The One Day You Were My Husband (77)

“You asked about Dad’s memory loss, specifically in relation to what happened in Thailand. And then I found a call from Dad’s mobile to our hotel in Bangkok, the night you arrived. It was at exactly the time I was scratching my head, wondering what had happened to you. Johan, if my father was involved—if he’s the one you expected to tell me—I have to know.”

Johan goes silent, and my sister comes over and holds my hand.

“Oh, Carrie,” he says eventually. Somewhere in the background, I hear an engine revving. “…I wish you’d got in touch earlier to ask. That phone call to Thailand…” He breaks off. “Hang on. Let me get somewhere a bit quieter.”

After a few seconds he returns to the line. “Just ducked into a side street.”

“And?”

He sighs. “The call from your dad’s mobile was him calling me back. I called him as soon as I checked in to the hotel because I wanted to ask him if I could propose to you.”

That silences me.

“Your dad was, as ever, very kind and insisted on calling me back on the landline in our room so I wouldn’t have to spend two hundred pounds asking him the question. We had a lovely conversation; I still remember it—I always enjoyed talking to him. We talked for ages—he was telling me so many funny things about you as a little girl—and that’s why I was so late for our first dinner. You were exhausted and upset by the time I got to you. I felt bad. That’s the story.”

Maya and I look at each other. She touches my flushed cheek with the back of her hand.

“You called him to ask permission?” I ask, even though I heard him perfectly well the first time.

“Yes.” I hear him rubbing a hand over his chin again. It’s as if we’re in a phone box together. I can hear his breath, the sound of his facial skin under his fingers. “Yes, I did. My proposal was not a moment of madness on a boat. I was very serious about it. About you. Us.”

I try to concentrate only on the facts.

“But you still won’t tell me why you assumed I knew what had happened to you?”

“I can’t, Carrie. It’s not a won’t, it’s a can’t.”

“This can’t be real,” I say eventually.

“I know,” he says. “I often find myself wondering if it really happened. I mean, I’m such a regular, boring guy. Sometimes I can’t believe it was anymore than a bad dream.”

There’s another long pause. A car horn beeps near him; someone walks past with a bunch of jangling keys.

“You and me, though, Carrie,” he says. His voice has changed. It sounds as if he’s standing next to me again. My body responds immediately.

“You and me were real. We never felt like a bad dream. Our time together was the one thing I held on to, no matter how bad things got. Some days it was what kept me alive.”



* * *



—

    After Maya has gone to bed, desolate at the chain of events she’s set off, I finish her abandoned drink and pour myself another. Beneath me, the city is quiet and unguarded, a silent carpet of light and slow-moving traffic. I stand at the window, looking across at the faraway black ribbon of the S?derstr?m River, beyond which Johan will probably be arriving home to his partner and stepson. I think about my own husband and children and feel the burn of self-loathing once again. What am I doing here?

I climb in with Maya, who’s asleep with an arm flung over her head, just like when she was a baby. I allow myself to stop thinking about my family for a moment. To think instead about Johan. The sound of his voice. The sound of him smiling down the phone. I fight it, then stop fighting. I bathe in these guilty waters.

I reach for my phone. I’m not sure what I’m planning to do, but I know I’m in danger now. Maya doesn’t stir as blue light spills over the bed.

Calmly, without any effort to stop myself, I open up the Roof app and open my messages.

I stare at the picture of his face, the green T-shirt, the laughter in his eyes, and then I press Contact Host.

Our relationship was very real to me, too, I type into the chat box. Then I press send.





Twenty-eight.




The next morning brings a multiple major trauma helicoptered in from somewhere south of the city. Three simultaneous emergency surgeries is a good antidote to a physical and emotional hangover; I don’t sit down for eleven hours straight.

When I do, I’m on the bus back to my apartment and it’s after 10 p.m. Maya has messaged me to say she’s made us dinner and is now watching Sex Life in my bed. There are three missed video calls and a string of messages from Robin. Nicola has tried to call and then sent some panicked messages. Dad’s got viral pneumonia and is receiving supplemental oxygen and fluids. It’s an adenovirus and therefore untreatable.

I reread her messages with building anxiety. Adenovirus infections tend to be mild, plus he’s in competent hands, but I don’t like it. Alzheimer’s does not have a positive impact on immune function and Dad’s already weak. I try to call her, but she doesn’t pick up.

The first thing I see after ending the call is a notification from my Roof app, reminding me to respond to Johan.

Whenever anyone messages me via Roof, the app sends what feels like a semi-aggressive number of push notifications until I log in and respond. This reminder means Johan must have messaged me earlier. Click to read message, the notification demands.