Falling Walls (III)

Chapter 33

My heart was pounding so loud that I didn't hear the taxi door close behind me. I didn't hear the taxi drive off. The faster and faster beating sound in my chest caused my feet to take one unsteady step after another towards the rustic looking wooden house in front of me. The closer the house ahead of me came the wobblier my steps became, as I passed immaculately trimmed and coordinated trees and flowers, leading up to the heavy entry door. The pebbles underneath my feet scrunched painfully as the doubt about why I had come all the way to Switzerland overcame me.
Taking a deep breath, I allowed myself a glance at the mountains, reaching high behind the house I was about to enter.  The set of keys Jan had given me felt heavy in my sweaty hand.  I put down my travel bag and jingled the keys around.  The kids, I reminded myself.  My family, our family.  That's why I was there. 
I took the key and brought it to the key hole. I should knock, I told myself, but when I received no answer, I used the slippery keys in my hand. 

Ear piercing music numbed me as I stepped inside the house.  I called out for Tom a few times but wasn't surprised when I didn't get an answer. Too loud was the music sounding through the dark hallway. I placed my travel bag on the floor and followed the noise. As I approached the door to my right, I could hear a high pitched voice sing along to an Italian song I had never heard before. My heart was pounding, but I was no longer surprised to see a small, firm butt in tight leggins dance around the kitchen, long black curls, deep in colour and shiny as an onyx twirling through the air. In that moment I promised myself to stay contained. I wasn't going to loose it. I was going to keep my calm. I would tell Tom why I had come and then I would leave.

With all the strength and composure I could find within myself, I cleared my throat. "Entschuldigung," I excused myself in German, "I'm looking for Tom." I was proud of myself that I managed to voice my question without any wobbly sounds or stuttering, but I was awfully aware of my composure and considered lowering my chin. Is it too high up? My hands were fumbling and I felt more assured when they found the outside of my jeans pockets to play with. Am I trying too hard? I stole a quick glance at the sparkly clean window displaying the mountain skyline, their tops still covered in a layer of white. I was't sure if she understood me. Switzerland and it's many languages. She did have more the Italian look and considering the music she was listening to she probably belonged to the Italian part of the Swiss population. In perfect German, with hardly an accent, and a friendly smile, she looked at me and answered, "Em, no. Tom isn't here." Seemingly undisturbed by my presence she went on to stuffing a variety of fruit and vegetables into the juicer in front of her.

I was stunned, watching her for a while before I saw an older man in shorts and long  sleeve shirt pass the window before entering the kitchen through the back door. He stared at me for a moment, blank expression, but then a friendly smile spread across his face.  "You're Lisa, are you?" I nodded, not understanding what was going on. But before I could answer him, he called out the door, "Gabriella, come inside. Tom's Lisa is here."

With a steaming hot tea in hand I was sitting only moments later on the dark leather lounge inside a spacious, rustic styled living area, Gabriella and Norbert across from me, while their daughter Sophia, the dancer from the kitchen, was still singing in a different room.  

The more I listened to Tom's housekeepers talk, the more nervous I became, my leg hopping up and down, making my tea spill over onto the saucer not only once. 

Tom had been here, they told me. Over a week ago. "He usually announces his visits," Gabriella said. "Not so this time. He had just been there one morning. Then he'd sent them a message from his phone just two days later, asking to look after the house as he was leaving. They hadn't heard back from him since.
"I have seen your photo in the magazines," Gabrielle told me. "That's how I recognised you. And Tom now has a photo of you in his bedroom."

I was tired, and just as confused as before. When Gabriella informed me that her family lives in a house nearby, I felt relieved. It was good to know someone was nearby.

So he brought a picture of me. Then why doesn't Tom talk to me. Why is he not with me? I wondered for half the night while staring at the photo of Tom and me on his bed side table, his arms wrapped around me. The sheets on Tom's bed must have been new.  They didn't smell of him.  Several times I pressed my nose into the pillow but nothing in this room brought the comfort I craved so much.

When I woke up the next morning, a beautiful clear blue sky greeted me out the window. The snow covered mountains on one side, light green covered grey elevations on the other, inviting for a day outside. For a moment I allowed myself to imagine Tom, myself and the kids, all three, here in this house, hiking, climbing mountains, sleighing or swimming in the deep-blue St Moritz Lake which sat silently between the mountain ranges. I had no idea if swimming was allowed, but it was a lovely thought. Maybe I could learn to ski. I shook off my day dream. Tom had been here. He could have called. I was just going to check for phone coverage when I remembered that I had broken mine. I strolled into the kitchen where I had seen a phone the evening before. Picking up the receiver, there was a steady ring tone. I called Tom's number but like all the times before, it went straight to voicemail. At least I now knew that Tom had had a chance to call me. Every possible excuse I had formed in my head burst like a bubble in the wind. 

I'd have a coffee, I decided, then I'd call Dave to let him know what was happening and check on the twins. Maybe I should call Hannah. It had been ages. My being in Switzerland had been a ridiculous idea. I needed to go home. I would leave Tom a message and then he could decide what to do. Turning the tables. I was sick of making decisions.

Opening drawer after drawer, looking first for a cup, then coffee and finally a spoon, I remembered I should really only have decaf. What were the chances of finding that. I opened another drawer, one with stationary in it. Papers, keys, pens, sticky notes and on top sat Tom's phone, the dark, empty screen mirroring my tired reflection.