Fidèle is very strictly written from Luke's point of view, and so what follows is a scene I obviously couldn't include in the story. Don't read it unless you've read through the end of Chapter 41. There are no hints or portents regarding what's to come, though it is canonical. I just thought it was a nice "scene" and wanted to see it written down.
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The woman stood, silent and still. Face pale, flesh cold, eyes devoid of light as they searched for what was no longer there.
The thud of a door. Then another. The rising pitch of an engine as it disappeared into an invisible future.
She crumpled to the floor, weeping uncontrollably. Silently promising herself she'd allow no more than ten minutes.
She needed thirty.
<<<<<<<>>>>>>>
Used bottles and plastic tubes lined the bathroom sink as she showered, frantically scrubbing away another. Another time. Another person. Another love. Reaching into all her most intimate places...not to remember him, but rather to remove him. Memory circling a drain.
It needed to be done. It was a matter of respect.
Respect?!? The word lashed her soul, incrimination and accusation behind every fresh whip-fall as it echoed off the shower walls. She clawed for purchase, but it was futile. Once again, she sank to the floor.
<<<<<<<>>>>>>>
She had no need to check her phone. Any time now. With no clear direction or purpose in mind, she found herself standing on the dock, staring across a placid lake at nothing. Warm sun and blue sky were their own cruel mockery. She turned to go, but her eyes caught on the boathouse.
Inside she heard the echoes. Echoes of her. Echoes from another place. Echoes from another state of being. Echoes of someone she might never hear again.
She was back at the end of the dock, a towel hanging limply from her hand. She dropped it. Stripped off her shirt, pulling hard to stretch it over her breasts. Peeled her pants down her long legs. Added her lacy underwear to the pile. Her naked body arced into the water, a graceful dive cleanly knifing the mirrored surface. It was a frigid baptism. It was a shocking renewal. It was an icy wakeup call.
It washed away nothing.
She pulled herself back onto the dock, shivering.
So cold.
The towel mended what it could, but her voluminous hair would still be wet when the next chapter arrived. She got dressed again, hugging herself and staring listlessly at the lake. At the sky. At the past that was on its way. At the future that had already departed. At the present that had lost its hold on gravity, or clarity, or meaning.
At nothing.
"A little late in the season for a swim, don't you think?"
"It seemed like a good idea at the time."
Strong arms wrapped around hers. She sank into his solidity, whole and torn. One and three, but very far from two.
"You feel tired."
"I am. I didn't sleep very well." Or at all.
He stayed silent for a while, staring at a lake only he could see. "I've become more of an expert on saying goodbye than anyone should. Just about the only thing I've learned is that it never gets easier."
"No. No it doesn't."
"We'll see him again, you know." She nodded. An answer was impossible. The truth even more so.
He released his embrace and took her hand. "Let's go home."
For the first time, she turned to look at him. I remember, now. They kissed. Love shared between husband and wife.
"Home," she repeated, letting him guide her. For she was no longer certain of the way.