Late Repentance
Imogen, is that you? a young woman called, turning her head to the right where a familiar voice came from.
Molly? Imogen replied, her smile widening. How long has it been? Seven, perhaps eight years?
Nine, love, nine. Time flies, doesnt it? One blink and youre suddenly a cranky old aunt with a pack of cigarettes tucked away she squinted mischievously with her left eye. Remember how we used to set the classroom on fire? We always sat at the same desk, earning us the nickname Siamese twins. We even begged our parents to buy us matching dresses, school bags, and diaries.
How could I forget? Imogen laughed. And that time we painted the walls of the toilet on the first floor of the primary school? We were made to scrub it clean later. Youll never become that nagging, oldfashioned aunt who bemoans the younger generation, will you? she added, admiring a friends school uniform.
Anyway, Imogen, Im staying with my parents for a few days while Mikes away on business. Ill be over this evening. Dont you dare decline. I hope you still remember my parents address? Molly said, smoothing Imogens hair as she hugged her.
Of course, I havent forgotten the house that always welcomed me so warmly, the flat we almost set ablaze while experimenting in the kitchen, the cherry pies that always burned to black charcoal because we never mastered the art of cooking. The juice would run off the cherries and the pies turned into little coals.
The school friends fell silent for a moment, recalling the oddities of their shared childhood.
Ill be there, Imogen finally broke the pause. And your favourite cake, the Victoria sponge? Still a favourite? What wine will you bring? Hopefully not the cheap stuff we sipped back in Year Eleven when we got sick for three days and skipped lessons.
Im drinking a nice Bordeaux now. No need to buy anything; Ive brought a bottle myself Molly glanced at her watch.
Noted, dear.
My mum and dad will be thrilled to see you; they were just talking about you yesterday. Well have a good natter Molly sang a quick tonguetwister. I must dash to my errands now. Dont be late exactly seven oclock. I cant wait.
Me too. See you soon!
Molly vanished into the crowd, and Imogen hurried to the supermarket for a cake. She still had to ask permission at home, but Mike would look after the kids, so that was sorted. As for her memory some fragments had faded, perhaps for the best. Who knew how the reunion might end?
Come in, love, dont be shy Mrs. Hughes called from the hallway, ushering Imogen into the sitting room.
The room was still set with a crisp white linen tablecloth, stiff napkins, and silverware that clinked like a memory of childhood. A Wedgwood tea set named Madonna occupied its usual spot on the mantel. The sight reminded Imogen of a carefree youth, of endless evenings spent on the foldout sofa gossiping about boyfriends, of evenings bent over textbooks, sketching hyperbolas and writing essays while stealing glances at each others work.
She greeted Peter Smith with a warm hand; he, ever the gentleman, called her lovely and pressed a kiss to her hand, much to Imogens blush. After a glass of wine and a slice of cake, Peter and Mrs. Hughes chatted about the kids, then excused themselves, leaving the two women alone.
The delicacy and tact of Mollys parents never cease to impress Imogen thought.
Finally we can catch up properly, just like old times Molly said, setting down a halffilled glass.
We moved to London three years ago, bought a flat. Mike works as a train driver, I teach maths at a community school. Our son, Henry, is in Year Two now; hes staying with his grandparents Russell while were out. Hes a curious little terror. And our daughters, Sally, six, and Katie, five, go to nursery and take ballet at the community centre. Imogen replied, easing into the conversation.
Remember how we dreamed of marrying pilots and applying to the aviation college? Molly chuckled.
And we thought any man over thirty was an old codger Imogen added.
Those were the golden days, full of grand plans and pinktinted glasses. You cant stay forever in a fantasy, even if you have a head as big as a football. Molly said, eyes twinkling.
Speaking of which, have you seen Andrew lately? Have you spoken to him? Molly asked, her blue eyes searching.
Lets not go there, Molly. I barely remember those days. I avoid Andrew; we only bump into each other like strangers passing on the street. Ive almost forgotten him, honestly.
Oh, youre still as blunt as ever! Molly sighed. I didnt expect you to be so cold.
No more talk about him, please. Ive got to go.
Imogen left the house, hopped into a black cab, and the city lights blurred past. As the driver asked if they could speed up, Imogen pressed the button, feeling her heart pound like a drum. In those twenty minutes, memories that had been buried for years resurfaced, sliding into place like a jigsaw puzzle missing only a few pieces.
She saw herself as a child in her bedroom, walls plastered with glossy magazine cutouts of actors, a porcelain doll collection in ballroom gowns perched on the piano, an open book on the desk whose title she could not read. She sat on her bed, meticulously snipping her pristine wedding gown into tiny strips. Shards of sequins glittered on the floor, the veil torn into ribbons, the dress reduced to scrap, the shoes smashed, the perfume bottle shattered with a hammer. The room smelled of cinnamon, rosemary, and a faint hint of jasmine.
Imogen was deliberately destroying every reminder of Andrew. Then she spotted a velvet jewellery box, grabbed it, and opened it to reveal two gold wedding bands engraved with forever. She fetched a heavy axe from the cupboard, battered the rings into a flattened lump of yellow metal. She then sliced her long ashblonde hair, her mother watching in disbelief.
There will be no wedding. Its better for both of us to part ways Andrews voice rang in her head, the words spoken three days before the ceremony over the phone. He had said nothing else.
Back at her flat, a dark silhouette lingered outside her front door.
Who could that be? Andrew? she wondered, heart thudding.
Good evening, Imogen! Please hear me out! the figure called.
Im not thrilled to see you, Andrew, but youve got five minutes; the clocks already ticking, Imogen replied, her tone cold but measured. Im doing this out of mercy. Even a condemned soul deserves a final word.
The streetlamp flickered, highlighting Andrews nervous expression.
Im sorry, Imogen. Ive been a coward, terrified like a child. I was twentyeight then, you were twenty. Id just survived a disastrous marriage and a betrayal. I never wanted to be a laughingstock again. I loved you then, I still love you. I acted like a wretch, you understand?
He reached for her hands, but she pulled away sharply.
Times up. What else do you have to say?
Yesterday I spoke to your friend Molly. I told her everything, asked her to find out if you still love me. She promised to let me know if you do.
Minus one, Imogen muttered, her voice flat.
What?
Minus one, youre a friend. I didnt expect such treachery from Molly. Andrew, youve got no chance. Move on; Im not wasting any more time.
Wait, I havent told you everything. I left for the hills after our talk and turned off my phone.
Andrews hand brushed the scar on Imogens forearm; she jerked it away.
Dont! she whispered, a low groan escaping her.
Images swirled in her mind like a kaleidoscope, pieces snapping into place, the puzzle finally complete.
Your parents and brother threatened to ruin me if I ever came near you. I promised them Id stay away. Andrew confessed softly. I visited you in the hospital when you were on IVs, two weeks in intensive care. I never asked why. I thought a bit of tears might bring you back to university. If theres even a spark of love left, leave your husband, let me care for you and the children. I have money, I have means. You wont regret it.
The night was still, only the hum of mosquitoes and chirping crickets audible.
A sudden crash echoed from the bathroom. Imogen found herself lying in a tub of hot water, the liquid tinged red with blood from a shallow cut on her left hand. She felt a sudden urge to sleep and closed her eyes.
A shrill scream jolted her awake. Her fathers terrified face appeared, his hair now flecked with grey.
Daughter! What have you done?
She recalled the white ceiling of the hospital ward, the endless search for something she could not find, a hand bound tightly, a soul in agony.
She spent three and a half months recovering in the hospital, then returned home on the first snowfall, escorted by her parents. The physical pain faded, but a part of her died that day, a piece of her that would never return. The drugs that dulled the pain turned her into a walking husk, erasing memories of school and knowledge alike. They could not bring back the bright, laughing girl she once was.
Years later, working as a cashier in a supermarket, Imogen met Michael. His love healed her wounded heart and gave her a reason to live. They married, and life seemed to settle into a comfortable rhythm.
Wait a minute, Im coming Imogen called out to Andrew, dashing into the stairwell. She fumbled a key, opened a dusty cupboard, and pulled out an old box shed hidden under the bathroom when her parents moved.
Here she handed it to Andrew. Its all thats left of our forever.
Andrew opened it to find two shattered rings. A haunting old melody drifted through his mind:
A wedding band, not just a trinket, but a promise of two hearts
Clutching the broken pieces of his past, Andrew stood beneath the dim glow of a streetlamp, the night air heavy with whatmighthavebeen.
