Short Story: In A Suitcase

Short Story: In A Suitcase

The suitcase stood by the door. It was a plain suitcase; a grey, practical container. In it were clothes to see him through the next few days, but it held much more than just a few pairs of jeans. The suitcase signified his failure; it signified the abandonment of his dreams, the abandonment of marrying Erin, of having children. He had wanted children so very much. Almost as much as he wanted Erin.

Erin, with her long curly hair bouncing over her shoulders as she laughed. It was a gurgling laugh, soft and infectious; it made everyone who heard it want to join in. It was joyous. Hopeful.

Erin laughed all the time. She made a mockery of the cynic’s cliché: laugh and the world laughs with you, bark and you’ll get better service. People fell over themselves to help her. He had seen it in the office. From the first day she had danced in, the greyness had receded. The staff came alive. They all felt it, Greg knew. He had seen plants appear on computer tops, humorous mugs had sprouted on desks and workers even chatted by the water cooler. Erin had raised moral and productivity. Now the staff talked, they exchanged ideas and were straight-up about complaints. Their office had even won prizes, outings and holidays that year. And it was all down to Erin and her infectious laugh.

He knew he should not become involved with one of his colleagues; it wasn’t professional, but he could not resist wanting to have a greater share of the joie de vivre that emanated from her. He had been over the moon when she accepted his tentative invitation to dinner. He’d planned the evening in every detail, booked three restaurants- just to be sure - nothing was to diminish his time in the sun.

That had been fourteen months, two weeks and three days ago.

It was quite strange: he remembered every detail of that date, but had no clear idea of why two weeks later he and Erin had moved into a newly rented flat together. He had been on such a high. While he could recall with clarity, with certainty, what Erin had been wearing, what they had eaten at each date, what music had been playing the first time they danced together, he could not reproduce any of their conversations or any of the details that had brought them together.

Erin was the opposite. She could remember no details, not even of their first date. He’d overheard her talking about it being the first time she had eaten sashimi. In fact she had refused to eat ‘raw fish’ and had opted for his third, safety-net choice, an Italian restaurant. It had saddened him, even then, that she should not remember. It had also made the latent seed of insecurity within him bloom and grow.

He had tried so hard to make their relationship work.

In the early days she’d told him that she loved good food, just didn’t have the knack of producing it, what with her Ma being so good, she’d never thought to learn. So he had made sure never to expect Erin to have to cook, she didn’t seem to like it and was quite happy, if left to her own devices, to eat tuna directly from the tin or curl-up on the sofa with an apple and a hunk of cheese. Her mother was always telling her off for it, but he had never really minded. Greg had taken on the cooking and, since Erin was so disorganised she never remembered to buy the ingredients he needed, so he’d also taken on the shopping. Erin had always said she’d do the washing-up, but they’d start to talk and then make love, and she would forget. So Greg did that too, his neat precise soul could not bear to face dirty pots and plates in the morning.

As his self-imposed duties increased, the talking had lessened and their lovemaking had, somehow dimmed.

Strange he hadn’t realised it at the time.

He had tried so hard. He had suggested they eat out more. Suggested they should see friends, invite friends home. She had said ‘No’. He had not pressed her for explanations or for a change of mind. He felt he had to find another solution, find another way of giving her new light.

Then Erin stopped being at home when he arrived. Last night she had not come home at all, and he knew that his light had gone out. He had sat on the sofa and phoned her mobile every half hour. It remained unavailable. So he had pulled down his grey suitcase. He had folded his dreams in with his shirts, packed his hopes into his wash-bag with the shaving cream.

He sat on the sofa, waiting for Erin.

Of course, when they found her, he would have been abroad for several days, probably. When they determined the time of death he – her poor, mistreated, loving, caring, partner - would have been elsewhere for hours. Erin’s mother would testify to his repeated phone calls, to his worry and pain. So would Erin’s best friend and their neighbours, those next door and on the floor above. The driver of the cab he had taken to the station, carrying his grey suitcase late last night, would testify to the time of his departure. Yes it was all quite tidy. No loose ends. Practice makes perfect, Greg told himself. He liked to say he learned something from every situation. Erin had told him she admired his eye for detail.

He was indeed devastated to have moved out of the sun and into the shadow, but winter must come so new grass can grow, Greg told himself. He could not let her mess up his world. He had never allowed any of them to do that.

He hummed as he heard the door open. She had always appreciated his neatness. He had never given her reason to complain.