In the Interlude

Chapter 47 - So Damn Much

Her head ached, her heart ached, her soul ached. Everything just ached. Aïcha closed her eyes and leaned her forehead on the cold train window trying to find some relief.

"Good morning!"

She looked up and her eyes met those of a man, probably in his early forties. His dark hair streaked here and there with a little grey. His daughter, fifteen maybe, smiled and quickly slid into the seat opposite Aïcha.

She returned their greeting and sat up straight in her seat, leaning her cheek upon her hand thinking that she needed a strong cup of tea to get going.

As the train left the station, the sun shone brightly through the window, a sharp contrast to her mood. She squinted as the light assaulted her eyes and turned around. The man opposite her reached for his newspaper. His daughter, eyes closed, was resting her head on his shoulder, her finger tapping rhythmically against her knee. Aïcha could hear the faint sound of a pop song coming through the girl's headphones. The father placed the newspaper on the table facing him and wrapped his arm over his daughter's shoulder. Rubbing her back, he kissed her head.

Aïcha watched the scene unfold before her eyes and it took her all the strength in the world to not break down and cry right then and there.

The father reminded her so much of Idriss. The same salt and pepper hair, the same measure of poise and calm on his face, the same unconditional love for his daughter that shone through his eyes.

The girl, a cute blonde with lively green eyes, looked nothing like Mia but the precious bond between her and her father was unmistakable, just like the one her daughter had once shared with her father.

Mustering a smile, she stood up and headed to the onboard bar buffet. She sat at a stool in the corner nursing a cup of strong tea. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since the day before - a quick sandwich she had in front of her computer. But Aïcha was not in the mood for food.

Maybe it was the enormous knot in her empty stomach or the hard lump in her throat, but she felt sick and wondered if she needed to get to the bathroom before it was too late.

Instead, her legs refused to carry her anywhere else. She felt like a coward, fleeing instead of fighting. Fleeing instead of fighting for Tom and for the possibility of them being together.

In the very rare moments she had allowed herself to dream, Aïcha could see herself with Tom, hand in hand, in the streets of London, shopping for groceries or going to the movies. She could see herself making Crêpes every Sunday, and Tom setting the table for breakfast. She could even picture herself standing next to him on a red carpet. But she never could picture them all together, Tom, Mia and herself.

And how could she? Witnessing the gentle touch of a dad towards his daughter was all she needed to feel the grief consuming her heart again.

She looked at her distorted reflection in the window and silently cried. For all the things Idriss had missed. And all the things he would miss.

Over time, Aïcha had learned to recognise that death was part of life, and had even accepted, somehow, the idea of being a widow for the rest of her life. But she hadn't realised how difficult it would be for her to mourn the loss of a father for her daughter. She knew the road was long, but it was utterly endless with so many bumps to climb over. It was a tunnel, with no light at the end.

Sophia had suggested to her once to go and see a therapist. She had witnessed many episodes of Aïcha drowning in her own sorrow and grief but refusing to acknowledge that she needed help in coping and moving forward. There was just so much Sophia could do as a friend. And then Aïcha and Mia moved to Morocco, and there was even less she could do over the occasional phone call.