Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely - Gail Honeyman Page 0,93

without spilling too much. I had gulped down almost half of it before I realized that it was actually water. I gagged, feeling it gurgle and churn in my stomach. Another bad sign—someone or something had turned vodka into water. This was not my preferred kind of miracle.

Lying back down again, I heard other sounds, footsteps. Someone was humming, a man. Who was in my kitchen? I was amazed at how easily the sound traveled. I was always alone here, unused to hearing another person moving around in my home. I drank some more water and started to choke, which turned into a coughing fit and ended with unproductive retching. After a minute or two, someone knocked tentatively on the living room door, and a face peeped round—Raymond.

I wanted to die—this time, in addition to actually wanting to die, I meant it in the metaphorical sense too. Oh, come on now, I thought to myself, almost amused; just how desperately, on how many levels, does a person have to wish to die before it’s actually allowed to happen? Please? Raymond smiled sadly at me and spoke very quietly.

“How are you feeling, Eleanor?” he said.

“What happened?” I asked him. “Why are you in my house?”

He came into the room and stood at my feet.

“Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine.”

I closed my eyes. Neither phrase answered my questions; neither was what I wanted to hear.

“Are you hungry?” he said gently. I thought about it. My insides felt wrong, very wrong. Perhaps part of that was related to hunger? I didn’t know, so I just shrugged. He looked pleased.

“I’m going to make you some soup, then,” he said. I lay back with my eyes closed.

“Not lentil,” I said.

He returned after a few minutes and slowly, so slowly, I eased myself into a seated position, keeping the towels wrapped around me. He’d heated some tomato soup in a mug, and placed it on the table in front of me.

“Spoon?” I said.

He did not reply, but went off to the kitchen and came back with one. I held it in my right hand, trembling violently, and tried to sip some. I shook so much that it spilled onto the towels—I realized that there was no way I would be able to get the liquid from the mug to my mouth.

“Aye, I thought you might be best just trying to drink it,” he said gently, and I nodded.

He sat on the armchair and watched me as I sipped, neither of us speaking. I set the mug down when I’d finished, feeling the warmth of it inside me, the sugar and the salt in my veins. The ticking of the Power Rangers clock above the fireplace was exceptionally loud. I finished the glass of water and, without speaking, he went to refill it.

“Thank you,” I said when he returned and handed it to me.

He said nothing, stood up and left the room. The washer-dryer sounds had stopped, and I heard the door click open, more footsteps. He came back in, walked toward me and held out his hand.

“Come on,” he said.

I tried to stand without assistance, but couldn’t. I leaned on him, and then had to have his arm around my waist to assist me across the hallway. The bedroom door was open, the bed made up with the freshly laundered sheets. He sat me down, and then lifted my legs and helped me get under the covers. The bed smelled so fresh—warm and clean and cozy, like a little bird’s nest.

“Get some rest now,” he said softly, closing the curtains and turning out the light. Sleep came like a sledgehammer.

I must have slept for half a day at least. When I finally woke, I reached for the glass that had been placed at the side of my bed and gulped the water down. I needed water inside and out, so, taking careful, tentative steps, I walked to the bathroom and stood under the shower. The smell of the soap was like a garden. I washed away all the filth, all the external stains, and emerged pink and clean and warm. I dried myself gently, so gently, afraid that my skin would tear, and then dressed in clean clothes, the softest, cleanest clothes I’d ever worn.

The kitchen floor gleamed and all the bottles had been removed, the work tops wiped down. There was a pile of folded laundry on one of the chairs. The table was bare save for a vase, the only one I owned,