The Periods of Being

Chapter I

Chapter I

1919 Wales, England

       Olive sits in the backseat of the car, watching the trees blur outside her window. The black, elegant dress reflects her sorrow eyes and the reality unfolding slowly, like an open wound scabbing over. She plays with the veil that covers her face, trying to get her fingers something to do. Julie, her lady's maid, assured her that she didn't have to wear it, that it is going out of style for widowers to wear, but Olive wished to wear it. She will mourn for him with a veil too similar to her wedding veil.

       The words of this morning come back to haunt her like a deathly phantom.

       I have been asked to inform you that your husband, Mark Garthen, has been killed in battle. On the behalf of the Secretary of Defense, I extend to you and your family my deepest sympathy for your great loss.

      Her heart skips and clenches in her chest. The same torn bush from this morning tears open her throat by the memory of the telegram pushes through. The two senders held nothing but sympathy for her then. She will remember them as easily as the words.

      Her hands drop to her lap dead with the thought. If her throat didn't sting and her eyes weren't already puffy and dry, she'll burst into tears again. She'll scream like she did when her butler, Mr. Sadder, asked her what the two men brought for her. A death note. Not her husband.

     Her back hits the back cushion of the seat in defeat.

     The chauffeur and her haven't spoken since he picked her up at the train station— if hellos are counted as a conversation. He's new. She concludes this with his fresh and young face. The old chauffeur would be talking to her about now, but this man doesn't know her as she doesn't know him. She can't remember if he even gave her his name for her to address him. Her mind runs blank on any remembrance of a name. She tells herself that a name isn't important. The only thing important is she is almost to Blythestone Manor, where she can grieve and be away from Garthen manor for a while. The thought of sleeping in the bed that she once shared with her husband was unthinkable. Even when she had shared her room in her parent's estate. The bed back at the manor was theirs. This one, in particular, is hers. Even with the memories of them sleeping in each other's arms is locked in the room.

     "Are you excited to be back home?" The voice interrupts the silence. Olive turns away from the window and to the man in the rearview mirror. He is smiling—politely, but in a way that switches her sorrow into anger. Anger courses through her because somehow he could smile. In the time since she received the telegram, her cheeks lost the ability to.

     "I don't think excited is the right word for this situation," she answers back. The chauffeur stiffens, as if he just realized his mistake.

     "I'm—" He stutters before clearing his throat. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be insensitive."

     She gulps at his words and shakes her head. She should say it's okay, but she can't. The words are not in her dictionary for today. Or for now. The car grows in an eerie silence. She tells herself that she shouldn't say anything. She owes nothing to this man who believes she should be excited to see her parents and her family again, but there is a ting in her heart telling her that he didn't deserve to drive in such heavy silence. Today is already too unbearable. The least she can do for today is try to make it move without bumps that can be smoothed out.

     She licks her crack lips with her dry tongue.

     "Don't worry about it..." She searches for a name.