Maybe Tomorrow

Note: Some graphic content

Maybe Tomorrow

On account of the rain, what should have been a five-minute affair turned into an hour.

I had even left a note (that you missed) on the front door: Writing in shed. Everything’s in the box. Say hello to Mrs Sumner for me. And been especially mindful of the time and duration of your visit—though now, none of it matters because of the rain.

At 2.15 pm, every Thursday, you would have just ended your meeting with Rupert in Marylebone.

Since your own research partner was always in a hurry to leave, you always made sure to have a light lunch of warm prawns swimming in olive oil and a caprese salad with the crunchiest heritage tomatoes and freshest basil. After that, you still had a good half-an-hour or so before you went out for your house calls.

This week, I decided that you should pay me a visit instead. Pick up your box. Leave behind your key. Continue on your business. Go. After Remy, you had always been willing to let me call the shots on the house, on the relationship, anyway.

Just last week, you would have still used the time to indulge in a Lee Child or Ruth Ware that I had started leaving in your bag when you started your house calls to Mrs Sumner’s place.

You said she had one of the sharpest minds you had ever come across as far as nonagenarians went, but was afflicted with one of the most debilitating cases of arthritis you had ever seen. To make matters worse, on your first house call to Mrs Sumner, while you tried to instruct her on the medications she needed to take, why and when, she had thought it more meaningful to educate you on the methods of Agatha Christie and P. D. James.

She was convinced that they were more effective at keeping her mind alive, her perception of pain at bay, than any medication, any doctor. You, included. Nothing ever helped. Particularly not the pills you were asking her to take, what with their conflicting mechanisms, their confounding side-effects. At that time, you had found it hard—impossible, even—to admit that she was only willing to listen to you when she mistakenly assumed you were an avid reader of mystery fiction.

One day, I had slipped an Ann Cleaves into your black, bleak-looking doctor’s bag, imagining that you would take it out to show her, then, hazarding the notion that it was her idea of a joke or a prank to get you to read something other than Blinkist, Quiddity, Instareads. Together, the two of you shared a good laugh about the strange appearance of Ann Cleaves, which made Mrs Sumners forget her pain for a few dizzying moments of hilarity or so, and more importantly, remember everything that she needed to know about her ever expanding array of medications.

After a while, you did realise it was a trick I was playing on both of you—a literary sleight of hand of sorts, if you will.

Since then, you made me promise, “Nothing too heavy or complicated—just stories of rivetingly told, unadulterated murders, love.” But when I pointed out how downright unsettling it was to get a visit from a doctor who was supposed to save lives relishing in the narratives of those who took them, you only grinned. “You know, I never really lose myself in these books, right?”

And you were right.

You always took great paints to be on time, all the time, for all your patients—for me. You still believed no book could take away our pain, but you were always giving it go.

So, here you are, a book in hand, a classic this time, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s A Study in Scarlet. Your house calls waylaid by the rain. My plans for the house waylaid by you. I had not planned for us to be together for more than five minutes, but now, not only are we sitting, reading, drinking the tea I brewed at 2.15, thinking that you would be gone by 2.20, but also listening to the rain beating against the kitchen window, together again.

Oddly enough, the smell of the rain was acrid and pungent. It smelled like there was something burning in the air—something like coal or plastic, from somewhere, from everywhere, and I wrinkled my nose at it. Without looking up, you suddenly said, “You know, we met on a day like this.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, on a rainy day like this, don’t you remember? It was autumn too and it was raining heavily, just like now. God, it smelled so bad—like rotten eggs or rotten fish. We were both seeking shelter under that bus stop outside the chip shop and… Wait, is something wrong?”

“I…”

“No, I said too much, didn’t I? It’s all right, love. You need to take your time.”

“But, I…” I had wanted to say, I liked it how when you tell it like that, it almost sounded like fiction.

Now, your light, golden-brown eyes were resting over the pages of your book and stayed there for an extended period of time. From where I sat, it truly looked like your every motion had slowed down as if you were waiting for me to call you out on it.

But I never did.

Before Remy, there was a regularity to which we led both our lives. When we found out about Remy, well into her fifteenth week of life, all our lives were upended. I told you, I could feel her bleeding right out of me like she was clinging to dear life. But there was nothing nobody could have done, not even you, love.

Finally, you said, “The rain doesn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon.” I could tell that you were getting worried. Your phone had been buzzing the past hour, and you were unlikely to let any of your patients down, preferring to brave the weather to see to their needs but daring less with mine. “Um, do you think I could drop by again? You know, for the stuff.”

“Maybe tomorrow?” I said before realising I did.

When the words left my mouth, however, I knew I was committed.

I watched your golden-brown eyes caramelise and I couldn’t take back my words. I just couldn’t. When you nodded in answer, as usual, you were right in choosing not to spoil this precious understanding we cradled between us with words or thoughts.

Minutes later, I watch you as you walk outside to your car in the rain and admire the way the light from the gently parting clouds made the specks of white in your eyes swirl like streams of milk in a teacup. I wave you off as you disappear down the street towards Mrs Sumner’s place.

Back inside, I notice your box beside the door and leave it there a while longer.