Dont let your spirit linger here get out dont let your spirit stay! she shrieked, her voice cracking with each object she hurled from the wardrobe. The scream tore into a guttural growl that seemed to swallow the room. He caught the falling things with swift, desperate hands, tossing them aside. In a sudden, decisive moment, Nicholas wrapped his arms around Evelyn, pinning her like a trapped bird. She fought, then her strength melted away, and she fell silent in his grip. He held her close, carried her to the bed, and lay beside her. Her sobs grew fainter until, at last, she slipped into exhausted sleep. Carefully, he released her, rose, gathered the scattered belongings into a battered duffel, and slipped out, locking the door behind him.
The argument that preceded it had been brief, sharp as a knife.
Take what I say as fact. Im leaving! Do you think Ill argue or beg? You know me well enough!
Evelyn had seen his ironclad temperament, sensed something wrong lately. Hed been quiet, withdrawn, avoiding conversation. Shed blamed the grind of his job. Then, like a thunderclap on a clear day, the truth struck.
Evelyn awoke with a body that ached in every fibre, heavy lids that refused to rise. She lay there, motionless, until the phone rang. A surge of will snapped her to the handset, and she thought, Its himjust a misunderstanding, hell apologise, everything will go back to how it was.
Emily, why didnt you come in today? a colleagues voice asked. Ill?
Just feeling poorly Ill be back tomorrow, she replied, disappointment flat in her tone. Nicholass mobile lay on the kitchen table, silent.
Nicholas had been driving nonstop. Years ago hed bought a modest stone cottage tucked beside a winding river in a remote Yorkshire dale. Hed often escaped there to fish, alone; Evelyn never joined, respecting his need for solitude. The cottage sat solitary on the edge of a deserted hamleta stove, a table, an iron bed, a tiny wardrobe. It lacked modern comforts, but that had always suited him. Now he headed there for a very different reason: to flee the prying eyes, the pity, the endless questions. A month earlier doctors had handed him a grim diagnosisstage three gastric cancer. A friendly surgeon had told him plainly, Youve got little time left. If youd come in earlier, you might have had five more years. Nicholas chose to die alone, sparing his family the agony of watching him waste a final month. He handed in his resignation, abruptly cutting off any pleading. He stocked up on tins, hard biscuits, and dried pulses. The night before, everything they owned lay packed in the boot.
He arrived at dawn, midAugust, the air damp and misty. He stoked the old stove, and a thin warmth crept through the cottage. He slipped under a blanket in his workclothes and fell asleep. A nightmare jolted him awake. He stepped into the overgrown yard, snapped a branch, and the bitter scent of wormwood cut straight to his eyes. It was a smell from a life long past, a ghost of memory. He thrust the branch into the crack above the doorway, as if sealing something.
The days stretched on in a monotonous rhythm. To keep his mind occupied, he began chopping firewood, muttering, Might as well make it through winter. The spring springwater from a nearby well was close enough. Autumn arrived early, a fierce wind tearing through the drafty walls. He patched the leaky gaps with boards and rags, climbed onto the roof to mend it, arguing with himself, Im living the right lifesimple, in tune with nature. All a man needs is a roof to keep out the cold, a fire to warm his hands, and a pot for his stew.
Pain never truly visited him; instead a hollow weight pressed down in his stomach. He kept losing weight, surviving on a spoonful of broth or a thin porridge. Lethargy settled like a blanket. Where did this curse come from? Was everything too perfect? Did someone envy our happiness? Is fortyfive the sum of it all? he wondered, finding no answer.
Winter made the fire a constant demand. He stopped feeling sorry for himself, forcing himself to shovell snow, saw fallen trees, and haul timber from the forest. Days and months blurred; he imagined the inevitable moment when his strength would simply ebb and he would never rise again. He pictured the house being found, Evelyn being told, though she would never see himold, frail, a husk. She was still young, beautiful, meant to live a full life beside a healthy husband. He forced himself to drown any nostalgic thoughts, immersing wholly in the present, convinced the house would stand without him.
Sunlight melted the snow one bright afternoon. Nicholas felt, for the first time in weeks, a steadiness in his condition. He began listening to his body, sleeping less during the day. A vivid dream placed him in a warm bath. The next day he fetched water, heated it by the stove, and soaked in a makeshift tub. He drank herbal tea, drifted off, and slept until late morning. Craving meat, he boiled a pot of beef stew with potatoes, ate heartily, and his gaze fell on the dried wormwood branch.
Summers are warm, the heat makes the wormwood smell linger in evenings, Evelyn read aloud, waving the branch before her nose.
Pungent, isnt it? he answered.
Aromatic, she laughed, what a funny word, as if it came from a chest of curiosities!
He smiled at the memory, We married, a year later Pippa was born, and now shes grown up and getting married. He plucked the dry twig, inhaled, The scent is still there.
Only God knows how much time weve been given, he whispered.
A voice called, Hey, Evelyn! She turned, hurried out.
Shes the oncologist, right? Wheres Nicholas being treated? a colleague asked, surprising Evelyn. Shed always assumed everyone knew her husband had vanished, that hed gone off with someone unknown. She paced the flat, emptying the wardrobe of her own belongings nowthrowing shirts, warm trousers into a bag in a frantic rush.
Quickly I know where he is he must be alive he has that spirit How could I have believed his lies? Stubborn pride kept me from the truth. I fell for a mythic woman
Evelyn had discovered a property deed in his paperwork, the address of the cottage. She set off on the same route hed taken half a year before, drifting through the countryside until she reached the secluded village and stood before the stone house.
He doesnt even know hes become a grandfather; little Pippa is growing up! she thought, pulling the door open. Warmth from the smouldering hearth washed over her, tinged with the faint bitterness of wormwood.
