Closing the door behind me as I leave the empty room, a sob catches in my throat. I splutter and cough.
‘Mindy? You OK?’ asks Charles, calling from the breakfast bar.
It’s pertinent that he should check on me. Even in my medicated haze, I can tell he’s keeping a close watch, in case I swallow the entire packet of pills prescribed by the doctor at the hospital. Or slice my wrists in the tub.
Only seven days ago, the room I just left was filled with furniture, toys, clothes and prints. A beautiful frieze decorated the wall and curtains billowed in the breeze through the open window. The mobile above her cot tinkled its delightful tune.
But she’s gone now. And the room is cleared of all traces of her. I saw no point in keeping her things. Charles disagreed at first, but now he’s come to my way of thinking. Harsh reminders of what we had will do us no good if we want to move forward.
‘Mindy?’ Charles calls again after I offer no response.
I brush away the moisture on my cheeks with the back of my hand. I gush out a breath, and softly respond, ‘I’m OK.’
But I’m not. The pain keeps crashing into me like waves on the beach. It’s a dull ache, lapping at my feet. Or it’s a powerful force that threatens to knock me over.
I reach Charles at the breakfast bar. He’s made me coffee and toast. I want neither. Why would I eat when my reason for living is dead.