Page 118 of 56 Days
He climbs onto the bed, folds himself in under the blanket, imagining that it’s her arms he can feel, holding him tight, keeping him safe, and dreams of a cold river and a young boy’s eyes looking up at him, asking the same question over and over.
Why are you doing thisto me?
Now, as then, Oliver doesn’t know.
At some point on Saturday he forces himself out of bed and wanders into the kitchen to get something to eat, not because he’s hungry but because he can’t stand to listen to the incessant gurgling of his stomach juices anymore. He finds an open box of breakfast cereal and starts eating it dry and by the fistful, standing up. As each blast of sugar hits his bloodstream, more and more of his surroundings emerge from the fog of exhaustion and take on a solid shape.
The curtains are closed, even though it’s the middle of the afternoon. The kitchen is littered withhalf-drunkglasses of water, the remnants of an uneaten lunch from—Wednesday? Has that been sitting there sinceWednesday?—and the air is stale and smells odd, like sour milk. He should clean up, but his limbs feel heavy. All he wants to do is go back to bed.
Well, what hereallywants to do is talk to Ciara, but that’s not an option.
Unless he can persuade her to come back, to listen to him just for a few minutes. To let him explain himself now that the shock may have subsided somewhat. Of course she reacted that way, he wouldn’t have expected anything else. But maybe now, with a few days’ distance, with the revelation having had a bit of time to lose its electrified edges...
His phone. Where is it?
He pushes aside the kitchen countertop’s detritus, searching, until he finds it under agovernment-issuedCOVID-19advice booklet, dark and dead. Another search eventually turns up the charger; he goes back into the bedroom and plugs it in next to the bed.
What is he supposed to say to her? What words could possibly convince her to come back and speak to him?
At thebuzz-buzzsound that signals the phone is charged enough to have powered itself back on, he picks it up and starts typing Ciara a text message. It goes through several drafts and deletions, but eventually he settles on:
I know it’s over but I don’t want it to end this way. Can we talk? We can meet somewhere public if you prefer.
He waits for the notification that it’s been delivered, but it doesn’t come.
One minute passes.
Two.
Has she blocked him, he wonders, or is her phone just turned off? He chances calling her and gets his answer: it goes straight to voicemail.
He doesn’t leave a message. Instead, he rolls over, burrows beneath the blankets, and closes his eyes, desperate for sleep to come and save him from the torture of his own thoughts, the reality of this situation, what it might mean for his future, his regrets.
Eventually he dozes.
It gets dark again.
A ringing sound, aggressive and electronic and out of place.
Oliver jerks awake, sits up in the dark and thinks,My phone. But it’s not his phone, it’s the buzzer, pulsing out of the intercom in the hall.
Someone is here.
He’s confused by the light. What time is it? Whatday? He feels groggy and disoriented, yanked out of one time and dumped in another.
Would Kenneth have come over? He doubts it. Which means that really, it could only be—
Oliver jumps out of bed but his body isn’t ready for it, and he stumbles and falls hard against the wardrobe door, sending a shooting pain emanating out from his left elbow in all directions.
The buzzer goes again.
He scrambles to his feet, hurries out into the hall.
It’s her.
He can see her on the little square video display.
“Ciara,” he says, pressing the Open button, not caring that her name has come out of his mouth sounding pathetically grateful and desperately hopeful.
