"The Convalescent"
A new short story.
She has been looking at his letter for far too long now, as if by doing so she might be able to change what the words say, reverse the decision he has made. Although he has not phrased it in such a way, she cannot help but feel fault is attached to her. Yet she had not been responsible for the uneven pavement, nor the hard frost which left invisible spots of black ice scattered across it. Surely it had been nothing more than the vagaries of luck which saw her heel strike the ice in such a way as to force her to lose her balance; and then, in the effort to regain it, to catch the lip of the next paving slab. The slip became a topple which — thanks to the bags she was carrying — saw her fall awkwardly. The crack of her ankle echoed like a rifle report. Indeed, although she could not possibly have been aware of it, the sound caused other pedestrians to turn in her direction, and not merely those Samaritans who arrived at her side within moments. Now, a week on, the pain has largely subsided, but she remains a prisoner indoors, glued to the high-backed winged armchair which her sister has further softened by placing pillows behind her back. To her side, on a small table placed there for her convenience, a cup, saucer, and small teapot. Yet rather than being comforting, these also feel as if they are part of the conspiracy against her, reminders that currently — and for another few weeks — she will be unable to fetch and carry as she usually does, even in her sister’s house.
Although only two pages long, Vince’s letter feels heavy in Natasha’s hands as if it too is playing its part in fixing her in place.
As much as I wanted us to go together, the words say, I have decided to go anyway. Or perhaps I should say ‘go on ahead’, as there must surely be a chance that you will be able to join me before I have to return. This is an opportunity too good to turn down (I’m sure you realise that), and one which may not arise again if I forego it now. Paris won’t be the same without you there, I’m sure of that; and all the things we talked of doing I daresay I won’t do on my own. Expect my letters to talk of boring mornings in libraries, or of my feet aching from continual tramping round the galleries in search of material for the book. Research, I suppose. But we will go, you and I. We will. Perhaps next year when the book is done and I won’t be encumbered with work and you’ll be springing about like a young lamb.
Claudia thought the lamb reference a little lame.
“Just goes to show why he’s an art historian and not a proper writer,” she’d said dismissively.
If Natasha chose not to contradict her sister it was not simply because she thought her observation more or less true, but because she read Vince’s letter in an entirely different way, through an alternative register. She saw things between the lines which perhaps Claudia did not — or, if she did, at least she had the good sense to keep those views to herself. Natasha is grateful that Claudia has never been too extreme in her judgement of Vince. Yes, he had his flaws (who didn’t?!) but he had generally been kind and considerate, even loving — though whether sufficiently so for her to fully invest in him, Natasha remains unsure. Paris was supposed to have been her opportunity to decide. But now she imagines him skipping from gallery to gallery — perhaps even like a lamb! — spending the early Spring afternoons sitting at pavement cafés; she can see him making new friends at the university, in the libraries and museums, and wonders who else might be charmed by his intelligence and winningly naïve wit just as she had been. More than that, she sees a Parisienne — taller and slimmer than she is — waiting for him outside the Louvre; sees them locking arms, the woman leaning in to whisper something which makes him laugh. When they disappear into the gallery she chooses not to follow; she does not want to imagine what might come next.
All of this is there in his letter, even if Claudia cannot see it. She replaces his words — like ‘boring’ and ‘tramping’ — with words of her own, painting an entirely different picture, the one in which she was supposed to have a presence. At least before the intrusion of ‘the Parisienne’.
“Will you go as soon as you are able?”
It had been an early question from Claudia, partly driven by the need to know how long she would have the convalescent under her roof.
“I don’t know. It depends I suppose: in the first place on how long it is before I’m mobile; and in the second, when I feel up to such a long trip. Over eight hours on a plane, on my own, cattle-class across the Atlantic.”
“You make it sound so romantic!” Claudia had laughed.
What Natasha had not said was that her travelling would depend on his letters above all else. She would know — based on how often he wrote and the words he used — how much he was missing her, how hard and lonely his time there was proving to be. Or whether the Parisienne had indeed appeared, entranced him with her beauty and intellect and intoxicating accent…
The letter suddenly feels heavier still. She moves it onto the table. Brushes the teapot to see if it is still warm.
“I’m just popping to the store” comes Claudia’s voice from the hallway. The front door bangs.
Abandoned, Natasha looks at the little table, the letter and the tea things on it, and inwardly curses how late East Coast ice has ruined her life.
If she's got that many doubts, it's not going to work!