DISCOVERING JANIE - CHAPTER ONE

The architect felt the question clanging around in his head again, a loose bit in a machine destined to malfunction. For a brief moment the answer surfaced, just enough to tease him with the illusion of clarity, before it wriggled free again, slipping back into the fog out of reach. Here he was, propped up, flush against a wall in a room that, by all external standards, was magnificent, grand, obnoxiously so, an exhibit hall for people to pretend to care about. And Ethan was pretending too, pretending that any of this meant something, while a simple comment from a minute ago danced circles around his brain.

People moved slowly through the room, absent of grace, like they were navigating some strange syrup of social expectations, like any sudden gesture might upset the delicate balance of reflected emotion. No one wanted to disturb the mood, that was clear, that was key. The atmosphere had weight, an oppressive, sentimental heaviness, like someone had sealed the room in a vacuum of shared melancholy, and everyone was playing their part, tissues at the ready, dabbing eyes with a choreographed rhythm. Ethan’s eyes darted from face to face, searching, hunting, what had he said? That one phrase that had set off this wave of collective tear-jerking, it was gone, lost somewhere between his memory and his glass.

Time stretched itself into something absurd, an eternity as Ethan chased that one fleeting thought. A face flickered in his memory, mouth opening and closing, words spilling out soundlessly, a projection into a void. He grew frustrated at his own failure to recall, his failure to dock. His fury would have been more noticeable if he had been able to move his weak legs and arms. Instead, all he could muster was a throbbing headache orbiting the question blaring through his consciousness: What was it? What was it he said?

Figures drifted past him, circling something, or someone in the centre of the room. Ethan wasn’t part of the inner orbit. No, he was on the outskirts, a familiar position. Always on the edges, watching the action from a safe distance, vaguely annoyed by his own detachment but too jaded to care. He looked down at his glass, the substance swirling lazily, the ice long gone, dissolved into nothing. No surprise there. Everything vanished eventually.

He was tired, drunk too, for he had hardly slept last night. The night before had not been much better and although he couldn’t recall exactly when this insomnia had started, the many nights that had preceded had been all the same. He would lie there and wait for his eyes to close, cold without the covers and yet too warm with them, ever dreamless and silent. He might lie there for many hours until sleep would eventually take over, but only for an hour or two, for it was then that he would wake, still in darkness and his body drenched in sweat.

The room moved around him like some kind of slow-motion procession, figures blurring together, their faces both familiar and forgettable. Did he know them? Did it matter? Their identities slipped through his mind as carelessly as the words he’d been trying to recall. Everything felt abstract, distant, like they were all players in someone else’s story, a scene he wasn’t meant to fully understand. He stared at them, these vague, indifferent faces, wondering if they pitied him, and even that thought felt hollow, insignificant. There was no value here, no meaning, just the relentless, absurd machinery of his own restless mind, grinding away in the void.

What was it? What had he said? That single, grating question wrapped itself around Ethan's mind, refusing to let go, clinging to him like a parasite. He swallowed another burning sip from his glass, felt the liquid settle deep in his gut, warm and punishing. His hand reached instinctively for his tie, a tie that wasn’t there, hadn’t been for hours. Instead, his fingers found the empty space of his open collar, his chest bare, his skin damp, the thin chain hanging around his sweaty neck. Like everyone else in the room, his clothes were black: the jacket stiff on his slumped shoulders, the trousers clinging to legs that felt more dead than alive, brushing against shoes that had long lost their polish. Even his socks, his underwear, all black, like mourning had infected every layer of him.

Above his head, a picture hung, her picture. Of course, she’d placed it there, just as she had with all the other pictures in this house. Their house. No, his house now, the one he’d bought for her, filled with things she’d chosen with obsessive care. Everything meticulously arranged, every vase, every lamp, every useless little ornament catalogued in her mind with store, price, date of purchase, reason why. She could recall all of it, give a running history of their home like an inventory, but no one would ask her anymore. No one would hear her explanations again. That part was over.

His vision, blurred by the drink, by the haze of grief, began to clear, slowly sharpening like he was emerging from some half-remembered dream. He scanned the room, taking in its vastness, its elegance, and for a moment he felt that old, fleeting sense of pride. It was a good room. He remembered Christmases past, nieces and nephews tearing through the house, their laughter echoing off the walls, their excitement infectious. Chaos. Noisy, joyous chaos. He could almost hear the shouts, the clattering of chairs. That room had held all of it, and Ethan had revelled in all of it, the lack of order, the sheer burst of it all. Surely people would envy those memories, if they knew, if they could even imagine the energy that had once filled this space. Strange, he thought, how the same room could now hold so much silence.

The scent of those days came back to him in waves, the fire and sweetness. It felt stronger, more real than the present moment, like those memories had more substance than his dim, oppressive now. The past seemed like a much better place to live in than this, the present too raw, too vacant, and the future? The future was unthinkable. It stretched out before him like a barren landscape, something vast and empty, waiting to consume him. The fear of it gnawed at him, the very unknown of it. And beneath that fear, buried deep under layers of exhaustion and grief, was rage. Quiet, yes, but still there, simmering that he had to face the future at all, when she didn’t.

Ominously, the architect's living room had transformed into a realm of black figures, an eerie mausoleum where warmth and homeliness had been stripped bare, gutted to make way for this sinister congregation. The air hung heavy, devoid of warmth, colours extinguished, leaving behind a stark two-tone world, a monochrome dreamscape. Smiles were scarce, echoes of happier times now mere traces swept by shadows, by despondency, all in his own home.

As Ethan drifted through this nightmare, the morning figures remained, fixated on the man at the centre of the room, forming a swirling mist of bodies drawn together in rapt attention, loose rings of spectators orbiting like a stream of debris. Through the gaps in this sombre throng, he caught glimpses of the far side of his room as the waves of darkness began to part. There stood the long table they had set up earlier that day, covered in a cream cloth, its surface scattered with canapés and dishes ordered for a morose occasion, a feast for ghosts and the worshippers of ghosts.

Drifting conversations marked the stagnant air, voices distinctly gendered yet their words obscured, akin to the sermon today, noticeable but lacking substance, resonant but only for those attuned to listen. Ethan found himself outside that circle of engagement, fully aware he should be part of it, after all, it was his wife in that coffin. 

What was it he said? The question echoed through the chambers of his mind, a spectre haunting the edges of his consciousness.

He delved deeper into his memory and once again he could see the man talking, lips moving in animated discussion yet utterly devoid of sound. Outside, rain pattered against the window, a relentless drumbeat, while inside he would be safe, once the strangers vacated his home and left him with his solitude. He liked to think that just as she was now ensconced beneath the earth, sealed in her box, he too would find sanctuary here. But the analogy unravelled with a multitude of contradictions; could he truly equate his home to a coffin? And she, of course, lay dead, while he still possessed the flicker of life, a heartbeat echoing faintly in his chest and veins.

Around him people moved with food and drink in hand, their voices hushed and murmurous as if sharing secrets beneath the weight of grief. He watched crumbs tumble from plates and careless hands, descending onto the floor where they met his fine carpet, trampled into a tapestry of neglect. Their drinks whirled within their glasses like tempestuous storms, wine, beer, juices, and sugar-free sodas, swirling as hands gestured and dipped in rhythm with their muted conversations. To him, it was a spectacle almost hypnotic, intense and sustained, a trick of the mind he was reluctant to blink away from.

The words he struggled to recall took on a face now. A ginger mop of hair that sat atop a pale, freckled visage, broad shoulders that often made Ethan feel under scrutiny. Whatever had been uttered, Ethan was convinced it must have been good, noble, proper words articulated by an able man. 

“She will always be remembered,” the voice had declared.

Was it truly just those few words that had lodged themselves in his mind, echoing with a quiet fury? How would people remember her? As a reader of cheap romantic novels? As a woman plagued by an allergy to cats? His memories would be of a woman in decline. Of a body on a bed, shackled to a room devoid of light, a vacant stare through stagnant air. Those memories belonged to him alone, the weight he must bear, an unbearable burden that others could never know, never share.

He shifted, rising from his seat with a stiffness that bubbled through his limbs, almost limping past the shadowy figures clad in black that filled his grand room. Each step dragging the weight of his own sorrow behind him, a heavy cart laden with despair, burdened not only by her death but by the intimate witness of its progression.

So, amidst the fog of his silent retreat he slipped out of the room, overlooked by those around him, just as he had been for much of the day. He held no resentment toward the attention her immediate family received from the guests, his son, her mother, her father, each of them had lost a daughter, a mother. They wore their grief as a shared sorrow, connecting them in ways he could only envy. 

His son, had he forgotten him?

He stepped into the hallway, seeking refuge from the throng but the murmurs of the gathering still found their way to him through the thin walls and a door ajar. Crossing the empty expanse, he cast a glance at the mass of coats draped over the hooks by the front door, a further pile sprawled carelessly across the dining table and chairs. A troubling thought crept in: would anyone even notice his departure?

He drifted toward the downstairs bathroom, silently praying it would be unoccupied, stepping into the shadows to dissolve into the darkness. He inhaled deeply, savouring his new ghostly existence. 

Flipping the light switch, he confronted his reflection in the mirror. The face staring back at him was unremarkable, neither good-looking nor repulsive. It was a face that bore the marks of an ordinary existence, its symmetry as close to ideal as one could get without causing resentment. His features were normal: a nose and ears, eyes that could be described as merely satisfactory. He was average, embodied in a body that lacked any distinguishing marks, neither tall nor short, neither fit nor unkempt. 

He washed his mouth, spitting into the sink before rinsing his face again, a ritual performed throughout the day, as if the water might cleanse more than just the surface. He ran his wet fingers through his unwashed hair, a small comfort in the sensation of cold water trickling down his back. He was still alive, he could still feel sensations, but not quite enough to bring tears at the loss of his wife, not even as others around him were swept away in waves of uncontrollable emotion. Had he missed his cue? Or was he simply too numb to recognise the play?

Hours later the architect stood at the door, anxiety coiling in his stomach as he watched the tide of people pass him by. Once again, the procession of black and white figures surged forward, each silhouette a stark reminder of his new reality. The faces blurred together in an indistinguishable mass, each one armed with carefully rehearsed condolences, their words cascading into a montage of hollow phrases. 

“Such a shame,” they murmured in unison. 

If he hadn’t already been acutely aware of the tragedy and unfairness of his wife’s death, he certainly was now. Nodding mechanically, he offered whispered thanks as they shook his hand and patted his shoulder, their gestures both reassuring and suffocating. He expressed appreciation for their attendance, though inside he yearned to scream until his lungs were raw, to unleash the grief. Faces and names swirled in his mind; many were friends of hers, and most were family from both sides. The willing mingled with the obligated and he despised himself for the cynicism creeping into his thoughts.

Ethan watched the last of the procession fade away, the dark figures vanishing into the damp, cold night with a ghost-like departure. All at once they were gone, leaving behind no trace of their presence, save for the fading glow of their taillights disappearing down the road. There was an eerie stillness now that the crowd had departed, leaving the house feeling far too large and spacious to be truly liveable. Ethan walked through the empty hallway, the front door closing with a thud that resonated in the void. 

It was at that point he was hit with the absence of his only child.

The living room lay bare, stripped of its usual warmth. Everything that had once filled the space with life had been packed away to make room for the reception and its guests. In their wake the house was left barren and deserted, devoid of anything homely or comforting, especially his son. The long table still stood in the centre, its cloth stained and marred by the remnants of half-eaten finger foods scattered across the surface and trampled into the carpet below. 

The overwhelming sense of his failure was consuming him, he knew it. Prevention, the holding back of the tide, seemed only possible if he clung to that question again. How would he remember her? What would he allow himself to remember? Yet even this was an activity of distraction, surely the most important question was when would his son return? 

When would he be ready to care again for the child?