Falling Walls (III)

Chapter 29

When I returned home from work in the early evening, something felt different as I entered the apartment. The emptiness which had greeted me the past two day was gone and I wondered if I had already gotten used to an empty home. Home? Was I even allowed to call it that?

The black jacket hanging over one of the dining chairs was the first thing I noticed. It wasn't mine or the kids and it hadn't been there in the morning. Of that I was certain. My coffee cup from the morning was no longer on the table. The third sign that something was off was the rustling sound from down the hallway.

"Tom?" I silently called out. My heart began racing as I rushed towards the sound, nearly knocking over one of the small sculptures which were displayed along the open shelf wall. I dropped my bag half-way through the living room, then came to an abrupt halt when I noticed a woman staring back at me, standing in front of the floor to ceiling window with the dawn settling over the Alster Lake in the background. Her eyes, wide in surprise, looked just as confused as mine must have. Next to the messy bun on top of her head, the hand prints Tom and I had left behind the night before he left, were highlighted by the shadow the ceiling lights cast. In her hand, mid-air, the middle-aged woman held a wipe. "Don't!" I called out, panic rising in my chest. "Just don't wipe the windows," I clarified calmer, each syllable spread out.

"You must be Mrs Herzig," the woman who must be Tom's cleaning lady, noticed with a friendly smile. "I'll just quickly finish this one..."

"No, no. Don't worry. We won't need any cleaning this week." She gave in with a bit of a confused look on her face, and after some small talk left. The minute the door closed behind her, the emptiness enclosed me once more. I walked towards the window where Tom's cleaner had stood only seconds earlier, my hand slowly covering the messy outline of my hand print on the window. Pictures of Tom kissing me, the feeling of his skin against mine, his breath sending tingles through my blood consumed me. I am going insane. No, I am insane. I just sent Tom's cleaner away, telling her to leave the windows dirty. To leave the dirt I had been adamant about cleaning myself only forty-eight hours earlier. Leaning my forehead against the window, my hand began pounding against the glass. The glass is going to break. Don't hit the glass. I turned around towards the lounge and with my fists punched the soft cushions, screaming on top of my lungs.

Exhausted from my outburst I sank to the ground. Feeling better, after giving all my frustration, sadness and madness an outlet, I just hoped the walls were soundproof. Without brushing my teeth or getting changed, I went to bed. I didn't hear my mum return with the kids. Lucky, I'd given her the keys earlier.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

"Tell me what's going on?" My mum looked with concern and a hint of pity down at me. She sat next to me on the bed, stroking my hair out of my face. I don't think any hair was still covering my face, but just like when I was a child, feeling anxious over an exam or sad because of an argument with a friend, she continued to stroke my forehead.

"All is well, mum," I lied. "I was just tired yesterday. Thanks for looking after Sam and Emma. How was your day yesterday?"

"Oh no, darling," my mum said in her calm, yet determined voice, which told me that there was no need for arguing with her. "We're not leaving this room unless you tell me what's going on." The smell of strong coffee, the way my mum always made it, filled my nose and sure enough, on the bedside table sat two steaming cups. Noticing my look at the cups, my mum handed me one of them. I loved waking up to a cup of coffee in bed, but I knew that it couldn't fix my problems that morning. Looking up at my mum's face, all her judgement seemed to have gone. Left was her motherly compassion and worry, which I had missed so much.

"Tom left me," I broke out in tears.

"What do you mean, he left you?"

"He left me. After the talk at the library Tom stormed out and left. I haven't heard from him since." The last words were barely audible between my sobs but somehow it felt liberating telling someone. My mum was quiet. But the rhythmical strokes over my head were a comfort while I cried into her lap.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" My mum asked when cries turned into occasional sobs. I would have liked to tell her. I was ready to tell her. The problem was that I myself didn't know what had happened. And so I told her the exact sequence of events, everything that had happened, everything that I had thought and hoped. My mum didn't say anything. She just listened while her hand continued to softly stroke my head. When I was finished my recount, I looked up at her. Her stare was empty, her lips pressed into a firm line. From outside I heard a dog bark. There was absolute quiet, until my mum took a deep breath.

"I have to tell you something, my darling." She took a break, clearly thinking about what to say next. Mum moved back a bit, putting some space between us, and the emptiness I felt immediately scared me.

"Lisa, darling. Have I ever told you how Uncle Jorg met Aunt Dorothe?"