The Aftermath Read online

  ALSO BY GAIL SCHIMMEL:

  Marriage Vows

  Whatever Happened to the Cowley Twins?

  The Park

  Two Months

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019, 2021 by Gail Schimmel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  First published as The Accident by Pan Macmillan in South Africa in 2019. This edition contains editorial revisions.

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542029209

  ISBN-10: 1542029201

  Cover design by Sarah Whittaker

  To Thomas and Megan, my children, my world.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  PART 1

  MONDAY

  Helen

  Julia

  Helen

  Julia

  Claire

  Julia

  Helen

  Julia

  Helen

  TUESDAY

  Claire

  Julia

  Daniel

  Julia

  WEDNESDAY

  Claire

  Helen

  Daniel

  Julia

  Helen

  Daniel

  Julia

  Helen

  Julia

  THURSDAY

  Claire

  Daniel

  Julia

  Helen

  FRIDAY

  Julia

  Claire

  Daniel

  Julia

  Claire

  Julia

  PART 2

  MONDAY

  Helen

  Julia

  Claire

  TUESDAY

  Helen

  Claire

  Julia

  Claire

  Julia

  Daniel

  WEDNESDAY

  Claire

  Julia

  Helen

  Claire

  Julia

  Claire

  THURSDAY

  Helen

  Claire

  Julia

  Claire

  Julia

  FRIDAY

  Claire

  Helen

  Julia

  Daniel

  SATURDAY

  Claire

  Julia

  Helen

  Claire

  SUNDAY

  Julia

  Claire

  Helen

  Claire

  PART 3

  MONDAY

  Helen

  Julia

  Claire

  Daniel

  Julia

  Claire

  TUESDAY

  Julia

  Claire

  Helen

  WEDNESDAY

  Julia

  Claire

  Helen

  Julia

  Helen

  Claire

  Daniel

  Helen

  Julia

  Helen

  PART 4

  Dear Mike . . .

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Did you enjoy . . .

  Prologue

  We had to stop a few times, and soon it was dark . . . dark like it can only be on a narrow highway in the middle of nowhere with no street lights. There was almost no traffic, but cows or even buck could step into the road at any point, and we both knew stories about accidents like this. A cow, hit at the right speed, is surprisingly lethal.

  ‘Drive carefully,’ I said. ‘There’s no rush.’

  ‘I am driving carefully,’ Mike snapped. ‘It’s hard.’

  We saw the truck approaching from a long way away. It was barely of any interest, except that we hadn’t seen much traffic on that road for a while.

  Suddenly, out of the blue, as the truck drew level with us, the driver swerved. Nobody ever knew why. The truck swerved on to our side of the road; everything became loud and black and hard, and I didn’t know what was happening – it was all lights and noise and the screaming of brakes.

  The truck hit the driver’s side, almost ploughing through us.

  And then I looked over at Mike, and he was very still, and there was blood trickling out of his nose.

  PART 1

  FEBRUARY

  MONDAY

  Helen

  I’m filling in a questionnaire on depression. It popped up while I was searching for a local plumber, and something about it caught my attention. ‘Are You Suicidal?’ screamed the headline. Well, I know the answer to that, obviously, but I still find myself clicking through to the test. It’s multiple choice, and I have to click on the answer that best describes me.

  I feel depressed

  Always Often Sometimes Seldom Never

  I click on ‘Always’. It feels good to own it; I spend so much time keeping up a facade, pretending to be a normal person. But I can tell this anonymous internet quiz how I feel, and nobody will be hurt by it.

  I think about suicide

  Always Often Sometimes Seldom Never

  This one is trickier. On one hand, I very seldom actually think about suicide. It’s just that I know that it’s my long-term plan, and has been since The Accident. So, while I seldom think about it, I also always think about it. I click on ‘Always’.

  I feel anxious

  Always Often Sometimes Seldom Never

  I smile. This one will confuse the algorithm. I never feel anxious. The only good thing about the very worst thing in the world happening to you is that you never feel anxious again. I click on ‘Never’. I’m not anxious because there’s only one thing left that could hurt me, and even if that happened – if something happened to Julia – in a way it would release me and I could kill myself. So, I don’t worry about anything. Worry is behind me.

  It feels so good to tell the truth for once, even though it’s just to a random internet quiz, that I momentarily feel alive, but it’s just a flicker. Still, flickers are the best I get, and I try to enjoy them. When I started feeling little flickers of pleasure, about five years after The Accident, I was hopeful. Everybody had told me that all it takes to heal is time. For five years I had been in a deep, dark hole, getting up each day, functioning, pretending, and counting the minutes till I could take a sleeping pill and go back to sleep. But then, slowly, I started noticing small things – the sunlight on Julia’s hair, the taste of my food, a pleasing bird-song – and I thought that maybe I was getting better, that I might be like everybody else and be healed by time. But it never became more than those brief glimpses of pleasure. Most of the time I act like a person, but I am empty inside. Occasionally, something touches me and I remember who I used to be, before The Accident.

  I finish the other questions, and then click on ‘Submit’, and wait while the computer screen says ‘Calibrating results’.

  ‘Suicidal,’ says the outcome. ‘Please seek professional help immediately.’ Links appear to a whole lot of resources that would be useless to me anyway, because none of them are South African. Well, it’s official then, I think. I’m officially suicidal. At least it shows the test works. Maybe it will help somebody else.

  As I go back
to googling plumbers, my phone rings. The caller ID says ‘Julia’. I consider not answering it. But Julia is the reason that I stay alive, so ignoring her calls doesn’t make sense. I work very hard to behave in a way that makes sense to other people. I’ve devoted the last twenty-six years to it, and I think most people are fooled.

  ‘Hello darling,’ I answer.

  ‘Hi Mum,’ says Julia. She doesn’t bother with any small talk. Julia and I are not ones for small talk. ‘Mum, I’ve got some news. Can I come around later?’

  Julia

  My mother isn’t curious about my news.

  She’s not like other mothers. When I phone and tell her I have big news, she doesn’t nag me, or beg me to tell her, or insist I come around immediately. I wasn’t exactly expecting her to. But I always have a small hope that one day she will act a little bit more like a mother should.

  My therapist thinks I subconsciously remember a time when she was different, and that this is the source of my hope. Everybody (including Alice, my therapist) insists that my mother is like she is because of The Accident. Everybody says it like that – like it has capital letters – even my mother. My life has been defined by something that happened to my parents when I was two, something I wasn’t even involved in.

  Maybe my mother was different before. When I was a child, I came up with the theory that she was a zombie. That she’d actually died in that stupid accident, but for some reason kept walking around like an alive person. ‘My mum’s actually a zombie,’ I told some of the girls at school. They didn’t believe me, so I invited them around to play. After that they still didn’t believe me, but they also didn’t not believe me. That’s how much like a zombie my mother was. And still is. Luckily I was friends with the sort of girls who were very kind and who wouldn’t tease you, even if your mother was a zombie. The sort of girls who went home and told their mothers how worried they were about me, with a zombie mother. Pippa Lee’s mum took me aside one day and gently told me that my mother was definitely not a zombie, just a bit sad. I nodded and said yes, I understood. And I allowed her to pull me to her large soft breasts and stroke my head, because it’s true that children of zombies are starved of physical affection.

  When I told Alice my childhood zombie theory, she thought it was psychologically very astute. Alice’s theory is that the reason I’m not more screwed-up is because I was a particularly astute little girl. My theory is that therapists have to say that to make you feel better. Making you feel better is a big part of their job description. As far as I’m concerned, I’m okay because I had an okay childhood. Yes, my mother is distant and cold – even her hands are cold to the touch – but she provided for me, and she was always around, and she came to all my school events, and she never hit me or even lost her temper with me. Even when I tried to make her. Even in my teens when I went out with unsuitable boys and came home late and drunk, and fought with her. She just stayed calm and told me she trusted me. People have much worse childhoods, I tell Alice. I have a lot to be grateful for. Alice says this is a very mature attitude, and I feel better about myself. As I leave the waiting room I wonder if she has different compliments for all her patients, or if she just recycles the same ones. I don’t really care – children of zombies take their compliments where they can find them.

  So I’m disappointed, but not surprised, when my mother’s reaction to my announcement that I have news is to calmly arrange a visit two days from now.

  I phone Daniel.

  ‘I told my mum I have something to tell her.’

  ‘Was she excited for us?’

  ‘I didn’t tell her about us. I just told her I have something to tell her. I’ll see her in two days and tell her then.’ I can almost feel Daniel’s confusion through the phone. ‘I’ve explained to you, Daniel,’ I say. ‘She’s not like other mums. If I announced that I’d decided to turn myself into a rhinoceros, she’d just nod and say, “That’s nice, dear”.’

  ‘Maybe it would help if I met her?’ says Daniel.

  Daniel wants to meet my mum, and I don’t want him to – this has been an ongoing theme for the last two months. Ever since Daniel moved in.

  ‘If she’s so calm, she’s not going to freak out about me,’ he goes on.

  ‘No, she won’t. I’m not worried about her. I’m worried about you. You might not feel the same way about me after you’ve met her. She’s very . . . indifferent.’

  He sighs. ‘I love you. I don’t care if your mother’s an ice statue.’

  ‘Well,’ I say. ‘You’ll meet her in due course. Just let me tell her first.’

  The problem, of course, is that Daniel isn’t thinking ahead. He isn’t thinking about having a child with me, even though he knows that’s what I want. He isn’t thinking about what sort of mother I’ll be. But if he meets my mum, he’s going to think about it. He’s going to wonder if I’ll become like her. He’s going to wonder if he’s done the wrong thing.

  Alice says I won’t become like my mother. She says she can absolutely guarantee it. She says I will screw up my children in entirely different ways.

  ‘Maybe I just won’t have children,’ I told Alice once. ‘Maybe that’ll be better.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she answered. ‘You’re always talking about how you want kids.’

  Sometimes I wish I had the sort of therapist who just nods and says, ‘How does that make you feel?’

  Alice has a lot to say about my relationship with Daniel, of course. She says I was attracted to him because he was unavailable, because that’s all I’ve ever known. She’s very worried that I won’t want him now that he’s available. She’s especially worried because Daniel’s a very warm and effusive man. He’s always telling me how much he loves me and how excited he is about our lives together. Alice says I must be careful not to feel stifled. I tell her that’s not going to happen; I’m very pleased Daniel is with me. I just don’t tell Alice how I creep out of his heavy arms at night because I’m worried I’ll suffocate.

  And I don’t tell anyone that in a strange way, my mother’s phlegmatic reactions – while constantly disappointing – are also strangely comforting because they are all I know.

  Helen

  When I get off the phone, I can hardly breathe I am so excited. Julia says she has some news, and she sounds happy. Her news can only be one of two things, either of which could be the beginning of my plan to kill myself.

  I have spent twenty-six years waiting. Feeling nothing. Going through the motions. Surviving at best, falling apart at worst. Living from sleeping pill to sleeping pill, and trying to mother Julia in-between. Waiting and waiting for the day Julia no longer needs me so I can end my pain. That day is finally coming.

  What I am feeling now is more than a small flicker of life, which is the most I have come to expect. My body is fizzing with life, spilling over with it. I am so excited I can’t sit down, I can’t concentrate, I can’t do anything. I want to tell someone. But the only person I want to speak to is Mike.

  The only person I ever want to speak to is Mike.

  Julia

  Now that I have an arrangement to see my mother, I need to think about what I’m actually going to say to her. In most situations, the mother would know about the boyfriend before there’s an announcement of them having moved in together. Never mind the rest.

  But with Daniel it’s complicated, so my mother knows nothing. In fact, as far as she knows, the most exciting thing happening in my life is still pottery class and making friends with Claire.

  Claire. I met Claire at a pottery class about a year ago. I started pottery because my day job was boring and I needed to do something fun and artistic.

  People often find it hard to reconcile my personality with my job. I have untameable hair, wear loud colours, and every now and again I go off to Iggy Pop in my flat. At home I am chronically disorganised, and I have a history of dead-end relationships. People expect me to be artistic, I think, or else they expect me to be a low achiever. There wa
s a time I didn’t expect much from myself either, to be honest.

  But I’m an accountant. And a really good one. And I think it’s because so much of my childhood had no answers, but accounts always have answers. From the moment I took my first high school accountancy lesson and the teacher said, ‘If it doesn’t balance, you know the answer is wrong,’ I knew this was the career for me. With my mum, I never know if my answers are wrong. With my work, I know. Accounting makes life seem fair. Alice says she’s heard of worse reasons to choose a career.

  I don’t work in a smart firm where I get to wear power suits, though. I work in an old-fashioned business where my boss wears a cardigan, is freaked out by my wrist tattoo, and regards computers with utmost suspicion. My colleagues are all older than me. Good people, durable people, but cut from the same dull tweed cloth. Our offices are in one of those converted old-Joburg blocks of flats. The other tenants have knocked out walls and put in fancy flooring and cool lighting, and generally made the place quite trendy. But our suite still has faded carpets and that rough plastering that accumulates little wells of dust. You can imagine the sad lives that were conducted in these rooms before it became an office block. Sometimes it feels like the whole place is covered in dandruff.

  I really need to get out, to find a more stimulating position. But I don’t seem to be able to move. So last year I decided to do pottery.

  Work probably wasn’t the only thing that led me to pottery. I was also lonely. I’ve always had loads of friends; nights out and laughs and get-togethers. But something’s happened in the last year or two. My closest group of friends has just kind of dissolved. My best friend, Mandy, who’s the most talented dressmaker and fashion designer and was always up for a party . . . she had a baby. Her husband is all my fault, because she met him through me. He’s also an accountant – only he’s the stereotypical type. I never, for one moment, thought they’d get together.

  I listened to all Mandy’s god-awful pregnancy tales, but it didn’t end when the baby actually arrived. Then it was all breastfeeding and sleep habits and baby nutrition and the relentless trivia of his life. I tried to understand, but it bored me to tears. So I don’t see Mandy much any more, and I don’t know if she’s noticed. And Agnes emigrated to Jamaica of all places, and now just posts enviable selfies on Facebook. Mary-Anne kind of drifted off after she got married on a beach in Zanzibar and didn’t invite anyone, which made things a bit awkward, and Flora decided to study medicine at the age of twenty-seven and is now never available, night or day.