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I stare at the pile I've made of Joel's clothes. Checked shirts, black skinny jeans, a few hats for the winter, and some black hoodies.
They smell like Joel – woody, ocean, fresh – and though he hasn't worn most of these in a while, the scent is so strong.
We were separated, yet when I think about the prospect of him never wearing these clothes again, it's like I'm being hit by a brick.
We'd built that rocky foundation together for two years, yet it's been demolished in one hit now he's dead.
Dead.
Such a small word: four letters. It starts and ends with a hard-sounding letter. It's a strong, captivating word that holds so much weight with it.
Yet it's such a peaceful thing, right? The person whose dead is basically sleeping. For Joel and his dad, it means they're no longer in pain. They're seizure-free, pain-free, brain-fog free...
Free.
Another four-letter word. An airy, light word. Means so much and encapsulates everything. Much like death, free... it holds so much weight.
They're not often put together in a sentence. Most people view death as a frightening, horrible thing. You can't possibly talk about death; you have to be frightened of it.
But for Joel and Frank, and a lot of other people with illnesses, freedom and death go hand-in-hand. They will find freedom in death, death is free.
But why does it still hurt so much?
We weren't in love; we were separated. He told me I was a single woman. Yet, now he's gone, something feels different. Suffocating, maybe. Maybe it's that despite being free from pain, he never, ever deserved death. Joel deserved so much better than that; he deserved to be happy, to be free in life. Not this. Never this.
'For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing, and they have no more reward, for the memory of them is forgotten.'
I don't want Joel to be forgotten. No matter how much he lied or how wrong he was for his affair, he didn't deserve to die. He doesn't deserve to be forgotten, as if he was something insignificant.
Joel was my best friend, my only support system. Despite his wrong decisions – most of which involved me – he was still a victim. A victim of Huntington's disease. A victim of my mother.
I pull out the wallet Monica gave me. I feel it, smell the worn black leather. It's amazing how even when a piece of leather has been used for years, worn down to scratches and creases, it can still bring back that scent as if it was newly bought. Despite it smelling of nothing, my nose inhales the new leather smell as if I was gifting it to Joel on his birthday all over again. I bought it two years ago, just after we got married, for his birthday. He was so ecstatic about it; I remember his face lighting up like a Christmas tree.
It would've been his birthday in a few weeks. He would've been twenty-one.
Now he'll never get to be twenty-one. He'll never see his thirtieth birthday. Fortieth, fifty. He'll never get to see potential grandchildren; he'll never get to know about Gabriel. I never got the chance to tell him properly. He'll never get to be angry about the fact our son is so close to us, yet also so far.
The disease he took so much effort and time to hide from everyone has claimed him long before it should have.
'If a man dies, shall he live again? All the days of my service I would wait, till my renewal should come.'
I wonder if Joel will come back as a spirit. Ever since I can remember, my mother spoke about the dead going to Heaven and guiding our lives from above.
When I met Joel, he showed me all about The Sims game, and when I played it myself, that's how I imagined that's how God and the angels guided us when my mum mentioned it. I wonder if Joel will do that for me, Summer, or his children.
I also remember a saying: dead is dead. Joel sat me through Lost during our first Christmas break together in the flat. Some bald guy came back to life, and it was some motif or something. Joel and I spoke at length about whether death was, actually, death. I still don't know what I believe.
I don't think I believe in Heaven and Hell. I quite like the idea of an afterlife like the Ancient Egyptians believed in, but believe it? I'm not sure. When Joel and I discussed it, I bought into the idea that it's just like a long sleep.
But now death has touched me in terms of my sort-of-nearly ex-husband? I'd like to think there's something for him out there.
Joel did bad things: he lied, he cheated, and he procreated without a care for the implications of his disease. But he was still a good man underneath it all: he supported me, provided, and was a good friend.
My phone changes song. I only put it on to stop the pang of loneliness that hits every single time I stare at the photos we have dotted around. I don't understand it myself: I wasn't lonely with him in the hospital. I wonder if it's the knowledge that this is it. There are no more visits to the ICU and no more ward visits. He's not coming home; it's just me in the two-bedroomed flat, all by myself.
The song's chorus hits out, and immediately, the tears cloud the view of the clothes.
Despite everything, I loved Joel. He was my best friend, my support network, he was my life in a way, for two years. It might not have been romantic love, but it was love, nonetheless. We were at each other's throats for a while, but at least the last time we saw each other we made up. That's the only silver lining I can think of right now. Yet it still feels unfinished.
I thought we had longer, that we could make up. I didn't expect life to take him from me like a tomb robber.
I stare at my phone as I turn the song up. No notifications: no messages, no phone calls.
Nick is at work, and as much as I want someone to sit with me right now, I know I need to do this alone. Joel and I both made grave mistakes in the past two years, but I can try and do right by him now by doing this alone, for him.
That doesn't even make sense in my own head.
I stare at the pile of clothes and put the wallet down. I choose one of the shirts to keep and bundle the rest into the bin bag I left on the side. I can donate them to the charity shop tomorrow.
Three days after his death. Three days since I've seen Nick. Three days since I've seen Monica or Summer. Three days I've been without Joel.
There are seventy-two hours in three days. In that time, you could fly from England to New Zealand and back again. You could also fly to the moon; apparently, that's how long it took NASA to get there.
I've not stopped crying. No matter how much I tell myself it's stupid because I was about to divorce the man, the tears haven't stopped. The same song has been on repeat since I got home after he died.
When you stare at something long enough, they become invisible and part of the background. When you've known someone long enough, they become second nature.
I knew Joel for two years. Which in the big circle of life isn't long at all, but in our situation, felt like a lifetime. I knew him for so long that he became invisible and second nature.
Is that bad? I'm not sure. Is it normal? Probably. It was normal for us.
I pick up his wallet again, finally able to handle what's inside.
Bank cards that I've already cancelled in his name. Shop cards for game shops and coffee shops I've cancelled or transferred into my name. Some cash I've left on the side.
Photos. One photo of Summer neatly tucked away where it would never fall out. One photo of Gabriel when he was born: a red, chubby little bundle. One photo of me and Joel on our wedding day. The only photo of the day where we look somewhat happy.
It was never that he didn't care, I knew that all along. We were just not... happy. How do you find comfort and love in something that's forced on you? They say Stockholm Syndrome is common in some kidnap situations but is this one of those? Could Joel and I ever have found love if we tried a little harder, or would it have always been a kind of Stockholm Syndrome?
We were in a forced situation. Kidnapped from our freedoms and put together just because we had sex. Did we suffer some form of Stockholm Syndrome, or was it simply our choice to become what we were?
We may have built a house from a rocky foundation, but that doesn't mean the house will always remain standing.
My tears dry up, and I sip on my tea. I'll miss him. I think I always will. But the thing that keeps me from crumbling down like a house of cards is that I know he'd found happiness, and now he's at peace. We found peace after the drama, and we were happy. Sort of. At least, we found happiness apart and were going to move forward.
I close the wallet. It's broken and needs to be thrown away, but something forces me to put the photos back where they were and put the wallet in my handbag. The bank cards need to be chopped up and thrown away, but everything else can stay the same.
The weird thing about Joel and me was that it took a tragic death sentence for us to be real with each other. We kept so many things hidden that, like Jenga, once you take one secret out, the rest will follow very quickly. In a way, he was the catalyst for me finding myself. Though I never lived without Joel, my independence came because of him. Now it flourishes because of the secrets he kept and finally let out. In a way, Joel's diagnosis and subsequent death were freeing for everyone. Him, me, Summer, Monica.
Or at least, there's a silver lining. Joel never, ever deserved Huntington's disease or death.
But, like anything, maybe there's a small shred of happiness we can all find.
That doesn't make up for the emptiness of this house now he's gone for good.
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