A car hooter sounded just as Derek closed the door. He walked around the desk and sat opposite her, drumming his fingers on his armrest.
"Do you know why I called you here today?"
She swallowed. Her mind became a roundabout of thoughts until she settled on one possibility.
"We are concerned about you, Sarah. Ever since Jack..." He cleared his throat.
"You can say it." Her voice sounded underwater to her. "Ever since Jack died."
Derek adjusted his tie. "Yes. Since then you've withdrawn. And while your work is of the same quality as always..." He rested his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands. "We miss you, Sarah. We miss your laugh and your jokes. It's like you died with Jack."
Nobody had had the courage to say that to her yet. She noticed how relieved Derek looked when she didn't react.
"I'm not sure I can go back to being as I was."
"Yes, absolutely. Nobody's saying that. But it's been two years. At some point you have to move on and enjoy life again."
Easy for him to say. She eyed the family photograph on his desk where he, his wife and son had beatific expressions plastered on their faces as they looked at the new baby girl. Derek followed her gaze and cleared his throat.
"All I am asking is that you go and speak to Dr Fiona. She's on the fourth floor and she's great at helping people with grief. Remember when Madge lost her Mom and her cat in the same week? Dr Fiona got her through. And that time when Fikile's aunt committed suicide..."
"I get it." Sarah crossed her arms.
"I've taken the liberty of booking you a session with her. What I suggest is that you take a long lunch and then meet her at three. After that, you are free to go home. The work can wait until Monday."
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
"It's not only me." He shuffled some papers on the desk. "In your most recent performance appraisal, all your colleagues -- and I mean every single one -- expressed concern about you." Derek scanned the report. "Like this: 'Sarah is a great colleague but her grief has made her detached.' And, 'Sarah is such a beautiful person but there is a black cloud that follows her around and it's depressing to work with her.' Shall I go on?"
She shook her head. "I'll see Dr Fiona."
He looked relieved. "That's excellent news. Thank you." Derek stood and stretched across the desk to shake her hand.
After working for Derek as long as she had, she knew this was her cue to leave.
"Sarah? Good luck."
"Thanks, boss."
It was obvious that the colour scheme of Dr Fiona's office was designed to soothe. Sarah took in the sorbet colours and imagined she was five years old and eating ice cream with her Grandfather at the beach. It was her happiest memory. She recalled the crunch of sand in the soft serve and how the seagulls scavenged around them, hoping to swoop in on a chocolate flake. Her grandfather had shown love with ice cream, so there they were, on a rickety bench by the sea. His eyes would twinkle at her as she relished each lick of cold.
"Sarah Rafferty?"
Dr Fiona looked like Marlena from Days of Our Lives. Not that she watched that show any more. She'd had a brief stint of following the storyline when Marlena got possessed by the devil and, after that, she lost interest. More of the sorbet colours welcomed them in the doctor's office. She had a choice of a chair, couch or chaise longue to sit on.
"Make yourself comfortable anywhere," said Dr Fiona.
Sarah opted for the chair while Dr Fiona stretched out on the couch.
"Something tells me I am in your seat."
"What makes you say that?"
"I just have a feeling."
Dr Fiona smiled. "As long as you are comfortable, shall we begin? Your colleague, Derek, told me to take good care of you. Why don't you tell me why you think you are here."
She sighed. She hated this talk therapy and having to be vulnerable with a perfect stranger. Dr Fiona seemed nice enough. Perhaps a little insincere, but maybe she was reading too much into it. Sarah tucked her hair behind her ear. "Derek said that my colleagues feel I am not moving on from my husband's death."
"Do you think he is right?"
"Well, I didn't think anyone noticed. And, I wasn't aware that there was a cap on the mourning period."
"He says it's been two years since Jack passed away. Can you tell me more about that?"
Sarah's throat closed up.
Dr Fiona stared at her, and the concern in her expression was evident.
She tried to speak, but no sound came.
"Have you had a good support network since his death?"
"Yes." Her voice returned. "My friends and family have been good to me. And my colleagues too, from the sound of it."
"What about your social life?"
"I still go to my book club meetings, watch movies, go to dinners."
"I see. Is there anything you used to do with Jake, like a hobby or interest you shared, that you no longer do?"
Her voice failed her again.
Dr Fiona frowned. "How long has this been going on? The lapses in your speaking?"
"Since Jake died."
"I see. There is a theory that if we don't talk about the things that bother us, you know, get them off our chests, that it can hold back the healing process. That's why, they say, Catholics who go to confession regularly tend to live longer."
She nodded. "I want to, but I can't."
"Then I think you should write it down." Dr Fiona stood and went to a dresser along the wall. She brought out a notebook and gave it to Sarah. "Documenting our feelings has the same kind of catharsis as speaking them. Take the weekend to record what you feel and we'll meet up again early next week."
"Thank you."
Sarah could not recall the commute home. She was sitting at her kitchen table with a pen she kept in her handbag. The blank page of the notebook was waiting. After taking a deep breath, she wrote.
I hate Jack for dying.
She leant back in her chair and stared at the words. Her pen seemed to have a life of its own.
I loved him with everything that I was and then he left. He promised he would stay. He promised we would grow old together. I am so angry that I let myself fall for him, that I let myself believe his fairytale. He's gone and I only have his money, his house, his shirts, his smell that follows me all the time. I'm not Sarah any more. I'm only Sarah-without-Jack. I hate Jack for dying.
The pen fell out of her hand and she noticed drips landing on the table. It took a moment to register that they came from her eyes.
It had rained on the day she met Jack. She was standing under an overhang outside her building, waiting for the bus. When it arrived, she splashed to the door and up the stairs, hurriedly handing her change to the driver. There was only one seat open and it was next to him. He was staring at his book, engrossed in whatever hallucination the words invoked.
"Mind if I sit here?"
When he didn't answer, she parked herself next to him, thinking he was rude. The bus jolted on the road and he dropped his book at her feet.
"I'm sorry. I didn't notice you sitting here." He retrieved the paperback and showed her the cover. "Have you read The Gargoyle? It's fascinating."
"No." She made a point of looking out of the opposite window even though her knee burnt from how he'd grazed it when he picked up the book.
"What do you like to read?"
"The news." She hoped he would leave her alone.
"Good choice. It's the biggest collection of fiction available at one time, in bite-sized chunks."
Her laugh surprised her and made him look pleased with himself.
"I'm Jack."
"Sarah." She accepted his hand and shook it. His touch made her heart race.
"Beautiful name."
They lurched at the bus stopped. He stood. "This is me. But I'll be in Bookends on Filigree Road after work today. Hope to see you there." When he got to the steps leading out of the door, he paused and looked at her. With a small wave, he hopped off the bus.
Sarah felt like Cupid and all his obese cousins had slammed her at once with their arrows. It was not surprising that she found herself standing on the threshhold of Bookends after work, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jack. He was at a table near the window with two coffee mugs steaming in front of him. Her heart sank just as he looked up, and she scrambled to change direction.
"You're just in time," she heard him say. "I hope you like cappuccino."
That was all it took. That single coffee date in a book shop which smelt of paper, string and glue. That extended conversation that kept them rapt until the owner announced that she would be locking up in five minutes. That walk to her front door. That fumbling, grinning mess of a kiss. That was all it took for her to know she was in love.
The night Jack died, they were driving up the coast for a weekend away. They were singing along to the radio, daring each other to hold the notes the longest. Instead of having eyes on the road, on the cow, on the speed of the car, Jack stared at her. She had been in a medically induced coma for three days and when she woke up, Sarah had to face the chasm of Life After Jack. And she hated him for it. Because she still loved him. Would go on loving him.
It was Monday, and the sorbet colours seemed to do a good job of soothing her.
"How did your assignment go, Sarah?"
"Good."
"Yes? That's wonderful. What did you learn from doing it?"
"All the things I couldn't speak about showed up on the page."
"Really? Such as?"
"That I hate Jack for dying but that I still love him. And that I wish I could have said goodbye."
"Those feelings are normal. Why do you think you couldn't express them out loud?"
Sarah clasped her hands. "Because that's not how we love. Love is something you feel, something you show, not something you say. I couldn't find the words to do Jack justice because I used to let a kiss or touch or smile do it for me. Jack's death highlighted for me all the things we cannot say."
Dr Fiona removed her spectacles and wiped her eyes. She smiled and nodded.
"Please. Go on."
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