The Child Who

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The world seethes. Headlights blaze and horns rage and the drivers behind her, as they broach the outer lane to push past, hurl gestures and obscenities through the rain.

It is calmer within but she does not feel calm. She feels battered, blown off course. The radio is on, though she is no longer tuned to what it is saying. She has her phone in one hand and her head in the other. She is staring at the mobile’s screen: at her husband’s name and a number she has dialled less and less these past ten years.

Did you hear? she could say but of course he will have heard. What happened? she could ask. Then, how did they… ? But he would not yet know any more than she does, nor tell her even if he did.

I’m sorry, she could say. She is not sorry, though; not remotely. And anyway it is not a bereavement, not in a sense that obliges contrition. It is a death but also a release. A culmination. A closing. Congratulations, then. Her sob is almost a laugh.

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