16 July (Short Story)

Prologue

Hertfordshire, United Kingdom, 2012

The old-fashioned kettle began to rattle upon the stove, swathes of steam spilling out of the coppery spout. I slipped my hands into an oversized pair of floral oven mitts: a gift from my son on the long-ago eve of my fortieth birthday. 

The oven mitts were quite frayed and threadbare—but I refused to purchase new ones because these reminded me of that darling boy with dark-brown hair like his father, dressed in his crisp school uniform with his head full of hopeful dreams about the future. He had spoken about flying to the moon like those American astronauts on the television, saying that he would name one of the stars after me. I myself had abandoned those dreams a long time ago. 

Gripping the handle of the kettle with trembling hands, I poured the steaming water into a chipped teacup. Drops of hot liquid spilled onto the stove creating miniature puddles of explosive tea-water—one bead springing up and burning the side of my shivering cheek. 

I ignored my momentary pain and added a packet of sugar and some cream to the concoction, turning the dark liquid into pale beige. 

I shuffled to the living room in my pink slippers and faded housecoat, every step more difficult than the last. The muscles in my legs ached and I paused for a moment to catch my breath—my lungs heavy with smoke and tar from tobacco. 

I might have taken the time to style my coarse grey hair into the pin curls of my youth and adorn my withered frame in something other than my faded pink nightgown but people rarely visited on Mondays. My children were often busy. All but one had moved elsewhere and two now had grandchildren of their own. 

Some of the women from my ladies church group visited. They didn't seem to care about the heavy accent I had retained after all those years. Or that I was a Jew. 

Instead of dismissing my words as incoherent noise, they truly listened—waiting patiently as I spoke with excruciating determination. Knowing I was new to the faith, they brought Bible verses and prayers for my deteriorating condition. They never asked about the past unless I mentioned it first, which I never did. 

I switched on the telly and found a programme about the animals of the world—filling up the silence of my three-story townhouse with the songs of colourful rainforest birds and the trumpeting of African elephants.

I glanced out the window, hoping that one of the church ladies might come to share a cup of tea and watch the programme alongside me. They often did so, chatting about grandchildren, great-grandchildren and supermarket trips while inquiring about my own family and health. Perhaps they would bring some chocolate biscuits as Esther Osagie had done the week before. 

Once, Esther had told me about fleeing northern Nigeria because of the persecution of Christians there. One of her brothers had been killed and she feared the same might happen to her children. After speaking she had waited, knowing what had happened to me. 

Perhaps she had believed that her story might encourage me to tell mine. Everyone was always talking about vulnerability and how sharing the sufferings of the past helped to ease the pain of the present. But I had said nothing. 

As my weary gaze panned back to the television, I caught sight of a black-and-white photograph on the cabinet. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. 

The image presented a smiling girl with her mother's pearls strung around her neck and her eyes gleaming with unbridled hope. She had wanted to become a medical doctor and spent her vacations in the countryside with her parents. Everyone praised her intelligence and said she had the most beautiful singing voice—even predicting that she would become the next Edith Piaf. 

But she changed. 

Everything changed. 

I closed my eyes, finally surrendering to the dizzying memories of the past that beckoned me with increasing desperation—voices of lost friends and relatives and strangers combining to become an overpowering cacophony. Inevitably, my mind returned to the day it had happened.