Mourn not your Dead

Gemma suspected it was more balm for her pride than a financial necessity for the Cavendishes. Following the distant sound of voices, she deposited her purchases on the kitchen table and dodged the toys littering the floor as she made her way upstairs.
    She tapped on the bathroom door, and hearing Hazel’s cheerful, “Come on in,” she slipped inside. Hazel knelt by the old-fashioned claw-footed tub, the sleeves of her sweater pushed up over her elbows, her chin-length brown hair forming curly tendrils from the steam.
    Both children were in the tub, and when Toby saw her he shrieked, “Mummy!” and smacked his hands palm-down against the water.
    Laughing, Hazel jumped back from the spray. “I think you little munchkins are clean enough. Welcome home, Gemma,” she added, wiping the sudsy droplets from her cheek.
    Gemma felt a sudden spasm of jealousy, but it faded as Hazel called out, “How about giving a hand with the towels?” and she soon had her arms full of wet and giggling children.
     
    WHEN THE CHILDREN HAD BEEN DRIED AND DRESSED IN THEIR footed pajamas, Hazel settled them with some toys on the kitchen rug and insisted on making Gemma some tea. “You look knackered, to put it tactfully,” she said with a smile as she waved away Gemma’s offer to help and busied herself with kettle and cups.
    Gemma sank into a chair at the kitchen table and watched the children as they cranked toy cars up and down in the lift of a plastic garage with complete absorption. They played well together, she thought. Dark-haired Holly had inherited her mother’s sweet disposition as well as her dimples. A few months older than Toby, she ruled him with a bossy kindness that he tolerated good-naturedly. Just now, though, with his still-damp fair hair sticking up in spikes, he looked a proper little imp.
    “Stay to dinner,” said Hazel as she set a steaming mug before Gemma and slid into the chair opposite. “Tim’s got a therapy group tonight, so it will just be us and the kids. And as a further enticement, I’m making Moroccan vegetable stew with couscous. And besides,” she added with a pleading note, “I have selfish reasons—I could use some adult conversation.”
    “But I picked up some things at the supermarket...” Gemma made a halfhearted gesture in the direction of her carrier bags.
    Wrinkling her snub nose, Hazel expressed her opinion of that. “Macaroni and cheese out of a box, I’ll bet, or something equally ghastly. You need something that hasn’t been thrown together at the last minute. Food is comfort for the soul as well as the body.” The last she intoned with great weight, then laughed. “So says the philosopher of the kitchen.”
    With a shamefaced smile, Gemma confessed, “It was the first thing I saw on the shelf.” She stretched, relaxed now from the warmth of the room and the tea, and looked around the pleasant kitchen. The old glass-fronted cabinets had been rubbed with a soft green stain, the walls were covered with peach paper, and any spare spaces on counters and table held Hazel’s baskets of jumbled knitting yarns. Suddenly finding herself loath to leave, she said, “It does sound lovely. Are you sure we wouldn’t be imposing? I’m always afraid we’ll wear out our welcome.” Seeing Hazel’s emphatic reassurance, she added, “And I’ll admit it’s been a hellish week.”
    “Rough case?” Hazel asked sympathetically.
    “You could say that.” Cradling the hot cup in her hands, Gemma told her about Alastair Gilbert.
    When she’d finished, Hazel shuddered, concern evident in her expression. “How awful. For them and for you. But there’s more than that, isn’t there, Gemma?” she asked, with the direct gaze that must have made her patients squirm. “You disappear for days without notice, show up again, then leave Toby without a word of explanation— what’s going on?”
    Gemma shook her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I’ll be all right.”
    Shaking her head, Hazel leaned forwards earnestly. “Who are you trying to convince? You know it’s not good to bottle things up. You don’t have to be superwoman all the time. Let someone else share a little bit of the burden—”
    “I don’t need a therapist, Hazel,” Gemma interrupted, then instantly regretted it. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s got into me lately. I’ve been sniping at everyone. You didn’t deserve that.”
    Sitting back with a sigh, Hazel said, “I don’t know— maybe I did. Old