The Bereavement of George Thomson

George’s limbs awoke from their dormant state as he felt the light spill through his translucent beige curtains. With a sigh, George pushed himself up onto his forearms and turned his rigid neck, eyes meeting the two thin hands on the perfectly circular clock hanging on the wall. 7:32 in the morning. A slight sigh escaped his lips as he pulled the duvet across his lap, exposing his bare legs. As his feet met the hardwood, he debated setting his bed though decided against it. He couldn’t be bothered. There wasn’t the smell of coffee waiting for him as he exited the room slowly, his nostrils feeling neglected. George settled for a moment in the doorway, deciding to brew his own cup this morning, seeing as he felt especially dreadful. 

Making his way to the small corner of a kitchen, George pulled the coffee pot from its designated place, filled it with water, and selected a very specific bag of coffee off of the second shelf above the drying rack. It opened with a soft crinkle and the smell flooded his senses, nostrils immediately feeling slightly less neglected than before. The coffee machine whirred angrily as it used all of the strength it could possibly muster to brew two cups of coffee. 

Two. 

Not again. 

George groaned quietly to himself as he dropped his elbows against the granite countertop, face molded in the palms of his hands as he rubbed his eyes so deep, he could see stars. Maybe the stars would bring him back to his reality. Ironic, he thought. 

A moment passed as all George could do was simply stare at the freshly brewed pot of coffee, extra hot, already perspiring along the glass walls. All of a sudden, his craving for morning coffee disappeared, instead replaced with the craving of a certain morning, afternoon, and evening lover. His breath hitched as he caught the sight of her favorite mug, the one they painted together at a ridiculously overpriced paint bar about a year into their relationship. His eyes caught it every day, though today they lingered longer than they should. Her careful strokes of color and precise designs on one side of the mug contrasted George’s hideous mess of the entire color wheel on his side, though he felt as he made the right decision to paint freely when he saw her face as it approached out of the kiln. Loose with two glasses of wine flowing through her bloodstream, her eyes widened with adoration as she carefully took it in her hands, cradling it softly. The wonder flooding into the dark brown of her eyes was impossible to miss. As she adored their masterpiece, he simply watched her, knowing that somehow this moment would be especially important to him. 

George pulled himself out of the memory, his fingertips casting gently over the shiny glaze of the mug. He carefully placed it back on the shelf, opting for his every day eggshell colored mug instead, and poured himself his cup. He drank it slowly, allowing himself to feel the sweet bitterness of the coffee and the morning before the cattle awoke and his life outside of the tiny kitchen called for his attention. 

George had moved back into the country to find some peace and quiet as well as some footing before he had planned to return back to his normal life. That was four years ago. Instead of building himself back and finding parts of himself that he had lost in the city, George had found a completely new life. One free of moving screens and neon lights in Time Square, the insistent buzz of a cell phone, or the complexity of a computer. George discovered that he hated it and left it out of his life completely, opting for the quiet and the green. He hadn’t looked at a single piece of technology since the day he locked his phone and computers away, and never planned to ever again. His family must think he’s dead by now, or maybe his mother or father or even his brother had died. He would never know. The mere thought of touching any piece of an electronic rattled a shiver down his spine.

George abandoned his coffee on the countertop as he dressed quickly, pulling on his boots and gloves, then making his way out of the door and just across the field to the small stable. The old wooden door creaked as he entered, hay crunching underneath the soles up his feet, catching the attention of each of the animals. Quiet noises of excitement left the animals’ bodies as they became more and more restless to be let out. George smiled and greeted every single one of his animals, seven of them in total. His morning went on as usual as he did his tasks and tidied up. His finest hen had hatched a few eggs that were still warm to the touch as he carefully cradled them in his calloused hands. He placed them in a small woven basket with a baby blue cloth tucked inside like bedding and carried it back home with a fresh jar of cow’s milk clutched in his free hand. 

The warmth of the sun beat down into his face and scorched into his light eyes that shared the same color as the sky. Small beads of sweat ran through his strawberry curls and down the sides of his face, catching underneath his ear and trailing down his neck. He shook his head in an attempt to shake away the sweat, and picked up his pace, checking one last time to see if the cows were grazing peacefully. They were. 

As George approached closer and closer to his front door, he froze about ten feet away from the front steps. His lightly tanned skin as a result from working in the sun suddenly turned to his complexion in the winter. He paled as he stepped cautiously closer, hands shaking as he squatted down to get a closer look. It was a miracle that he hadn’t dropped either the basket or the milk. He decided to place them down on his grass lawn for a moment, quickly returning his attention to the item sitting solitary in front of his door. 

His eyes met the intricate gift box as the light caught the gold flakes around the edges. The entire box was a soft black color edging on gray, and there was a dainty light blue ribbon tied around and on top of the box. A small note was attached in a white envelope. No address, no stamp, no anything. Despite the heat, a cold wind felt as if it had struck him, causing him to shake viciously for a moment. He closed his eyes at an attempt to calm himself down, though it didn’t seem to work. 

George was absolutely terrified. He had no clue where this could have possibly come from. He had vanished without a trace four years ago. He didn’t quit his job, didn’t sell his apartment, and didn’t tell his friends and family. He just left. He didn’t have any neighbors and the nearest person was at least fifty miles away. He bought this place with the intention of having peace and quiet. He bought it to get away from the world. He bought it for himself and Camille. 

His fear suddenly turned to anger as he raged at the ridiculous box. The box that came to stir up trouble, to frighten him, to disturb his peace. Angrily, George snatched the envelope, peeling it open and pulling the card out. Like a wave, his anger subsided once again as he saw the date printed on the top right corner of the page: June 6. George must have stood there for some time close to an eternity, because he couldn’t manage to continue reading the letter, his eyes glued to the date. He avoided dates completely, allowing himself to lose track of the days the first week after entering this place. There were no calendars on the walls simply because he knew that seeing the days pass by one by one would only make the pain of living without Camille that much worse. And now seeing the exact date pulled him back to that day all over again, the pain pushing itself through his veins and paralyzing him like a single drop of poison. 

He stared and stared and stared as time passed and finally, he was able to push his eyes down and continue reading. The letter was hand-written, and the ink smelled new. He took a breath and began reading. 

Mr. George Thomson,

After careful consideration, we have decided to select you for this year’s annual time travel subject. After reviewing your file, we have collectively decided to assist you in solving your internal problem that has made you a lacking member of society: complicated grief. Seeing as today is the fourth anniversary of your wife’s passing, we have delivered to you our finest and newest time gadget. You may go back in time as many times as you please for the next thirty days. If you happen to change anything in the past, you will have the option to continue on from there and erase all of your current memories, or you may choose to return here. It is in your hands to decide whether or not to utilize this gadget. Please consider going back in time to help yourself understand, heal, and possibly undo. In thirty days, we will retrieve the item. We are waiting for your happiness to return. 

Your friends

All George could do was stare dumbfounded at the letter, reading it over and over and over again. George didn’t have a problem. George was happy with his life. George was perfectly fine. He was just coping. He scoffed as he stuffed the letter back into the envelope angrily, crushing the sides of it as he shoved it in his pocket. He grumbled as he lifted the unusually lightweight box into his arms and placed it inside his living area, snugly fitting it right underneath the coffee table. 

The rest of his day went by quickly due to his constant planning to fill up every single minute. By actually knowing that today was the anniversary of her death, George knew he had to keep himself so occupied that he wouldn’t even be able to think about her for a second. It worked up until his night routine and as he got into bed. He tossed and turned as the hands of the clock continued to tick back and forth for hours, taunting him. It was past one in the morning when George frustratedly sat up in bed and clicked the bedside lamp on. The dim glow of the yellow light illuminated the room softly. George sucked in an exhausted breath and decided that it was time to take a trip down memory lane. 

Standing up slowly, George made his way over to his dresser, opening the top drawer and pulling out a small but hefty photo album. A heaviness overwhelmed him as he opened the hard cover and was met with the smell of her perfume that she insisted on spraying onto the laminated pages. The scent had mostly faded, but it was still there. He would kill to be able to smell the perfume on her neck just once more. The thought of the gadget flashed into his head. 

No. 

Absolutely not. 

As much as George missed Camille, he didn’t know if he could bear to lose her again. Though at the same time, he wanted nothing more than to go back in time and just be there. Maybe he could stop her. Maybe they could just continue on from there. Nothing would have to change. He could get his Camille back forever. 

No.

Highly unlikely, George. 

He physically shook his head, attempting to get the nagging thoughts out of his brain. Peace and quiet was not something he could not seem to find that day, George thought to himself as he flipped through the printed photographs. A slight smile crept up onto his face as he saw hers in the pictures, able to hear her laugh in the candid shots. As his smile stayed put, the smallest tear softly slid down the side of his cheek. 

What was going on inside her head? 

Why didn’t she talk to him?

Why their anniversary?

Why did she leave?

A shaky breath escaped his slightly parted lips as he closed his eyes, picturing the life he always wanted with Camille. The white picket fence, the chocolate lab, the three small children, the light spilling through the gigantic windows of their cozy suburban home. He saw her umber hair cut right above her shoulders just like she always talked about. He winced at the daydream, pulling himself back to where he was standing against the dresser, photo album in his hand. 

Screw it, George thought to himself as he shut the book and carefully put it back in its place next to a few of her t-shirts and other belongings. He made a beeline for the living area, flipping the light switches on as he made his way there and reaching under the coffee table, placing the box on top of it instead. He sat on the edge of the couch and pulled the small gadget out. It felt so foreign to be touching a piece of high-end technology. 

The instructions were clear: Enter a date, go back in time. If you do not fulfill your intention(s), you will be automatically sent back to your current form. 

A warning also came with the instructions: You may return as many times as you like, to the entered date, though we highly advise you not to return too often. Use this device cautiously. 

George took a deep breath, and before his sensible mind could talk him out of it, he entered the date, closed his eyes, and with a shaky finger, pushed the button. 

There he was, waking up in his New York City apartment. The day was the exact same as he looked out the window, eyes meeting a cloudy sky. There was so much noise. Then came the waft of freshly brewed coffee. Camille.

Immediately, George rushed out of bed and ran into the kitchen. There she was, her hair pulled back into a low tangled mess of a bun, flyaways framing her face beautifully. Of course, her morning playlist was going as she prepared butter and jam on toast for George and a bowl of oatmeal for herself. He was so lost in her presence that he didn’t realize how long he was staring until she turned around and jumped with a quiet yelp, her hand coming up to hold the center of her chest. 

“Christ, George!” She cried quietly, “you scared me!”

George stared at her for a moment, her sweet voice filling his ears harmoniously. He stepped closer and embraced her softly as he apologized into her neck. She laughed as she held him back, kissing the side of his head. There was that sweet, sweet perfume he missed so much. His hands clutched at her back tightly and her breath felt soft and warm against him. He kissed her swiftly and longingly and she laughed into it, scolding him for his morning breath. He smiled.

They planned the day, George making sure that he was a part of every single plan, not leaving her alone for a second. It was their anniversary, so she didn't object. The day went perfectly, just as it had the first time, though this time after dinner he chose not to run to his office, and instead go straight home together. This gave her no time to carry out her plan. George patted himself on the back as they went home, patiently awaiting to start the rest of their life together as they went to bed, souls and bodies intertwined. Maybe this was what would solve his problems in the real world. This was definitely it, George thought as he drifted to sleep.  

When George awoke, he was sitting on his couch. 

“No, no, no, NO!” he shouted frantically as he picked up the instructions, reading them through again.  

He did nothing wrong. Stupid gadget. He knew it was too good to be true. Angrily, he went back again, changing the scenario. 

He awoke on the couch again. 

Another.

Couch.

Another.

The same stupid couch. 

George must have tried at least a hundred times before a frustrated shout escaped him and he slammed the gadget onto the ground, breaking down completely, fists in his hair and snot running down his face. His throat was on fire as he desperately tried to make a sound, his cries stuck achingly in his throat. Though the pain that swept his body was not one of complicated grief, but rather the final stage of it: acceptance. 

As George silently shook on the hardwood floor, the realization settled that no matter what, he would eventually end up losing Camille to herself. That no matter what he did or didn’t do, Camille was still Camille. She was meant to be in George’s life for the allotted time and no more. To George, she was his life, but at the same time she was born to say goodbye. She was the one to teach him love and to take it away. 

It crashed into him, invasive and abrupt like harsh waves against a rocky shoreline. Though after some time, when the waves eventually calmed and George felt like he could breathe again, the most peculiar feeling washed over him. 

He wanted to call his mother.