would create massive jealousy amongst the Deads, which of course we don’t want. But God, it’s nice to see myself again. I had forgotten how enchanting my eyes were. Whoa. Look at them—look at my beautiful eyes!”
She widens her eyes, glances down for a moment and then looks back up at me from beneath her lashes.
“What are you doing here?” I shake my head, reaching around her to grab the toilet paper and blow my nose.
Merritt takes my arm and drags me out into the living room. She looks around shiftily and lowers her voice.
“The thing is…we have heat on us, baby girl.”
“Excuse me?”
“Heat. On us. I have to lay low on the texting for a little while. That son of a bitch Eric saw me checking my phone and asked me why I was on it so much. I lied and told him I was playingTetris. But I was never a good liar, my heart is too purefor it. Anyway he got altogether suspicious, started asking a bunch of questions. I’ll try to communicate when I can but—”
“I don’t understand. Why is you contacting me even a problem?”
Merritt bites her lip and starts to fiddle with the neckline of her T-shirt. “You know when we first met and I said I wouldneverbreak the rules of Evermore? Yeah, that was a teeny tiny fib. Sending you back here for ten days…it wasn’t exactly, you know…sanctioned.”
