The Widow by Eilish Burke
Eimer attends the funeral of the man she had a secret relationship with for a decade.
Eimer hesitates at the church door. She's walked through this door a hundred times, but today it feels impossible. It's not too late to turn back. Laura glances at her questioningly.
"We don't have to go in," she whispers. "You could... send a card...?"
They lock eyes. Eimer takes a breath and steps onto the carpet. Just one foot in front of the other, that's all she has to do.
The church is packed with all the shades of black and grey and the occasional brave splash of colour. Hushed whispers reverberate along the polished pews. No one pays them any attention as they walk, falter, then walk again. Laura indicates an empty pew, so close to the door that it's almost outside, but Eimer nods, relieved, and they sink into the seats.
Eimer joins her hands, squeezing them together until her knuckles turn white. A lump forms at the base of her throat. It throbs painfully, but she won't give in.
She glances around her. The back pews are filled with other people on the periphery of his life. There are no main characters here. Except for her. Or was she always just the understudy?
They're so far back that Eimer has to strain to see his coffin. It's draped in a tasteful bunch of lilies. She shakes her head. Peter hated lilies. Old people flowers, he called them. Dignified but dull. She would have given him an allium, fresh from his garden, contemporary but with a little burst of his personality.
The organ belches to life and people stand to welcome the priest. He totters onto the altar, a lay person propelling his fragile frame up the steps. He doesn't look like he'll last the ceremony. Eimer feels a smile creep across her face. Peter would have found this hilarious. They would have giggled together at the ridiculousness of it all.
Would have... The past tense catches in her throat. She can't get used to the past tense, not when he'd always been her future.
As the Mass goes on, Eimer feels whatever grasp she had on Peter slip away. The readings are solemn and pious, the sermon promising a glorious afterlife. She can feel Peter in none of this. It's only at the offertory that she catches a glimpse of the Peter she knew. His granddaughter, solemn with the weight of the occasion but betrayed by a trembling lip, walks forward clutching his school scarf.
Its stripey tassels ooze privilege. Peter had been so proud of the private school he had attended, droning on for hours about the great start it had given him. Eimer, who had attended her local prefabbed secondary school, had little time for his alumni prattlings.
And then she sees it. A family portrait held aloft by his youngest grandson. A montage of golden hair and smiling faces. Peter sits at the centre, beaming proudly. The smile catches her. She freezes, mesmerised. She had thought that smile was only for her.
She closes her eyes, embracing the darkness.
"Peter," she whispers his name urgently, as if somehow she can call him back to her.
Peter had been the roaring love of her twenties. Young and drunk on life, they'd parted ways for reasons they couldn't remember. Sure, she'd heard on the grapevine that he'd married, but then nothing for thirty years. Until one warm summer evening, she'd looked up from her pad thai and Peter had been sitting at the table next to her. He was more refined now, his shirts tailored, his trousers pressed, but he still had that dash of daredevil that she loved. Older too, with a family. He had proudly displayed photos of his numerous offspring and she had feigned interest. None of his wife, she noticed. Two bottles deep into the merlot, he'd mentioned his separation. Eimer had felt a jolt of anticipation fizzle inside her and promptly ordered another bottle. Yes, Eimer had been well aware of what she was getting herself into. But she didn't care. Single for years, she had no desire to live with a man. Their weekend dalliances were perfect. She hadn't cared. Until now.
Laura nudges her. People around them are starting to shake hands. She braces herself for the clasp of sweaty palms and makes to turn to the person beside her. But she can feel eyes on her. A woman in the aisle across from her is staring at her. She catches Eimer's eye and looks away, but not before whispering in the ear of her neighbour. A flurry of whispers ensues, and before long the whole aisle is stealing glances in Eimer's direction. She feels the burn rise in her cheeks. She forces herself to stand taller, but the flush on her cheeks spreads.
She tries to focus on the priest, but his mumblings are hard to hear. And she finds herself drifting back to last Friday night.
They hadn't seen each other in a week or two. Eimer had felt a little tingle of excitement as she'd squeezed herself into the blue dress that brought out her eyes and flattered her figure.
She'd put the wine to chill, seasoned the steaks and left them lying on the countertop. He'd texted her earlier that morning. Can't wait to see you later. A typical Peter text. Short but perfectly punctuated. Another ripple of anticipation ran through her.
At eight o'clock, she'd opened the wine, enjoying the satisfying glug as the wine hit the glass.
She inhaled the earthy tones. Perfect. She glanced at the clock and tried his phone. It rang out, then cut off.
At eight thirty, she typed a quick... you on your way? and waited for the three dots to appear. They didn't. She took another gulp of wine.
At nine o'clock, she was two glasses into the merlot and decided, feck it, she may as well start the steak. She sauteed the steak aggressively and topped up her wine.
At ten o'clock, the wine bottle sat empty on the table. She'd fallen asleep on the couch, drooling a little into her feather filled cushions.
She'd awoken at three in the morning, shivering, with a growing sense of unease. Her phone lay on the floor, a long crack running the length of the screen.
She cursed and sat up straight. The room was dark except for the harsh colours flashing from the TV. Shielding her eyes, she opened her phone.
Nothing.
No missed calls.
No texts.
She was suddenly sober.
She should call someone. She picked up her phone, started to scroll, then stopped.
Who?
Who could she call? She had met his adult daughters once or twice in awkward encounters on doorsteps. They had avoided eye contact, stared past her, and Peter had pretended not to notice. Besides, she barely knew their married names, let alone their phone numbers. The police? But what would she say? My boyfriend is late for dinner? They had a few mutual friends, but none she could ring at three in the morning. She closed her eyes, trying to think. But the truth was inescapable and harsh.
Her partner of ten years was missing and she had no one to call.
She waited all morning for the call that never came. By lunchtime, she'd caved and rang her sister Laura. Always the optimist, she wasn't overly concerned. Could be anything, she'd said. Car trouble, family trouble, dementia, she'd even joked, and Eimer had laughed despite herself. After that, she'd talked herself into a walk in the park. She'd spent her afternoon wandering through the rose garden. It was hard not to be mesmerised by the blossoms, luscious and bold as they swayed in the gentle breeze. And Eimer strode through the gardens, trying not to see his face in every flower.
She was just making a cup of tea when her phone beeped. She jumped, then cried out as the boiling water splashed onto her hand. She shoved her hand under the cold water tap and grabbed her phone.
But it wasn't from Peter. It was from Sinead, a mutual college friend of theirs.
Eimer I'm so sorry to hear the awful news about Peter. My thoughts and prayers are with you. I'm here if you need me xx
Her phone hit the floor.
She stood like that for a long time, staring at the rivulets of water that flowed over her hand until her hand grew numb and began to throb.
Then she picked up her phone, ran her finger along the long crack and sent a simple ? as a response.
Three dots began to pulse, stopped, then pulsed again.
Oh Jesus... Oh Eimer... Turn on the news.
It took a while for her to remember how to work the TV. When she did, her hand was shaking so violently that it took several attempts.
The six o'clock news blared to life.
Eimer shuddered. She hated the news.
The picture flashed to two cars, twisted and tangled together in their last deadly dance.
She froze.
One of them was a silver Skoda.
A two car collision on the Naas Bypass yesterday evening. Both occupants of the car were pronounced dead at the scene.
She waited for the words she knew were coming.
The drivers of the two cars were named locally as Clare Vaughan, a thirty-year-old nurse, and Peter O'Toole, 62, a retired teacher from Meath.
Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.
Amen.
Eimer blinks back to life.
It's over.
People are forming a line to sympathise with the family. Laura stands up and turns in the direction of the door. Eimer shakes her head and indicates the line. Laura's eyes widen.
They join the line of greys and blacks, and Eimer feels conspicuous in her blue, but Peter had loved that colour on her.
Had.
She feels the throb in her throat again and stares ahead. The line moves quickly, too quickly, and before Eimer has time to think of what she will do and say, she's at the top.
His wife, Aoife, and their girls are dignified in their grief. She reaches Amy, his eldest, first. She moves towards her and pats her hand.
"I'm so sorry about your dad..." Her voice catches.
Amy nods. Then her eyes widen. She withdraws her hand quickly and turns to the person behind her.
Eimer's cheeks burn. She forces a smile and moves on.
Aoife, his wife, is next.
She sits there, eyes red rimmed underneath her blow dry. Eimer pushes her own frizzy strands behind her ears.
"I'm so sorry about Peter."
Her voice breaks, and Aoife pauses and stares at her curiously.
She turns to look questioningly at her daughter, who shakes her head.
Eimer can see the recognition forming in her eyes and waits. Aoife opens her mouth as if to speak. Eimer hangs there, hoping. But Aoife simply nods at her and then turns an overbright smile onto the next person. Eimer is left to sympathise with herself and the widening space around her.
She can feel the whispers as she retreats down the aisle.
She catches sight of the bouquets at the back of the church. More lilies.
Maybe it is the lilies.
Maybe it's not.
But Eimer finds herself striding towards the condolence book at the back of the church, Laura scurrying behind her. She picks up the pen, pushes her shoulders back and writes with a flourish.
Eimer Quinn, Peter's partner for ten years.
She stares at the words, runs her finger gently over his name as if coaxing the statement into existence.
Then, shoulders back, she marches out of the church.
Tomorrow she'll leave alliums on his grave.
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"We don't have to go in," she whispers. "You could... send a card...?"
They lock eyes. Eimer takes a breath and steps onto the carpet. Just one foot in front of the other, that's all she has to do.
The church is packed with all the shades of black and grey and the occasional brave splash of colour. Hushed whispers reverberate along the polished pews. No one pays them any attention as they walk, falter, then walk again. Laura indicates an empty pew, so close to the door that it's almost outside, but Eimer nods, relieved, and they sink into the seats.
Eimer joins her hands, squeezing them together until her knuckles turn white. A lump forms at the base of her throat. It throbs painfully, but she won't give in.
She glances around her. The back pews are filled with other people on the periphery of his life. There are no main characters here. Except for her. Or was she always just the understudy?
They're so far back that Eimer has to strain to see his coffin. It's draped in a tasteful bunch of lilies. She shakes her head. Peter hated lilies. Old people flowers, he called them. Dignified but dull. She would have given him an allium, fresh from his garden, contemporary but with a little burst of his personality.
The organ belches to life and people stand to welcome the priest. He totters onto the altar, a lay person propelling his fragile frame up the steps. He doesn't look like he'll last the ceremony. Eimer feels a smile creep across her face. Peter would have found this hilarious. They would have giggled together at the ridiculousness of it all.
Would have... The past tense catches in her throat. She can't get used to the past tense, not when he'd always been her future.
As the Mass goes on, Eimer feels whatever grasp she had on Peter slip away. The readings are solemn and pious, the sermon promising a glorious afterlife. She can feel Peter in none of this. It's only at the offertory that she catches a glimpse of the Peter she knew. His granddaughter, solemn with the weight of the occasion but betrayed by a trembling lip, walks forward clutching his school scarf.
Its stripey tassels ooze privilege. Peter had been so proud of the private school he had attended, droning on for hours about the great start it had given him. Eimer, who had attended her local prefabbed secondary school, had little time for his alumni prattlings.
And then she sees it. A family portrait held aloft by his youngest grandson. A montage of golden hair and smiling faces. Peter sits at the centre, beaming proudly. The smile catches her. She freezes, mesmerised. She had thought that smile was only for her.
She closes her eyes, embracing the darkness.
"Peter," she whispers his name urgently, as if somehow she can call him back to her.
Peter had been the roaring love of her twenties. Young and drunk on life, they'd parted ways for reasons they couldn't remember. Sure, she'd heard on the grapevine that he'd married, but then nothing for thirty years. Until one warm summer evening, she'd looked up from her pad thai and Peter had been sitting at the table next to her. He was more refined now, his shirts tailored, his trousers pressed, but he still had that dash of daredevil that she loved. Older too, with a family. He had proudly displayed photos of his numerous offspring and she had feigned interest. None of his wife, she noticed. Two bottles deep into the merlot, he'd mentioned his separation. Eimer had felt a jolt of anticipation fizzle inside her and promptly ordered another bottle. Yes, Eimer had been well aware of what she was getting herself into. But she didn't care. Single for years, she had no desire to live with a man. Their weekend dalliances were perfect. She hadn't cared. Until now.
Laura nudges her. People around them are starting to shake hands. She braces herself for the clasp of sweaty palms and makes to turn to the person beside her. But she can feel eyes on her. A woman in the aisle across from her is staring at her. She catches Eimer's eye and looks away, but not before whispering in the ear of her neighbour. A flurry of whispers ensues, and before long the whole aisle is stealing glances in Eimer's direction. She feels the burn rise in her cheeks. She forces herself to stand taller, but the flush on her cheeks spreads.
She tries to focus on the priest, but his mumblings are hard to hear. And she finds herself drifting back to last Friday night.
They hadn't seen each other in a week or two. Eimer had felt a little tingle of excitement as she'd squeezed herself into the blue dress that brought out her eyes and flattered her figure.
She'd put the wine to chill, seasoned the steaks and left them lying on the countertop. He'd texted her earlier that morning. Can't wait to see you later. A typical Peter text. Short but perfectly punctuated. Another ripple of anticipation ran through her.
At eight o'clock, she'd opened the wine, enjoying the satisfying glug as the wine hit the glass.
She inhaled the earthy tones. Perfect. She glanced at the clock and tried his phone. It rang out, then cut off.
At eight thirty, she typed a quick... you on your way? and waited for the three dots to appear. They didn't. She took another gulp of wine.
At nine o'clock, she was two glasses into the merlot and decided, feck it, she may as well start the steak. She sauteed the steak aggressively and topped up her wine.
At ten o'clock, the wine bottle sat empty on the table. She'd fallen asleep on the couch, drooling a little into her feather filled cushions.
She'd awoken at three in the morning, shivering, with a growing sense of unease. Her phone lay on the floor, a long crack running the length of the screen.
She cursed and sat up straight. The room was dark except for the harsh colours flashing from the TV. Shielding her eyes, she opened her phone.
Nothing.
No missed calls.
No texts.
She was suddenly sober.
She should call someone. She picked up her phone, started to scroll, then stopped.
Who?
Who could she call? She had met his adult daughters once or twice in awkward encounters on doorsteps. They had avoided eye contact, stared past her, and Peter had pretended not to notice. Besides, she barely knew their married names, let alone their phone numbers. The police? But what would she say? My boyfriend is late for dinner? They had a few mutual friends, but none she could ring at three in the morning. She closed her eyes, trying to think. But the truth was inescapable and harsh.
Her partner of ten years was missing and she had no one to call.
She waited all morning for the call that never came. By lunchtime, she'd caved and rang her sister Laura. Always the optimist, she wasn't overly concerned. Could be anything, she'd said. Car trouble, family trouble, dementia, she'd even joked, and Eimer had laughed despite herself. After that, she'd talked herself into a walk in the park. She'd spent her afternoon wandering through the rose garden. It was hard not to be mesmerised by the blossoms, luscious and bold as they swayed in the gentle breeze. And Eimer strode through the gardens, trying not to see his face in every flower.
She was just making a cup of tea when her phone beeped. She jumped, then cried out as the boiling water splashed onto her hand. She shoved her hand under the cold water tap and grabbed her phone.
But it wasn't from Peter. It was from Sinead, a mutual college friend of theirs.
Eimer I'm so sorry to hear the awful news about Peter. My thoughts and prayers are with you. I'm here if you need me xx
Her phone hit the floor.
She stood like that for a long time, staring at the rivulets of water that flowed over her hand until her hand grew numb and began to throb.
Then she picked up her phone, ran her finger along the long crack and sent a simple ? as a response.
Three dots began to pulse, stopped, then pulsed again.
Oh Jesus... Oh Eimer... Turn on the news.
It took a while for her to remember how to work the TV. When she did, her hand was shaking so violently that it took several attempts.
The six o'clock news blared to life.
Eimer shuddered. She hated the news.
The picture flashed to two cars, twisted and tangled together in their last deadly dance.
She froze.
One of them was a silver Skoda.
A two car collision on the Naas Bypass yesterday evening. Both occupants of the car were pronounced dead at the scene.
She waited for the words she knew were coming.
The drivers of the two cars were named locally as Clare Vaughan, a thirty-year-old nurse, and Peter O'Toole, 62, a retired teacher from Meath.
Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.
Amen.
Eimer blinks back to life.
It's over.
People are forming a line to sympathise with the family. Laura stands up and turns in the direction of the door. Eimer shakes her head and indicates the line. Laura's eyes widen.
They join the line of greys and blacks, and Eimer feels conspicuous in her blue, but Peter had loved that colour on her.
Had.
She feels the throb in her throat again and stares ahead. The line moves quickly, too quickly, and before Eimer has time to think of what she will do and say, she's at the top.
His wife, Aoife, and their girls are dignified in their grief. She reaches Amy, his eldest, first. She moves towards her and pats her hand.
"I'm so sorry about your dad..." Her voice catches.
Amy nods. Then her eyes widen. She withdraws her hand quickly and turns to the person behind her.
Eimer's cheeks burn. She forces a smile and moves on.
Aoife, his wife, is next.
She sits there, eyes red rimmed underneath her blow dry. Eimer pushes her own frizzy strands behind her ears.
"I'm so sorry about Peter."
Her voice breaks, and Aoife pauses and stares at her curiously.
She turns to look questioningly at her daughter, who shakes her head.
Eimer can see the recognition forming in her eyes and waits. Aoife opens her mouth as if to speak. Eimer hangs there, hoping. But Aoife simply nods at her and then turns an overbright smile onto the next person. Eimer is left to sympathise with herself and the widening space around her.
She can feel the whispers as she retreats down the aisle.
She catches sight of the bouquets at the back of the church. More lilies.
Maybe it is the lilies.
Maybe it's not.
But Eimer finds herself striding towards the condolence book at the back of the church, Laura scurrying behind her. She picks up the pen, pushes her shoulders back and writes with a flourish.
Eimer Quinn, Peter's partner for ten years.
She stares at the words, runs her finger gently over his name as if coaxing the statement into existence.
Then, shoulders back, she marches out of the church.
Tomorrow she'll leave alliums on his grave.
from FICTION on the WEB short stories https://ift.tt/itCIT3h
via IFTTT
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