The Dilemma

Tea or coffee?

Such a simple decision, yet it presses inside Jane, snatching her breath with the crush of its breadth. She watches the early morning sunlight creep weakly to the kitchen window, pale and watery, just enough of it slithered under the blinds to illuminate the vastness of Matthew’s absence.

At least he went quickly. She has lost count of the number of people that have said this to her in the last two weeks, well-worn but well-meant words of comfort. A sorrowful smile teases Jane’s mouthcorners for the briefest of moments and then vanishes. Quickly for who? Certainly not for her. For her, he is no longer here, yet he will never fully be gone again. Never really understanding the phrase death by a thousand cuts until becoming a widow, now every night, suffocated by grief, Jane is rigid, singular, aching. Sleeping fitfully until finally exhausted she falls into nothingness and dreams of Matthew. Only then does her heart empty of its sorrow, the tidal wave receding. Ceasing for a moment to drag her under, a pause from the drowning. Waking into that precious moment where everything is empty, and then, once again, she must remember. Reminded again by the slice of her grief. A cut with no end, filling her with its sorrow. Over and over and over again.

Tea or coffee? 

Such a simple choice, but one Matthew had made for her every morning. Sneaking from their bedroom to head downstairs. Forgetting that last stair, its scrape-squeak awakening Jane daily. His daily promise to fix it, but never quite getting round to it, and now, of course, he never would.

“Today’s a coffee day Jane! A late night, a little too much wine, it’s definitely a coffee day!” Bursting into their bedroom, mugs in hand, smiling like it was the first time he had ever seen her.

“Today’s a green tea day Jane!” She would roll her eyes at this one. Mercifully, his detoxes were both short and infrequent.

“Today it’s Earl Grey, Jane!” Pointing their little fingers. Giggling and gleeful, a childlike joy.

And she was happy to have the decision made for her as she had not always been so lucky. A mother and father embedded within their corporate world where children were rarely seen and always never heard. Speaking up once, twice, maybe three times, but they hadn’t listened, so she simply stopped asking and learned instead to answer her own questions. How should she fill the loneliness left by the absence of a sibling? What should she do with her first broken heart? Who was she, and what mattered to her? Every decision made for herself until at seventeen, everything had changed.

That smile of sadness flickers again as she remembers their first meeting. Tripping up the pavement, falling in front of him, a scraped elbow, a cut to her eye.

Can I help you up?

Where were you headed?

Do you need anything?

Does it hurt?

His questions like barbs, reminding her no-one had really asked her anything before. Feeling foolish and frightened and wanting to run. Her deep breath in, looking into his face, something in his eyes keeping her there. A kindness never known, and Jane wanted that. Wanted more of that. And so, in the end, she had decided to stay.

A cup of tea together. Then dinner, the pictures. Long walks in the park going nowhere in particular. Those wonderful first nights, right at the beginning, staying up until sunrise to share everything that mattered, the only two people in the world to ever feel like this. Months heading into years, their bond-ties deepening. Friendship, to trust, then finally to marriage. And every morning him bringing her tea or coffee, his smile unwavering. So sure in his love, and certain in their togetherness. 

Once, she remembers, he had brought her whiskey, the reason for it long since forgotten. Remembering now how much they had laughed, and that she had drank it. And how, not long after that, these morning moments became more fraught, more heavy, burdened by the weight of their journey to parenthood. After a year, two years, it becoming apparent that this wasn’t going to be quite so easy for them. That all of their will, their love, their wanting, their hope, it was still not quite enough to create that last perfect thing that they strived for.

So then there were doctors, and tests of invasion, and so many tears shed silently, alone. Fists crammed into mouths to stifle the sobs, as it went round and around, this ever-decreasing circle, their dance of hope, and then joy, and then utter despair.

And still, each morning, Matthew would come. They would sit together and drink their tea, their coffee, whichever he had prescribed, the absence of their laughter hanging between them, their unspoken guilt, the bitten-back blame. Their love so tested, their hearts so shattered, so much silence it deafened them both.

On the morning after they had decided that this would be their last attempt, he had burst into the room with a theatrical flourish, an echo of before that was his gift to Jane. Confirming that once this last round of treatment was over, she had permission to finally stop hoping. He had brought them Bubble Tea and told her that soon, when the cycle was finally broken, they were going to try so many other new things too. That their life together would be changed from that moment on. It would be different and maybe somewhat unexpected, but slowly and gently becoming something stronger. And like always, he got the prescription just right. Their lives did change soon after, growing in ways she had never imagined possible.

And now, twenty years later, his life just stopped.

Her memories of that final day are still so fragmented, through grief or self-preservation she cannot be sure. His 42^nd birthday, a chocolate cake for breakfast, his sudden urge to read a proper newspaper. A kiss on her forehead as he dashed down to the store. Her too-long wait, broken finally by knocking. Can we come in please Mrs. Davies? Then stepped out without looking. A pat on her hand, and then nothing at all.

Now Jane stands in the kitchen in that weak early light, looking into the cupboard at his boxes of tea bags, his jumble of jars. Her indecision eclipsed once again by the searing duality of her grief, how she can feel him so close still, yet, at the same time, know that he will never be close enough to her again. The question now too large for one person to hold, and Jane crumples into a stool, as if somehow this will make it hurt less. She closes her eyes against the tears, knowing now that they will never stop, that the pauses between them will just get longer.

A sound behind her momentarily startles her. She feels a hand close over hers. Squeeze it once. Release.

“You look tired Mum. Let me make you a cup of tea,” her daughter says.