Twenty-two
Dahlia Fury
You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love”
– Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena
After that episode the walls that guard his heart become impenetrable and I don’t try to scale them anymore. My days settle into a routine. I wake up, have breakfast, sometimes with Olga and the boys, sometimes in my room on the top floor where I still go to work. I swim and use the sauna before lunch. After that I work more.
As for our relationship, it has settled into one of mutual sexual desperation, the kind that makes us claw at each other. We meet in his study, or wherever he calls me to, and we fuck as if it’s the last time we will see each other. And every time we have sex in that reckless, hopeless, crazy way it feels as if a little part of me dies. A week passes like that until the morning Daisy Skypes me.
‘Where are you?’ she asks, not recognizing the room I’m sitting in.
‘Um … I’m at a friend’s place.’
‘Oh. Um … OK. Dahlia, I … er … have a bit of bad news.’
I feel my insides constrict with fear. ‘What is it? Is it Mom?’
‘No, no. It’s not Mom. She’s fine.’
‘Then what?’
‘Suzie passed away last night.’
‘Ohhh,’ I utter slowly, thinking of sweet Suzie’s face. I don’t know why but I never expected that. Suzie has been in the family since I was eleven years old. I just saw her a couple of weeks ago and she looked so healthy.
‘She didn’t suffer or anything,’ my sister consoles. ‘Also you’ve got to remember she was very, very old.’
‘Yes,’ I say faintly.
‘She knew she was dying. She went into the bushes and refused to come out when we called to her. And when I gave her water to drink she just turned her face away and looked at me with so much love. I was holding her when she took her last breath.’ Daisy’s voice catches. ‘I took some photos of her and if you want I can send them to you.’
I stare at my sister’s face on the screen. She looks normal. In the smaller rectangle at the bottom right hand corner, I just look white and stunned.
‘She was nearly fourteen years old, Dahlia. That’s really good for dogs. And she had a fantastic life,’ my sister says reasonably.
I take a deep gasping breath. ‘How’s mum taking it?’
‘Oh, you know her. She cried herself to sleep last night, but she’s a bit better this morning. I’m driving her to the pet crematorium. It’s a special place. I found it on the Internet. They burn the pets separately and give us the ashes in an urn. I’ll keep her ashes at home for you, OK? Mum says we won’t do anything with it until you get home. We can scatter them in the garden, or at sea, or whatever you want.’
‘Oh, Daisy,’ I cry suddenly.
‘Now I don’t want you to be sad. Suzie never harmed a fly in her lifetime and so she’s off to a good place. We’ll see her again. I’m sending the photos to your email address right now. At the end of the day she had a really good death. Really good.’
‘OK, thanks,’ I choke.
‘Oh, Dahlia, please don’t be sad. We’ll see her again,’ Daisy tries to comfort me.
‘I’ve got to go, but I’ll call you later,’ I say and click into my email account. All the photos are already there. I go through them one by one with tears pouring down my face. I should have been home. I should have been there. Daisy has even sent the photos of Suzie after she died with her poor tongue twisted between her teeth. Feeling devastated and wishing I had never seen it, I delete that photo immediately. I hear the wall phone ringing. For a moment I think of ignoring it then I get up and answer it.
‘Boss wants you,’ Noah says.
‘Tell him I can’t come right now,’ I sob, and put the receiver back on the cradle.
I go back to the bed and, sitting with my legs crossed, I think of Suzie and say a little prayer.
‘Wherever you are now, little sunshine, just remember I love you and I’ll love you always,’ I say tearfully. I’m so consumed with trying to pray and send her my love I don’t hear footsteps come up the stairs. I nearly have a heart attack when the door crashes open and Zane appears in the doorway.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.
For a moment I can’t speak.
He strides into the room. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Suzie died,’ I sob.
He frowns. ‘Who’s Suzie?’
‘Our family dog.’
He comes and stands over me, his face is curious and surprised. ‘Your dog? You’re crying over a dog?’ he asks as if to confirm the situation because it sounds so implausible to him.