Page 29 of AMS.TER.strum

You are absolutely not allowed to laugh… or say yes, no matter how tempting.

The bell rings, and I couldn’t be more grateful for the interruption.

‘Luuk!’ both kids scream, running for the door, ignoring my warnings about not opening without asking who it is.

‘Hey guys!’ His deep, sexy voice greets my kids as if he’s their best friend.

Like a dad would, the sneaky voice says, and I ignore it as I welcome our guest.

Chapter Twelve

2019

Corrie

Waiting to be notified about the funeral feels eternal. The phone call never arrives.

Instead, I receive one of the cards notifying the rest of Johan’s circle, containing all the information on the when and where. It’s rimmed in black, framing Johan’s smiling face, the one that charmed me when we first met. This benevolent-looking man seems to have emerged from a world where softness doesn’t come with little nails hidden in it. He’s someone I thought I knew, someone I believed I could build a family with. Would we have stayed together, had he not been gone, when together ended up feeling like a torture chamber?

I drop the card on the coffee table. It’s as if all this is happening to someone else, yet I hope being there will be the beginning of healing and closure.

‘There’s absolutely no way you’re going alone. We’re both coming with you,’ Dad says, when I show him the funeral card, and it isn’t up for discussion.

I know he has been feeling guilty, as if he could have known how things would evolve when he introduced us; or how Johan would turn out to be. I overheard him telling Mom that there’s no way that family is coming close to his grandchild, when they treat me like that. I truly wonder how Johan’s parents and sister are going to react to the news of my pregnancy, whether their attitude will soften. Or whether wanting to be right will come above being content, if not happy.

We do our best to pretend we’re going on a trip down South, like when I was younger, discussing memories from some of the places we pass. But as we go through the gate leading to the church, we fall silent, as if our faucet of words has been turned off.

A low hum resonates off the brick walls, and I feel we’re like three unwanted intruders in a nest of wasps, trying to keep our presence unknown so we aren’t attacked.

We choose a pew in the back, while the people walk past us. I know it’s his family when they sit in the front, his parents flanked by two women, both donning short blond hair, almost identical. I assume one is his sister, the other probably a relative.

The ceremony is a typical remembrance of the deceased’s life, with anecdotes shared by friends and relatives, deepening my sadness. Everyone talks about a funny, caring, hard-working person who was a joy to have around, and my mind drifts to the short time I saw that side of Johan—before it was almost completely overtaken by the critic, the doubter, the manipulator, all within a couple of years.

Was I such a doormat that I let myself fade into the background? Was I that desperate that I allowed myself to believe that he was the only one who would choose me? Or was I too naïve to not see what was hidden beneath the surface?

‘… he would have made a wonderful husband and father,’ the man giving the speech says.

Mom squeezes my hand. The tears rolling down my cheeks are mostly bitterness and fury—for this Johan who held his loveliness like a bait, only to trap me and replace it with his darker side. This time, my relief is like a lifeline. No more. Nobody will hide me, nobody will make me feel needy, nobody will negotiate my place in their life. I realise I’m hugging Mom’s forearm like a comfort toy when she pats my shoulders, her lips close to my ear.

‘Shall we offer our condolences and get the hell out of here?’

I thought I had steeled myself for the moment, despite my heavy steps towards the front. But nothing could have prepared me for the icy looks from Johan’s parents—his father’s eyes exactly like his son’s, especially whenever he was offering his so-called constructive criticism. And I’m absolutely not prepared for the words his mother spits when she turns to face me after I offer my condolences.

‘Gecondoleerd? You know my son didn’t want to be with you, yet you made sure to pull him back every single time he tried to leave. It’s all your fault. If it weren’t for you, my son would be alive.’

Mom tries to jump in my defence, but it’s my always levelheaded dad who takes over, keeping his voice low yet charged with fury, as his eyes, identical to mine, are clawed on Johan’s mother. ‘I respect your pain, but don’t you dare talk to my daughter like that.’

We walk out under glances louder than words. Our breaths become one long gasp of air, and none of us has ever been happier to be outside in the drizzle.

‘Time to go home,’ Mom says, and we follow her to the car.

It’s as if the sickeningly sweet aroma of the white lilies that filled the church has followed us in the car, doing nothing for my hormone-ravaged body. When the last houses of the village are behind us, Dad makes a quick stop for me. I empty the contents of my stomach at the side of the road in convulsions that make my eyes tear up and burn my throat. When I get back inside, I dig in my bag for a mint to get rid of the aftertaste and notice a text, which brings a phantom smile on my face.

Luuk

Sterkte vandaag.

Luuk