Hope There's Someone

I'm at work. Collaborating. Leaning forwards towards the computer screen. Identifying errors, here and there. Discussing what we believe to have failed. Tracing the bug in our formulae.

I sit opposite a young man, intelligent and quick. He has clever hands, I notice. They fly here and there. He speaks softly. Agrees vehemently, corrects gently. My kind of guy.

I hope I reflect him back to himself.

The office is quiet.

So we sit, waiting for our latest attempt to run through, crossing our fingers. Hoping that we don't cause the whole extraction process to keel over in horror at our inept attempts to speak the language of computers. We make desultory small talk.

Painful at the best of times in a roomful of people like me, who aren't built for small talk. Confident and happy whilst discussing numbers and computer code, we tend to struggle a little on more shaky ground.

We talk about subjects studied at university, him - law and politics, me - neuroscience and statistics.
What we did at the weekend, him - claims to be unable to remember making me feel very old indeed, me - my sister in law's 40th birthday party.

Children.

How many do I have?
Two.

Are they twins?
No, I say. Imagine that. That would be so tough. My niece and nephew are twins, it's really hard work.

I don't suppose he notices my slight hesitation.

The lady in the next cubicle chips in with, wouldn't you just love to have twins, get it all over with at once?
Oh no. I say. Not me. One at a time is enough for me.

I feel uneasy.
Not because I wanted to say something because what would I have achieved by saying that well, actually, whadda you know, my eldest (who isn't my eldest) was a twin but her sister died? How funny that you think that I might have had twins, what a coincidence.

I would have made two kind people feel awkward and upset. Perhaps. Momentarily.

Strange. How it still floors me. I don't need to cry or excuse myself. I don't need to say anything at all. Just smile and nod.

But it feels as though somebody is bending my fingers back.

Really? Says my husband.
Even after all this time?

Yes. I say.
I'm sorry. I know it should be different by now.

Strange how it does not become more acceptable with time.
It is easier to manoeuvre around. I don't need to weep or wail or tell people.
I don't need to go and hide and cry.
Her death is part of her.
Her taboo-ness, her hidden-ness, is part of her.
Awkwardness. Her mother's daughter. Poor child.
A hidden daughter that I can't really speak about because she is not socially acceptable.
But to me.
She is.
Accepted.
Adored.
And what do I care about the rest?

But, as I walk out to go and buy my lunchtime sandwich, I can't help but think.
I held her. She was still alive.
I wonder if she felt at all reassured by my arms.
Probably not.

I think of her life. My daughter's life. I see dark and hear a distant thump, thump.
Perhaps I feel a sister, perhaps not.
Then I see a blur of disconnected, blurry images.
Loud noises.
Through half-formed eyes, half-formed ears.
Indecipherable and strange.
And then I'm gone.

Sounds a bit like a truncated version of my own life really.

I hope there are arms to catch me at the end. But I won't hope for too much.

I hope the painkillers worked. My darling. If I can't have you back. That is what I wish.
That you drifted away, in the arms of someone who could not have loved you more.
I've been wishing it since the beginning.
And because I'll never know.
I'll be wishing it until the end.