Waiting for Danny

They say that time is a healer, but time is lost to me. As I stand surrounded by boxes, memories peering at me through the unsealed tops, the kitchen clock, Danny’s clothes, and his Gaming magazines, the piles of letters we would write to each other on winter days and with each possession the memories unfold into the room, like a ghostly dream.

The police stated that Danny was now classed as a missing person, but that he was missing of his own free will. Those words ‘own free will’ unleashed a powerful wave of emotions. Yes I had felt an overwhelming sense of relief that he hadn’t been taken, hurt, or even killed, but anger surged through my body with such speed that I flew at the officer from whose mouth those words spilled. I beat at his chest as if he were to blame, trying hysterically to alter the words the he had just uttered. The officer’s arms barely restrained me, as I thrashed about like a wild animal. It was only the sight of this rabid eyed, howling monster in the mirror that caused the rage to subside, and weakness finally prevailed. From that point on I don’t remember feeling anything. I don’t remember being carried to bed, or taking the sedative, and I am grateful for that now.

The kitchen clock was the first thing I packed, still ticking as I removed the battery It had always been my indicator for Danny’s return, as it sat proudly above the kitchen door. Its face full of imperfections, lines of pealed paint, and its mottled red and white pattern, now faded and tainted yellow by the sun. Once described as antique now only looking tried and worn.

I had been staring at that clock for hours. The house would have felt completely empty if not for the tick-tock of that clock which beat with the percussion of my thudding heart.

The clock and I sat at the kitchen door silently that night, waiting and waiting for Danny to return home. It was well after twelve when the stillness ceased and movement finally hit my body with a wave of nervous activity. I made a list of people to call, and places to visit. He must be somewhere, maybe with a friend, or maybe he’d had an accident and was in hospital. But no one had seen him, or spoken to him in days. News spread like wild fire and the house filled with anxious friends and family. I was no longer alone but still felt very much isolated.

The last time I saw Danny he was standing at the kitchen window dressed in jeans and his team shirt, his favourite shirt, which I had bought for his birthday the year before. His hands were floating in the soapy water, playing with the white suds, his eyes where fixed on something outside, but I couldn’t see what. I leaned into his back and wrapped my arms around him, and kissed his neck, just as I had always done.  In hindsight I knew something was wrong, he seemed distant, not cold, but as if he was already somewhere else.

Our kiss goodbye, and the words ‘I love you’ all feel empty now as if time has removed all meaning. But as I packed Danny’s clothes I couldn’t bring myself to seal the box for fear that the remains of his scent would evaporate into the fibres of the box and disappeared forever, along with him.

Weeks past and the hub which was once a home began to settle down. We searched day and night in the vain hope of finding him, but with every new lead and sighting exploited to its end, there was nothing. It is as if the second he left the house that Saturday afternoon, Danny just vanished into space.

Inevitably friends and family left and of course I had to go back to work. Returning to normality felt so wrong, my world was with Danny wherever he was, not here on my own. But with the knowledge he was missing of his own free will meant I had no choice but to move on with my life.

The first day I returned to work, I was filled with a dread so deep inside that if Jenny hadn’t been giving me a lift into work, I certainly wouldn’t have gone in. However it wasn’t as bad as I had thought it would be. Yes there were some people who buried their heads in their work, never looking up as I passed by. Then those who had to engage with me either wouldn’t make eye contact, or struggled to do so, but all in all most people just pretended nothing had happened and Danny’s name was never mentioned. In fact no one talked about families or partners at all which was a relief if I am honest. If someone had mentioned Danny that day, or their own husbands in passing I think I would have just burst into tears.

The routine of work definitely helped, although I am not sure what use I had been in the first few months. I constantly found myself always lost in a memory only to be woken by a phone call or a touch on my shoulder, but normality had finally returned to a degree.

It is sad that grief will always catch you unawares, a song on the radio, his scent on the bus to work, or his annual gaming magazine laying on the doormat with his name printed in bold letters, which jumped and danced in front of my tear flooded eyes.

 I sat staring at it, from the bottom of the stairs, unable to move, all I could think was ‘what do I do with it?’ It had lain on the doormat for weeks. Until I could not bear it any longer, I collected what was left of Danny’s stuff, packed it all away. The boxes are now stationed in the tiny box room. 

The hardest thing of all to box up - and I haven’t yet been able to seal the lid  - are Danny’s letters, our letters. It has been 3 years and 28 days since I last saw Danny and yet finding those letters, reading, and touching Danny’s words seems to bring him back to me. We had always written to each other, it was our thing.

It was one winter’s afternoon, and the weather had been particularly bad, hail storms and violent winds, the thunder had rattled the old flat and the warmest room in the whole place had been the bath room. We had gathered the duvet and lots of cushions, and blankets, and had made ourselves a den for the day, taking it in turns to brave the chill of the kitchen for warm drinks, and to refill the hot water bottles.  After a few hours of reading Danny looked up and said ‘right let’s do something different’. He raced into the bedroom and returned with two note books, throwing one at me he announced ‘we are going to write to each other’ and that’s what we did, we wrote love poems, shopping list, our bucket list and stories of our future. From that day on we wrote to each other almost every day. I know there are boxes of letters, post-it- notes and napkins all stored in the loft but I had found a few recent letters and notes in Danny’s bedside drawer.

 I have read and re-read every one hoping for a clue to why he left but there isn’t anything, just memories of days gone by, snatches of a life I used to have. His last note written only four days before he left read ‘forgot milk, be back soon’ I hadn’t noticed before but this was the first note he had ever left me that didn’t say ‘I love you’, or have a heart shape delicately drawn at the bottom. I held the note so tightly in my hands that the centre of the paper crumpled and vanished into my palm. I wanted to tear it up into tiny shreds or burn it to ash, but instead I unfolded it and placed it behind a magnet on the fridge. It is my reminder, so that when the dark days close in around me, and I feel like I can’t breathe under the weight of the empty space, I can take a look at that cold and unfeeling note and remind myself he left a different man.

 I know that it will seem strange to some people, but reading his letters fills me with so many emotions and memories that I feel a need to write to him. I know they will go unread, and unanswered by Danny, yet the words will be there in black and white for me, for now and forever. So my first letter to Danny was written on the back of the returns form for his gaming magazine, a fitting irony to the man that will never return, who has left me playing a game of waiting and wondering.

To my dearest Danny,

It is Sunday tomorrow and as usual I have been invited to Jenny’s for lunch. You remember her epic Sunday roasts, and her to die for pudding, I know I won’t be able to move after.

I have boxed your belongings up today and left them in the box room hope that’s ok?

I placed the letters back in your bedside drawer and will put my letters in there too.

It may seem hard to say, and indeed I have paused in the writing of this next bit, but I am hoping that writing to you will somehow make me miss you less, so that I am not searching the crowd for you every day, and that in the few moments of peace I have from my thought of you I won’t be haunted again by the empty space you have left.

 I am tired of the constant battle inside my head, hating you one minute then loving you the next. I hope you’re happy and safe, but I also want you to be so miserable without me that you come home. Jenny says there will be a moment when I can finally let go of you, and when I do I will be able to move on in my life, find happiness and may be someone to love again.

I can’t see it myself. I just want you to walk back into the house, and through the kitchen door as if time has not lapsed.

I will wait till you tell me not too.

All my love

Kelly

Xxx