Deja Vu

On weekends she got up before me. Perhaps she knew I was awake, but she rose with barely a sound and began to move about in near silence. I caught glimpses of her bare feet and ankles as she crossed to the desk and slipped into the clothes she’d hung over the chair the night before. By that time I was awake, and before she went out, we always exchanged the same words.

‘See you in a bit.’

‘You too.’

We lived in the city, so the apartment was quite small, perfect for the two of us. To make space, we slept on a futon beside the settee, and on spring mornings, sunlight would gently warm the room through the curtains at the foot of the bed. She went out every morning, for an hour or so, and once she returned we would sit and drink coffee together at the desk. Then we got ready and went out.

We settled into this routine almost instantly, without any thought whatsoever. Even we were surprised at how easily we could live together. It turned out we were similar in just the right ways, while at the same time our differences were naturally complementary. We delighted in discovering new similarities, asking each other questions while knowing the other’s answer, and we often wondered how other couples could possibly be as happy as us. Even asleep we seemed to read each other’s minds, so if one of us stirred, the other would wake up, and with a touch of the fingers or hair, remind ourselves we were together.

On our first anniversary, she took me to an Italian restaurant near her old university. We could’ve taken a bus, but we agreed it’d be nicer to walk, so that’s what we did. We retraced her memories hand-in-hand, she looking straight ahead, smiling secretively, speaking only to point out the occasion landmark from those days.

‘I used to live there,’ she said, turning as we passed an apartment foyer, ‘On the fourth floor. That was the first time I lived alone.’ I caught a glimpse in passing of the dark entranceway, and looked back over my shoulder at the fourth floor. Each time this happened my perception of her became in one way clearer and in another more mysterious, like an enchanted island seen through thick mist. ‘That’s the café I used to work in, but only for a few weeks. I spilled soup over a customer and was too embarrassed to go on.’

I have lots more memories from that time, but these are the ones that surface most vividly in the moments after sleep.

Of course, things changed after the accident. I was in hospital for several weeks, unable even to leave my bed. Looking back, I must have been in shock for some time. At first they didn’t tell me much, but I could tell from their stiff expressions, the way they avoided looking at each other, and the brisk way they greeted and questioned me, it would be bad. Expecting the worst, I was not surprised when they finally gathered to break the news.

The first few nights, she stayed at my bedside. I imagine she slept whenever I did, curled up in the chair outside the ward. She didn’t talk much except to ask how I felt and what the doctors had said. She bought muscat grapes, and made avocado salads with boiled potato and mayonnaise. She brought the Chekhov collections I’d read to her when we’d first met, and sat there and read them to me.

When the doctors told us, she said it changed nothing. As long as I was with her, she was happy. It wouldn’t be easy, but we’d manage. She’d speak to her company, change her hours, they’d understand. We had savings. We’d be okay. So we reassured each other. I told her I loved her too, but that I’d understand if it was too much, that I didn’t want to hold her back. ‘Don’t say that,’ she said tearfully, and became frightened.

When I was discharged, we tried to carry on. We moved to a small house a few stations out, an old one, cheaper, that we could modify for my condition. She spoke to her company, changed her hours. In the morning and evening she prepared meals, and arranged my medication for the following day. She helped me wash and dress, and lay me down at night. As we couldn’t afford a nurse, she took on all these responsibilities herself.

This went on for a while. As best we could, we kept the same routine, exchanged the same words, touched each other’s hands, read together sometimes. We were willing with all our hearts for it to mean what it had, but it was no use. We felt the same love we always had, yet somehow a veil had fallen between us. We realised separately that we were merely consoling each other, both grieving in secret for what we had lost. It was agonising to see her like that, to watch the happiness gradually draining out of her.

Eventually, I decided to end it. At first she refused to listen. Before I could say a word, she’d read my expression and vanish to another room, and I knew not to follow. Other times, I would try to be firm. ‘Sit down,’ I’d say, and she would sit, watching me in terror, and as I spoke she’d start to shake uncontrollably to the point she couldn’t breathe. Whenever that happened I’d reach out and pull her toward me, then holding her tight she made me promise through tears I wouldn’t leave her alone. Finally the tears would stop; there we were, and everything started again. I can’t count how many times this happened, but finally she accepted it. Heartbroken and exhausted, we parted for good.

That was almost three years ago. As we’d made the modifications, we agreed I’d keep the house, so now I live here alone. With characteristic stoicism she saw to every practicality before leaving: a nurse to visit twice a day, an emergency button to be installed, food to be delivered. And then she was gone.

I heard it from my sister. She has a family of her own, so can’t visit often, but she had a bit of time, she said, so had decided to swing by.

‘So-and-so is seeing someone. Did you know?’

No, I answered, I didn’t.

‘I don’t know the details. Mum mentioned it the other day. Have you spoken to her?’

And so the conversation went on.

Well, I told myself once my sister had left, what should I have expected? It’d been three years, so it was inevitable I’d hear something sooner or later. It’s not unfair that she’s moved on. Why shouldn’t she find happiness? Life goes on, after all. In this way, I sought to console myself.

As the days drift by, I relive those memories, one after another. Some mornings, in a fleeting moment before reality seeps in, I’m back there, hearing her footsteps, and I know, with the certainty of déjà vu, that I’ll hear her voice before she slips out.

‘See you in a bit.’