The Aftermath Of You

Chapter Twenty Four

"What on earth are you doing?" my grandmother cried, seated shotgun in Auntie Maggie's car. Up ahead I could see a bolt of lightning breaking the horizon in half, and the quiet tidy streets were awash with water. I was wading knee deep.

"Walking to work," I called back cheerfully.

"Doesn't your car work?" Auntie Maggie asked.

"My car's fine," I told her firmly before walking onwards. The wind bit into my hands and face and pushed me backwards. The sky was alight with blue forks. Maggie drove forward so that Granny Smith could call out to me again.

"Are you exercising?" my grandmother asked hopefully.

"Not at all; Jack and I are trying to save money so we can buy a house."

Granny Smith and Auntie Maggie glanced at each other in quiet speculation. "Where is Jack?" Auntie Maggie asked.

"He's a little way back. He's riding on his pushbike."

Jack cycled to work every day. His trusty steed had been stuck in hill gear for the last eight months, and his legs spun furiously as little old ladies over took him with their Zimmer frames. 'Hello Jack!' they'd call out as they passed. Today was no exception: the wind was pushing his bike backwards faster than he could cycle.

"Please, get in the car," Auntie Maggie called. "You'll catch a chill."

I loved my Auntie Maggie. I often imagined what it would be like if my mother was a little bit like her. If you were sick she would make you a hot chocolate in bed, while my mother would holler from the door, "Get up, you lazy bastard! Get up, and help me work."

As I swung her back passenger door open she didn't curse aloud and moan that I would be ruining her upholstery with all of my sodden clothes like my mother would. Instead she smiled at me and asked over her shoulder, "Now what is this all about?"

Once I stopped shaking enough to speak I repeated myself. "Jack and I are saving to buy a house."

"Oh," Granny Smith said quietly while casting me a very worried look. "Maybe you could buy a hybrid car. They're very economical."

I groaned. "No Granny, you don't understand. Jack's looked into everything. You only save a thousand dollars a year from a hybrid whereas if you start walking you save thousands more."

Jack had decided that we were ready to become property owners one lovely Sunday morning. 'It looks like the market is just right to invest.' Jack peered at me across the newspaper. 'But we have to save money first,' he'd continued. 'Maybe half the price of the house. That way we'll have lower interest and lower mortgage repayments. We'll have to keep to a strict budget; it will mean sacrificing a few treats.'

I agreed gladly. After all, what did a few treats matter? I didn't necessarily need to buy a can of energy drink every morning on my way to work. Instead I could buy one on really tough mornings. However, it turned out Jack classed energy drinks as luxury items and they were completely off the list, as was all junk food, champagne, bread, meat... I started to wonder if he'd gone slightly balmy when he informed me that even sanitary pads were a luxury item. When I'd finished choking he'd passed me a square of white cotton and some large safety pins and explained that mankind had, in fact, invented tampons, and that I wasn't about to die as I'd assured him I would. When I'd gotten over the horror of worrying if people would see the unnatural bulge in my trousers and wonder if I was a Drag Queen, I had started to get used to having all of our best bed linen inside my pants, and it wasn't quite as bad as I thought it would be.

Basically, if it cost money it was a luxury item. He even unplugged our heater after I dared to turn it on one frosty winter morning. 'If you're cold,' he told me, 'then pull on another jumper.' And as snow piled up around the window sills ... I did. I found that I could wear eight sweatshirts and still just move my arms.

We became strict vegetarians (unless someone else was cooking) and we only used the car for emergencies. And today was no exception.

I jerked my soaking jacket up over a bony shoulder.

"You've lost a lot of weight," Aunt Maggie chimed in.

"It's the strict budget," I confessed.

I was getting awfully sick of brown rice and frozen veggies. Without continuous amounts of sugar and fat pumped into my blood stream I lost loads of weight. Clothing was stretching the limits of my imagination. What could I fix with a needle? What could I swap with friends (although I think they only swapped anything because they felt sorry for me and probably imagined that I'd become addicted to crack)?

"If you ever need any vegetables just pop around," Granny Smith offered. "Granddad's garden is getting bigger every year."

Of all the things I missed because of our gruesome budget, I think I missed my curves the most. Women on the street didn't smile at me anymore; either they were overly sympathetic or overly jealous. I could understand the sympathy, even though it embarrassed me, but I couldn't understand the envy. Jack liked to think that it was because of my 'metabolism'. I had become like a puppy dog – staring forcefully at people while they ate potato chips, or slurped cans of soda. When they awkwardly offered me a portion I squeaked, "No, no! Thanks anyway. I'm ... uhhh ... on a diet."

I couldn't accept anything, because I could never give them anything back. If friends bought me chocolates I had to consume them all on the spot or Jack would try and sell them to his work mates (he liked to tell them it was to support some Charity or another). I didn't resent Jack for making me have constant hunger pangs for a year, because I loved him. I tried to think of it in a positive way, like 'this was the year that I grew up'. No longer would I spend hours getting ready to go out. Instead I sold everything that gobbled up power, and I struggled to find a way to make more money. After a month on said budget I began pulling apart all of my old jerseys and began crocheting tea caddies for all of my grandmother's friends. Then I could afford wool to knit brand new ones to sell in local stores. Not once did I dip into our savings – even if I'd been able to, since Jack looked after all that.

I spent my nights curled up against Jack, all eight sweatshirts wedged into my underarms. I Browsed through old magazines Jack found outside the doctor's - the television had been sold so as not to tempt us - I didn't imagine what all my friends were doing: the copious amounts of champagne they were swilling and cheese crackers they consumed. I didn't think about all the parties I was missing. I don't know when it happened, but somewhere along the way I no longer wanted to paint the town red. Red is an angry color. I wanted to paint it a soft shade of pink instead.

Sometimes as I was casting another magazine onto the floor Jack's eyes would catch mine, and he would smile down at me with a hint of tears. "Thank you," he would whisper. "Thank you for helping me." And that was all I needed.