The Other Hand

keep the bastards away.”
    “Yes of course, but this is more than that. It’s, it’s…”
    I stammered away and fell silent.
    “Sorry Sarah, I know this sounds awful, but I’m in a terrible rush here. Is it something I can actually help with?”
    I pressed my flushed face against the cold glass. “Sorry. I’m a bit confused.”
    “It’s the funeral. You’re going to feel a bit scatty, aren’t you? I’m sorry, but there’s no way around that. I wish you’d let me come. How are you feeling about it all?”
    “About the funeral?”
    “About the whole situation.”
    I sighed.
    “I don’t feel anything. I feel numb.”
    “Oh Sarah.”
    “I’m just waiting for the undertaker now. I’m slightly nervous, maybe. That’s all. Like waiting at the dentist’s.”
    “Right,” said Lawrence, carefully.
    A pause. In the background, the sound of Lawrence’s children squabbling at the breakfast table. I realized I couldn’t tell Lawrence about Little Bee turning up. Not now. It suddenly didn’t seem fair, to add it to his list of problems. Late for work, baby sick on tie, tardy nanny…oh, and now a presumed-dead Nigerian girl, resurrected on his mistress’s sofa. I didn’t think I could do that to him. Because this is the thing, with being lovers. It isn’t like being married. To remain in the game, one has to be considerate. One has to acknowledge a certain right-to-life of the other. So I stayed silent. I listened to Lawrence taking a deep breath, on the edge of exasperation.
    “So what’s confusing you? Is it that you’re not feeling anything much and you think you should be?”
    “It’s my husband’s funeral. I should be sad, at least.”
    “You’re in control of yourself. You’re not a gusher. Celebrate that.”
    “I can’t cry for Andrew. I keep thinking about that day in Africa. On the beach.”
    “Sarah?”
    “Yes?”
    “I thought we agreed it was best that you forget all that. Whathappened, happened. We agreed that you were just going to move on, didn’t we. Hmm?”
    I pressed my left hand flat against the windowpane and stared at the stump of my lost finger.
    “I don’t think moving on is going to work anymore, Lawrence. I don’t think I can just continue to deny what happened. I don’t think I’ll be able to. I…”
    My voice trailed off.
    “Sarah? Deep breaths.”
    I opened my eyes. Outside, Batman was still poking fiercely at the pond. The Today Programme scolded away on the radio. Next door the neighbor had finished pegging his washing and now he simply stood there, eyes half-closed. Soon he would move on to a new task: the percolation of coffee, perhaps, or the application of replacement twine to the spool of a string trimmer. Small problems. Neat problems.
    “Now that Andrew’s, well, gone, Lawrence. Do you think you and I will be…”
    A pause on the other end of the phone. Then Lawrence—careful Lawrence—noncommittal.
    “Andrew didn’t stop us while he was alive,” he said. “Do you see any reason to change things now?”
    I sighed again.
    “Sarah?”
    “Yes?”
    “Just focus on today for now, will you? Focus on the funeral, hold it together, get through today. Stop smearing that fucking toast on the computer !”
    “Lawrence?”
    “Sorry. That was the baby. He’s got a piece of buttered toast and he’s wiping it all over…sorry, have to go.”
    Lawrence hung up. I turned from the window and sat on the bed. I waited. I was putting off having to go downstairs and deal with Little Bee. Instead of moving I watched myself, in the mirror,as a widow. I tried to find some physical sign of Andrew’s passing. No extra line on the forehead? No darkening of the skin under the eyes? Really? Nothing?
    How calm my eyes were, since that day on the beach in Africa. When there has been a loss so fundamental I suppose that to lose just one more thing—a finger, perhaps, or a husband—is of absolutely no consequence at all. In the mirror my green eyes were placid—as still as a body of water that is either very deep, or very shallow.
    Why couldn’t I cry? Soon I would have to go and face a church full of mourners. I rubbed my eyes, harder than our beauty experts advise. I needed to show red eyes to the mourners, at least. I needed to show them that I had cared for Andrew, truly cared for him. Even if, since Africa, I hadn’t really bought the idea of love as a permanent thing, measurable in self-administered surveys, present if you answered mostly B. So I