I still have no memory of those three months. What I know was told to me by friends and family almost a year after it had happened. For me, my time froze on September twenty-eighth, 1990, at a quarter to seven. I recall picking up the phone.
At the time, I had been trying to piece back together Joseph's model Spitfire, which had fallen from its shelf just a short while before. Joseph would be upset if he found his favourite model broken, he so loved doing them. We used to spend hours together on the weekends gluing, painting and arranging the little aircraft, whenever work was slow. I distinctly remember my life shattering into a thousand pieces like the dropped china cup that spewed its contents onto the wooden floor.
It was as if I'd just 'switched off,' they said. Joseph's brother, Mark, had heard what had happened to him and tried to call me, to get only an engaged tone. He'd broken the stained glass panel in the door to get in, to find me unconscious on the floor, the telephone receiver dangling limply from its spiral cord. He'd picked me up and taken me into the lounge, where he tried to wake me.
When I did come round, I thought it was Joseph, and reached feverishly up, embracing him. Mark and Joseph were almost twins, despite the three-year gap between them, and were very close. Both sported the same dark brown curls, the same blue eyes that penetrated to the very soul, the same gentle, aristocratic face. They couldn't be more different in personality, however. Joseph loved his job as a sports journalist, travelling all over on assignments but Mark preferred the quieter life, teaching primary school children. Joseph was extrovert, cheerful, Mark more pensive and shy.
Mark had disentangled himself from me and shook his head as I continued to utter his brothers name countering it with his. It was then I realised that I had not been dreaming that my world had just collapsed.
I don't even recall the funeral. Joseph's family said I'd had to be supported throughout the service It was as if my very soul had left to wander in limbo.
Mark said he'd lost count of the number of times I had fallen into his arms sobbing his dead brother's name over and over. Over the days and weeks, it became apparent to him that I could not live alone. I had begun to sleepwalk, and forgot to do the simplest tasks, to the point where even eating became unnecessary.
I had never thought it was possible to love someone so much as Joseph and I loved each other. I had always thought it was the sort of love just written about in books. I became smitten with him at our first meeting, during rehearsals for a production of Hamlet. I had landed the part of the tragic Ophelia, and Joseph had the lead role. The first time he'd touched my hand, I'd felt the skin on my arm turn into gooseflesh.
He always teased me about how small I was; how long and skinny my fingers were, as he taught me how to play the baby grand piano that always had pride of place in the front room.
Mark, concerned for my welfare, took me away from the house Joseph and I had lived in for four years, and I stayed with him in East London, in his second floor apartment. Not that I remember. I sensed the agony he must have gone through, when he told me of the difficult months. I'd turned into a zombie, wandering the apartment aimlessly, not seeing anything or anyone. It tore him apart to have his brother, and now his sister-in-law, taken from him. If my pining got too vocal, he would approach me, and guide me back to bed, refusing to pretend to be Joseph, even to quiet me down.
There were many nights, he said, after I was safely shut in my room to prevent my barefoot roaming, when he would simply slump against the wall and sink to the floor, overcome with grief and stress. Unlike me, there was no-one for him to turn to. I never uttered Mark's name once, only Joseph's, constantly. And constantly, through the long days and nights, he would keep correcting me, in an attempt to bring me back. For three months, I left this earth trying to find my husband, only to find an aching void of sadness and emptiness.
Joseph and I had done everything together, whenever work allowed. Opera was a great love for us both, and the last one we'd been to was Madame Butterfly. I had wept profusely at the climactic suicide scene, but he'd never teased me for doing so. Inseparable, they'd said, and it was true. I refused food and stared into the middle distance responding to no-one. I had to be taken into hospital at one point and fed intravenously.
I lost faith in everything, Mark said, in the world and in life, that's what made me like I was. He showed me the newspaper clippings when he thought I was strong enough. The aeroplane Joseph was on had been just miles from Gatwick when it exploded. It was coming back from Ireland, where Joseph had done a short play for a few weeks. 'Journalist killed in plane bombing,' read the headline. The IRA had claimed responsibility. Responsibility for taking away the only man I'd truly loved.
My absent state ended three months after Joseph had been so cruelly taken from me. It was a late evening, in Mark's apartment, and I was sitting in an armchair while Mark tried to get me to eat, without success. I'd lost at least two stone in weight, and after my stint in hospital, had not long begun to put it back on, but only through Mark's dogged insistence. He gave up trying to get the mashed potato inside me, and went to the kitchen to get a drink. I'd been particularly frustrating that day, he said, trying to embrace him still thinking it was Joseph. By now he was close to the end of his tether, as his work offers had declined. After all, who wanted to look after a zombie? The family had wanted me put into care, but Mark was insistent he look after me.
The final straw came for him when I followed him into the kitchen, calling for Joseph. Filled with a mixture of frustration and weariness he set the plate down hard on the counter and turned on me, his eyes dark with anger, and struck me, in a blur of movement.
"I'm not Joseph! Joseph is dead!" he cried, his whole body shaking.
Instantly he regretted what he'd done, and withdrew, horrified, from my frail form as it fell to the floor. I can recall from here on, as my mind rejoined my body, and I lifted my head to see Mark. I looked at him as if for the first time. His face was drawn, his eyes clouded with guilt and grief. Tentatively, he reached out to help me up, his grasp light as though he were afraid of hurting me again. For the first time in three months, I knew where I was, and gazed at him. A wave of recognition passed over me and I whispered the first thing to pass my cracked lips other than Joseph's name. Leaning on him, I gazed into those blue eyes filled with sorrow and despair, and knew it wasn't Joseph.
"Mark?"
His expression changed to one of shock, his eyes widening as he helped me stand. Speechless, he only managed to nod, before regaining his voice.
"Yes. It's me, Mark."
"He's gone, isn't he?" I answered, some part of me still clinging like a drowning woman clings to driftwood, to the hope that it had all been a horrendous nightmare. The look on Mark's face said everything, and with it my last vestiges of hope disappeared. Mark closed his eyes, briefly, composing himself, before replying.
"Yes. He's gone."
I found myself holding him tight, my loss replaced by a burning desire to be with someone... anyone. Mark returned the embrace. Then the fear returned, and I looked up at him, as though I were afraid he might also be a dream. I needed him.
"Hold me," I begged, my hands clutching the soft cotton fabric as though my life -- his life -- depended on it. Relief, coupled with an infinite sadness, seemed to flow between and through us, bonding us and allowing us to grieve fully.
It was the start of a long healing process, which even now hasn't quite run its course, and never will. How can I forget Joseph, with his gentle touch and soft Irish accent, when I see him every day in Mark? I don't hold it against him. I couldn't.
Mark made a confession to me a few months after I'd recovered from my catatonic state, after we'd got home from a Tchaikovsky recital. It stands out so vividly in my head; the way the dimmed lights in the living room traced his features, and turned the topmost strands of his brown hair a red-gold colour. We sat next to each other, and he seemed to be bracing himself for something. He reached over and gently took my hand in his, entwining his fingers with mine. I was puzzled, confused.
"What are you doing?"
I frowned, as he caressed my fingers, the light touch making the hairs on my arm stand up. He ceased, encasing my hand in both of his, and taking several deep breaths before looking at me directly. His eyes were a distinct shade of aquamarine. In Joseph, that had meant he was about to tell me something serious. I began to worry.
"Mark?"
"I love you, Jessica. I always have," he blurted out.
He appeared almost ashamed as he said it, and he broke the eye contact, embarrassed. It was as if he was afraid of what might come next. I was sent mentally reeling at this statement. I wasn't sure how to respond, or whether to say anything. I had feelings for him, but nothing as strong as the love I'd had for Joseph. Or were they?
"Always?" I asked, eventually. He nodded slowly.
"I know I remind you of him. I can't help that. But I do know that I need you."
I didn't say anything; I didn't have to. But at the back of my mind, I couldn't help but feel I was betraying Joseph somehow.
The first time we slept together, I wept. We both did. Now, a year later, I sit here watching him sleep. I do this often, when I can't sleep. He looks just like Joseph, his face is peaceful, unstressed, open. He's got a curl in his eye. Still I can't help feeling guily. Do I love him for who he is, or for who he reminds me of? Joseph's favourite Spitfire rests on the mantelpiece -- I'd insisted on repairing it, as though it might repair me somehow.
The moonlight is shining on his face; it's a full moon. I go over to the window, and look outside at the empty street below. The sky is inky, the stars diamonds on velvet. The clock by our bed reads 2:30am, in eerie glowing green digits. I lean my forehead against the cool pane of glass, my breath steaming it up.
"Oh, Joseph. Have I done the right thing?" I whisper softly under my breath. I turn, slowly, and make for the bookshelf, which still has Joseph's collection of model planes on top of it, along with a photograph. I can almost hear his voice, as I remember a conversation we'd had not long after Joseph and I got married. I always worried too much, he said, about everything. He was right. I'd expressed my concern that something might happen to either of us. He'd smiled that lopsided smile of his and pulled me close to reassure me.
"Whatever happens, if you're that worried, Jessie, don't be afraid to love again. I've met a lot of people in my profession who refused to get involved with someone else. A lot of them end up turning into bitter, self-contained obsessives who care too much about work and not enough about life. I don't want you to end up like that, Jessie. Promise?"
He'd always known what to say, and it makes me smile despite myself. Mark stirs, mumbling something in his sleep. I glance over my shoulder to make sure he's still sleeping, then pick up the photograph in its gilt frame. For the first time in a year I'm making my own decision. I trace my fingers briefly over the black and white image, then go over to my dresser.
It's time now. With a care generally applied to holy rituals, I open the top drawer, aware that it is time for me to let him go. It hurts me to have to say farewell to someone with whom I spent five years of my life, but living here with Mark has made me realise that I have to move on.
A single tear escapes unchecked, and sparkles for an instant as it lands on the glass in the frame, spattering into tiny droplets distorting part of the image. I start suddenly as I feel a hand on my shoulder.
"Jessica, what are you up to this late?"
I don't have to turn around, Mark's always been a light sleeper. His tired voice is tinged with the soft Irish accent that's become so familiar to me. He sees what I've got in my hands, and I can sense the recognition of what I'm doing.
"I'm going to miss him," I say, at last putting the photograph down among my most precious things that I've always kept in the top drawer. I push it gently closed, and feel at last that I'm finally closing the chapter on that part of my life with it. I turn to Mark, and manage to muster a smile which is returned. It occurs to me that I've never actually told Mark how I feel about him, even though he's always telling me how much he loves me. He rubs tired eyes and runs a hand through his curls absently. I put my arms around him encircling him, a warm feeling of happiness at last melting the last remnants of fear and anguish from my heart. I've never felt so sure of my feelings in my life as I do this instant.
"I love you, Mark," I say, genuinely meaning it.
And he can tell.