Jenny had swallowed time and space. A lot of it. And now she was feeling…what?
Bloated? Yes. Reflux? Maybe. Heartburn? Definitely.
“Have some time. Have some space.” Mark, her boss, had instructed on that initial dreadful day—without her husband, with grief—when she sat sobbing uncontrollably on the kitchen floor, phone pressed steady to one ear whilst the rest of her body shook.
That same week her doctor had said something similar as she processed Jenny’s first sick note.
How much to have of each though? Time and space were infinite.
With the second sick note her doctor informed, “It takes as long as it takes.”
Mark reiterated, “Take as much as you need.”
That was a month ago. And Jenny was all too familiar with the business speak for take what falls within our bereavement policy.
Having watched others in this involuntary group she now belonged to—the newly bereaved—Jenny knew by now there would be workplace twitchiness. HR would be berating Mark for not being specific enough on return-to-work timings. And Mark’s boss would be reminding him of the tough market conditions the company was operating in. That they couldn’t afford to “carry” anyone for too long. Especially not on
full pay.
And she was heavier to carry now. No doubt about that. Although not physically.
Time and space were so filling that Jenny’s appetite had vanished along with her lost love. Perhaps she hadn’t chewed enough? Swallowed too whole. Like the rhyme about the old lady who swallowed a horse. Is that why her breath was so shallow in her lungs these days? No room for deeper belly breathing.
And yet despite all this fullness there was such emptiness. How could this be?
Vast, unquantifiable emptiness. As empty as the emptiest thing you could think of.
A pitch-black sky empty of light.
A desert landscape.
A box with nothing in it.
A blank page.
A nothingness where something once was.
Your body empty of life, Jenny recalled. Mine empty of color because of it.
Peering closely into her lover’s face she had thought she could still see him breathing.
“A normal reaction,” the man from the crematorium later said collecting the body.
Jenny nodded okay, unable to talk much. Too busy gulping time and space to fill the
void.
***
“How are you doing, Jen?” Mark was asking, tone overtly concerned. “I’m just calling like we arranged to see how you are. And to maybe start thinking about your return to work? Obviously, there’s no rush…”
“I’m doing okay,” Jenny began slowly. “I’m still digesting…you know how someone with such a big heart, so active, could have it fail so sudden—”
“Of course you are, Jen,” Mark interjected. “Of course. A pulmonary blockage you said, wasn’t it? Unbelievable! I mean 40 is no age, no age at all. It’s unreal.
“Just know we’re all thinking of you. The team sends it love. They’re looking forward to having you back.”
Jenny could feel a dry tickle at the back of her throat. She tried to clear it unproductively. And then coughed a little louder.
“That’s kind, Mark. Thank you. And thank you for the flowers. They’re lovely. I’m just, I guess I’m just struggling to process what’s happened. The weight of it, you know?”
“Well grief is all consuming, Jen. It’s perfectly normal to feel that way. Look, if you need more time—or space, for that matter—to work from home so you can ease yourself back in gently…”
All consuming. Jenny repeated the words in her head. But who was consuming who?
It was like being in some weird speed eating contest with grief.
***
Sitting in the office, Jenny was amongst her peers and yet with an empty desk to either side conscious of being somewhat apart.
The flurry of platitudes when she had arrived—So good to see you! It’s great to have you back! We’ve missed you! and so on—had calmed. There was just the gentle background hum of typing and conversation.
Jenny kept looking at her watch to check on time. There was so much left of the day.
When she spotted Mark’s boss coming over, she tried taking a deep breath but something caught in her throat.
“Jen,” he began gravely. “I just wanted to say in person how sorry I was to hear of your loss. How are you doing?”
Jenny’s throat was too irritated to reply. Her mouth opened and instead of word—about how she was doing okay considering, that she was coping, that she was grateful to be working again—a coughing sound emerged.
Mark’s boss pretended not to notice and continued smoothly.
“If there’s anything I or the team can do, you just let me know. Don’t hesitate to—”
He stopped. Jenny’s cough was getting louder and her face turning pink.
“Sorry, Jen are you okay? Do you need some water or…?”
Jen couldn’t speak. She started gasping for air. Arms flailing round her chest, she used her feet to shove her chair back and stand.
“Guys!” he yelled. “Where are the first aiders? We need you over here right now.”
Someone darted across and grabbed Jen’s waist in the Heimlich maneuver trying to dislodge whatever the air blockage was. Someone else was calling emergency services. Panic stricken faces were crowding round.
Jenny started spitting and then spewing bits of what? No-one was sure. Not food, some kind of matter?
“What the hell is this?”
“Has anyone seen this before?”
“Never! I have no idea…”
“OH MY GOD!”
Bits of time.
Bits of space.
More and more poured out of Jenny. Like projectile vomit flooding the floor at first, but then quickly becoming a rising river with her colleagues wading knee deep. Next came the piercing sounds of fire alarms and screams as a wave of grief crashed over their heads, smashing through the office tower’s glass walls and into the urban skies.
Becky Jones is a seasoned brand and content marketer. Around work and family life, she loves to write short stories and has been published by Fairlight Books and Every Day Fiction. She lives in Reading, in the UK, with her husband and two sons. For more info, visit her website: https://becky-jones.com/
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