Shine, Alone After The Setting Of The Sun
When I got home from the studio Annie was smashing crockery on the back step. I laid my guitar case down and watched my lover standing at the kitchen door, silvered by the 2am moonlight, dropping mugs and plates and breakfast bowls one at a time onto the concrete. From the living room, drifting jungle noises and David Attenborough’s sonorous murmur counterpointed the explosive shattering.
“Annie!” I yelled.
She turned and grinned breezily. “Hi, Lorna. You’re back. How was the session?”
I was amazed. When I left that morning, she hadn’t even seemed aware that I was going out.
“What are you doing?”
At least she had the grace to look abashed. “Oh, right. Bit of a guddle, yeah?” Then she actually beamed. “I’m getting back to work.”
I watched her as she crouched and began to sort through the mess of fragments. Such a transformation. Right up to that morning she had been so withdrawn, so tightly, bitterly wound, self-exiled to her own dark, curtains-drawn world, doing nothing except sleep and watch her nature videos; and now everything about her seemed to deny the last few months had happened. The brightness of her expression; the renewed energy in her step; the almost forgotten spark of drive in her eyes, replacing that smudged, haunted cast. All this spoke of some remarkable, but so welcome, return of normalcy, of the Annie I knew and loved and had wanted back for so long.
But... however much I wanted to believe this, however much I found myself grinning too, infected by whatever inspiration had sparked this shift of mood, I was equally fearful that it signified some darker, internalising twist of Annie’s psyche. I knew her too well.
Right at that moment, though, I was tired and my head was too full of the day’s jingles to tackle the problem. I mumbled something like okay then, and went to run myself a bath.
~
Annie was sitting on the step, carefully breaking up the larger pieces with pliers. I came to stand behind her, feeling soft and renewed. Without turning, she said, “You smell of apples.”
I ran my fingers through thick strands of damp hair. “I borrowed your shampoo. Sorry.”
She gave me no sign, and I could read nothing in the curve of her spine under her thin, stretched Greenpeace t-shirt as she bent over her work, so I took a chance. Slowly, braced for rejection, I lowered myself to the floor behind her, wrapping my arms and legs around, resting my head on a shoulder, breathing in warm body scent, relishing the proximity. And Annie responded, laying down her pliers, leaning back and relaxing into my embrace. We sat like that in a silence I was powerless to break until the weight of questions finally forced words from my lips.
“How are you?” Weak, insipid, open to as non-committal a reply as you could get. At first it seemed that Annie was not going to give even that, but then she spoke.
“I’m all right I suppose. I wake up every morning hating myself for bringing a child into this world and go to sleep hating myself double for not being able to do anything to make it better.”
Straight to the point; and it told me that not everything had changed. Annie had been running this conviction around since she discovered she was pregnant, digging it deeper, etching out the grooves of it in her mind. How many times had I tried to reason her out of this and met with violent rejection, or with that blank silence, so intense, which I found even scarier? That was before. Maybe now she would listen. My fingers described light, calming circles on her brow as I searched for some new combination of words that would convince her.
“The world’s not all so terrible, you know.” I said it lightly, but Annie twisted round fast, fixing me with a hot stare that dried everything I was going to say to dust in my mouth. Her stare softened, her eyes brimming and spilling twin tracks down her cheeks as she reached up to shush me with one finger, one shake of the head. I felt the tension drain from her, and her body sagged against me, head resting this time on my shoulder. My fingers resumed their tiny movements at her brow and in her thick hair. Quietly, into my chest, she said,
“All I wish is that we could have our own little corner where everything is good and safe and just right for us.”
“People like you make the world better, Annie.” It was feeble but Annie seemed to take a measure of comfort from it, cuddled in a little closer, squeezed my arm lightly. I was grateful for that at least. I didn’t even mind the heavy press of her belly against my leg. Presently a growing coolness in the air set us both shivering and I coaxed her to stand and come inside, asking, “What are you doing out here anyway?” For the third time that night, she smiled, and that one was genuine, one hundred per cent Annie.
“I have to make a mosaic. For the baby.”
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