56 Days by Catherine Ryan Howard

21 Days Ago

Oliver wills himself to get up from the couch and go into the kitchen, where he stands at the sink and gulps down several glasses of water without turning on any lights. His stomach is growling and upset, but he has no appetite. He can’t imagine eating. He fills his water glass again and goes into the bathroom to get a pill.

There is a moment then, in the bathroom. In front of the cabinet, holding the blister pack in his hand.

The pills are lethal, deadly if you don’t follow the dose. They’re what you do when you’ve exhausted all other options because they’re so damn strong. It’s why he only takes them, at the very most, once a month, and never ever exceeds the dose.

He counts the pills now: seventeen between the two blister packs.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but—

Oliver shoves them both back into the medicine cabinet and firmly closes the door. It’s not an option. He’d tried it once, not very hard, and was glad when it didn’t work. A permanent solution to a temporary problem, is what Dan says. Usually right before he says, This too shall pass.

But will this?

He goes into the bedroom and sees the bed is made, which at first he can’t figure out. But then he remembers: he hasn’t been in it since Wednesday morning, and Wednesday morning Ciara was still here. She must have made it. He spreads his hands across the sheets, trying to detect some trace of her decaying presence, but there’s nothing there.

He climbs onto the bed, folds himself in under the blanket, imagining that it’s her arms he can feel, holding him tight, keeping him safe, and dreams of a cold river and a young boy’s eyes looking up at him, asking the same question over and over.

Why are you doing this to me?

Now, as then, Oliver doesn’t know.

At some point on Saturday he forces himself out of bed and wanders into the kitchen to get something to eat, not because he’s hungry but because he can’t stand to listen to the incessant gurgling of his stomach juices anymore. He finds an open box of breakfast cereal and starts eating it dry and by the fistful, standing up. As each blast of sugar hits his bloodstream, more and more of his surroundings emerge from the fog of exhaustion and take on a solid shape.

The curtains are closed, even though it’s the middle of the afternoon. The kitchen is littered with half-drunk glasses of water, the remnants of an uneaten lunch from—Wednesday? Has that been sitting there since Wednesday?—and the air is stale and smells odd, like sour milk. He should clean up, but his limbs feel heavy. All he wants to do is go back to bed.

Well, what he really wants to do is talk to Ciara, but that’s not an option.

Unless he can persuade her to come back, to listen to him just for a few minutes. To let him explain himself now that the shock may have subsided somewhat. Of course she reacted that way, he wouldn’t have expected anything else. But maybe now, with a few days’ distance, with the revelation having had a bit of time to lose its electrified edges . . .

His phone. Where is it?

He pushes aside the kitchen countertop’s detritus, searching, until he finds it under a government-issuedCOVID-19 advice booklet, dark and dead. Another search eventually turns up the charger; he goes back into the bedroom and plugs it in next to the bed.

What is he supposed to say to her? What words could possibly convince her to come back and speak to him?

At the buzz-buzz sound that signals the phone is charged enough to have powered itself back on, he picks it up and starts typing Ciara a text message. It goes through several drafts and deletions, but eventually he settles on:

I know it’s over but I don’t want it to end this way. Can we talk? We can meet somewhere public if you prefer.

He waits for the notification that it’s been delivered, but it doesn’t come.

One minute passes.

Two.

Has she blocked him, he wonders, or is her phone just turned off? He chances calling her and gets his answer: it goes straight to voicemail.

He doesn’t leave a message. Instead, he rolls over, burrows beneath the blankets, and closes his eyes, desperate for sleep to come and save him from the torture of his own thoughts, the reality of this situation, what it might mean for his future, his regrets.

Eventually he dozes.

It gets dark again.

A ringing sound, aggressive and electronic and out of place.

Oliver jerks awake, sits up in the dark and thinks, My phone. But it’s not his phone, it’s the buzzer, pulsing out of the intercom in the hall.

Someone is here.

He’s confused by the light. What time is it? What day? He feels groggy and disoriented, yanked out of one time and dumped in another.

Would Kenneth have come over? He doubts it. Which means that really, it could only be—

Oliver jumps out of bed but his body isn’t ready for it, and he stumbles and falls hard against the wardrobe door, sending a shooting pain emanating out from his left elbow in all directions.

The buzzer goes again.

He scrambles to his feet, hurries out into the hall.

It’s her.

He can see her on the little square video display.

“Ciara,” he says, pressing the Open button, not caring that her name has come out of his mouth sounding pathetically grateful and desperately hopeful.

Her voice, tinny from the speaker: “Can I come in?”

“Of course. Of course. Of course.”

On the video screen, she disappears from view and there’s a clicking sound as the outside door opens.

Oliver goes to open his own front door and stands on its threshold, one hand holding it open, facing down the corridor. He tries to rub alertness into his face with his free hand while he waits.

What is he going to say to her? What is she going to say to him? When she rounds the curve in the corridor, her face offers no hints—at least until she reaches him, when her brow furrows with concern.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

This is promising, he thinks. That she cares.

“I just haven’t slept properly,” he says, his tongue feeling thick.

“Since I last saw you, by the look of things.”

“Yeah, well.” He swallows hard. “Are you coming in?”

“I was going to. We need to talk, but . . .” She hesitates. “I don’t think you’re in any fit state to, right now.”

“I’m fine,” he protests.

“I can see that you’re not. You look like shit and your pupils are the size of saucers.” A pause. “Have you been drinking?”

He shakes his head, no. “I just need to sleep. But I’m okay for now. Come in—”

“Like hell you are.”

“Please.”

A beat passes.

“Look,” she says then, “why don’t you just go to bed, get a good night’s sleep, and I’ll come back tomorrow. We can talk then.”

The kindness in her voice cuts through him. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve her.

“Okay,” he says, “but will you stay?”

It takes what feels like forever for her to decide.

“All right, but only to make sure you rest. And I’ll be on the couch.”

They go inside, and he closes the door behind them.

“What’s that smell?” she says, wrinkling her nose.

All he can smell is her, the stuff she puts in her hair that smells of the sea and sunny days. He thinks of the day in the park, her lying beside him, nothing else on the earth but blue sky and their heartbeats.

She gently guides him toward the bedroom, motions for him to get into bed.

“Are you back?” he says. “Can you love me anyway?”

She doesn’t speak and he closes his eyes before he can see the answer on her face.

He hears the blind coming down, the heels of her boots crossing the floor, the soft click of the bedroom door as she closes it gently, saying, “We’ll talk in the morning, okay?”