The Periods of Being

Chapter VI

Chapter VI

     Freya is gone when Olive wakes up. Her eyes are swollen and her jaw hurts. When she looks at her reflection in the mirror, she is disgusted by the sight. Her eyes are puffy and boulders hang below her eyelids. Her nose is red with irritation. She ventures to the bathroom to try to clean herself up before ringing for breakfast. She runs a brush through her tangled hair and daps cold water under her eyes to try to ease the pain behind the swollen bumps. These eyes were once looked upon by Mark in the morning light. If he could see her right now, she wonders if he would say the same you're so beautiful to her ruined complexion.

     When she looks closer to what she did last night: beauty with grief, she walks to the fireplace to pull the rope to ring for breakfast. Her stomach tries to protest for her to not ring it. She pulls it down despite the grumbling protest to stay hungry. It's what she deserves.

     Mark would want her to eat, though. No matter how much she is grieving, he would insist on her taking care of herself. She knew this because of the many times she tried not to eat breakfast— or anything at all—. He'll try to get the cook to chef up something with chocolate to cheer her up and to convince her to eat. She slips under the covers again at the memory.

      He'd never be able to do that again. The thought of it hurts worse than an empty stomach. There are more moments that he'll never be able to recreate. Most of all: his smile. She fiddles with the edge of her duvet as she remembers the glow of his remarkable smile. Just a hint of that smile brought her out of her bad days. Sometimes just for a moment and then other times for the rest of the day. There was a silent understanding of her off days. He never asked why she had bad days or why she was crying at times of silence.

     She loved him for that.

     She loves him for it.

     He was a man she didn't deserve for many reasons. He knew her as she knew him more than anyone else could. A wave of heat rose to her cheeks. What they had was special. What Freya was saying last night made her realize she did need to think about the moments and memories that they did have.

    No one can take those away from her. She owns those memories for the rest of her life and the fact that she couldn't see that until last night because of Freya, made her realize how gone she was.

    She is still gone, though. She still suffers from the what-if grief factor. The memories may have been open and set free for her to enjoy them, but her heart clings on the reality of how the memories she has are the only ones she will ever have with him.

    A knock sounds on the door and before she can compose herself, Ms. Lillian walks in with a tray of food and a cup of something strong. The steam and the smell of cream tells her that it is coffee. Olive half-expected to have milk for breakfast, but she silently thanks Ms. Lillian for knowing she'll need coffee for today. Her mind is sleep-deprived and ready to the breakdown at any moment.

    Ms. Lillian sets up the legs of the tray to trap her in and keep the food from falling on her.

    "Will you like anything else?"

     Olive inspects the tray of toast, eggs, and coffee. She wonders where she found the coffee since the only thing her parents seem to carry themselves with on is tea.

    "No, this is perfect. Thank you, Ms. Lillian."

     Ms. Lillian smiles at her. The smiles again, Olive cries. She thinks for a brief second about asking why she is smiling all the time, but she keeps her mouth shut about the ordeal. Before Ms. Lillian can leave officially, the lady's maid turns to face her with another painted smile. Olive holds in a grimace. She wonders where Ms. Lillian learned to fake smile because then, Olive can ask her to teach her, so she might be able to play make-believe for her family. She keeps this to herself as she watches Ms. Lillian leave with blank features.

     The smell of coffee wafts to her nose like a song and she sways to the tone of it as she reaches to take the warm cup in her hands. Her hands awake from the warmth, and her muscle ease with her first sip.

    Thank you, dear chef and Ms. Lillian.

    She eats her breakfast without thoughts or any remembrance of memories. Her mind is blank of anything but how great the eggs taste and how the yolk drips on her tongue like protein honey. To say she needed this would be an understatement. This breakfast sparks a slight light of life in her eyes, like the way they used to when she would see Mark arrive home during his short leaves on duty. She gulps the rest of the coffee down before another set of memories barges through her.

    She lifts the tray off of her and to the side so she could be released from its clutches. Her feet carry her to the large window and she looks down at the view. It's a beautiful day— again. She glances over to her book on the chair where she left it yesterday and it tempts her to read it, to sit down and stay in her nightgown all day to read.

     She can't, though.

     Outside is too inviting.

     She floats to the rope by the fireplace again and pulls it down, signaling for Ms. Lillian to come back up to help her. When Ms. Lillian comes into the room, Olive rushes over to the vanity, ready to get dressed and out of her room as soon as possible.

    The lady's maid smiles as she goes over to the wardrobe and opens it to find an appropriate gown for the day. A day she plans to only read to distract herself from another day without Mark. Last night, she allowed her thoughts to be overrun. Today, she'll try to find the ability to fight the memories— not the heart-glowing ones, but the heartbreaking ones. Her sister's words fly back to her: Don't dwell on the what if's. Think about what happened. It is, perhaps, the most uplifting thing Freya has ever told her. The words are easy to remember, but she knows it'll be hard to do.

    As yet another black dress is zipped up on her back, she finds herself with a dark cloud overhead attached with a frown for her to wear like a matching handbag with the dress. What people don't say about the mourning gowns is how depressing the color black is. She hadn't realized this until now. The color drains her of any energy that could be used to recover from the loss of her husband but instead is used for grief and sorrow. She huffs at the reflection of herself in the mirror as Ms. Lillian pulls her hair up in a quick up-do to her request.

    "Like this, madam?"

     Olive shifts in her chair to see the side view and she nods. She stands and walks over to her line of shoes to slip on the same pair of black heels that she wore yesterday.

     "Thank you, Ms. Lillian, for your help." She finally is able to say while she grabs her thin black coat in the wardrobe. She walks toward her armchair to grab her book and sends a small wave to Ms. Lillian as she goes to exit the room without another word. Her fingertips merely brush on the door handle when Ms. Lillian calls to her.

     "Wait, Lady Olive!" Ms. Lillian cries out. Olive peeks back behind her. Her eyes glaze over with the tears she was about to cry in the hallway, out of the sight of the lady's maid. She gulps them down to keep them for outside when she is alone and far from the eyes of her family and the servants of the manor.

     "Yes?"

     Ms. Lillan approaches the door to get a closer look at Olive. Olive's feet fight to step away, but she stands her place as Ms. Lillian opens the door. The door creaks at her touch.

    "Would you like me to see if anyone would accompany you?" She asks. Olive arches her eyebrows, confused by her question. "So you don't have to be alone?" Ms. Lillian adds. Olive shakes her head.

    "No, thank you, I just wish to step outside for a while. Alone." Olive sends her reply with a cracked voice. Her eyes wander away from Ms. Lillian, not wanting to see the fake smile that she might have on her face right at this moment. She imagines this smile to be a sympathy smile, however, not a fake one.

    "Okay, enjoy your time, miss," she says, offering her the ability to disappear down the hallway. Olive takes it gladly. She walks in a sped-up pace as she descends down the staircase with the book in her tight grip. She starts to sink back into the hole of despair, and all she can do is escape out of the manor and find a bench far from any eyes that might see her shoulders shake and hear the moan of cries rumple out of her lips.