The car unpacked, Elizabeth sat at the kitchen table with a bowl of tomato soup in front of her. She felt oddly self-conscious as she raised the spoon to her mouth but of course there was no one here to watch her. Nobody would walk in. It occurred to her that she had probably never been alone in this house before. Babysitters, neighbours, school friends and of course her mother meant that there had always been another heartbeat. She put down the spoon and looked around the kitchen. Every surface was piled with ancient crockery now coated in dust and grease. Behind each pine-door-fronted cabinet she knew there were more plates and pots and pans. Jars of chutney and cans of marrowfat peas that were probably older than she was. So much stuff and this was just one room. A heavy wave of fatigue swept over her and she felt defeated by the enormity of the task ahead of her. She checked her watch. Only eight o’clock. She didn’t care. She was going to bed with the hope of waking up fully motivated. She grabbed her small carry-on case and headed up the stairs.
On the landing she hesitated. Where should she sleep: her childhood bedroom or her mother’s room? The thought of sleeping in her small single bed didn’t appeal and somehow she felt it would make her mother’s room seem even emptier. Back in New York she had felt guilty for not missing her mother more, but in this house she felt her absence like a physical ache. She opened the door to her mother’s room. The overhead light was far too bright so she quickly switched on one of the bedside lamps instead. Apart from the abandoned walking frame and the ugly utilitarian commode that her mother had needed before she died, the room was as she remembered. She sat on the shiny dark green comforter that covered the bed. The springs creaked beneath her weight and suddenly she was a little girl alone in her room hearing that sound, knowing that her mother was in bed and all was safe. She would never have that feeling again. Unexpectedly she found that she was crying. She braced her hands on her knees and with her head bowed, let the tears fall. Her mother was gone and she could never come home again. Some of her tears were for her own child. She hoped she made Zach feel as safe and loved as she had been but she doubted it. The world was terrifying and nobody could be stupid enough to think that a lecturer in Romantic poetry living in a tiny rented apartment could ever protect a sensitive, easily distracted young man from all its dangers. She lay down and fell into the emotional void that the time difference, jet lag and the welcome escape of sleep provided.
2
The warm light of the lamp was still glowing through the peach silk shade when she woke. Glancing over at the window she could see no hint of daylight. She looked at her watch. Six, but what six? Had she changed her watch? She couldn’t remember. Shoving her hand into her jeans pocket she retrieved her phone. Six in the morning. Knowing that she probably wouldn’t fall back to sleep she padded across the landing to brush her teeth and go to the toilet. Everywhere she looked there were ‘things’。 Pointless stuff lined every surface. Turning her head as she scrubbed at her teeth she could see bottles of No More Tears shampoo and Matey the Sailor bubble bath that must have been there since she was a girl. She opened the mirrored door of the cabinet above the sink. Packed. Every prescription from the last forty years appeared to be crammed onto its shelves.
Back in the bedroom there was less obvious clutter, but Elizabeth knew what lurked inside the large rosewood wardrobe and the matching chest of drawers. Why had she decided to do this herself? Was there a single thing in this house she actually wanted or had missed in the last twenty years? She should have just let a house clearance company loose on the place or allowed Noelle and Aunt Gillian free rein to scavenge whatever they wanted.
Tentatively, she opened the door of the wardrobe. The first thing that confronted her was a full-length reflection of herself. God, she looked awful. She examined her face, which certain girlfriends said gave her boyish good looks. Odd that those women were usually button-nosed, plump-lipped beauties. She wondered how they would have coped with her square jaw and long straightish nose? Even in this light her normally ruddy complexion looked pale and drawn. Her bright hazel eyes peered at her from puffy eyelids and heavy bags. Oh God – had that stain been on her top the whole journey or was it just the soup from last night? Her hair had a strange ridge across the left side of her head. She smoothed it down but to no effect. Turning her attention to the inside of the wardrobe, she managed a small grin. Yes, it was stuffed to bursting, but running her hand along the rail of coats and dresses was like visiting a museum of her memories. The blue tweed of that coat her mother had worn standing stiffly at the school gates, the slim fitting dresses bought for a lifetime of christenings and weddings, including the knitted navy blue two-piece that she had worn when Elizabeth had married Elliot in Ann Arbor. Her poor mother. The warmest March anyone could remember Michigan having. The red sweaty face peered out from every wedding photograph. Elliot’s mother standing beside her looking like she’d been carved from marble. Elizabeth shuddered at the memory of the day. The way both mothers had come up to her with an expression of concern and suspicion. ‘No champagne for you?’