after his mother’s funeral the comment he’d made to Oliver had surfaced in his mind every day.
Michael had only just begun seeing Caroline when he’d answered the phone one morning to hear a carer at the nursing home tell him his mother had “passed on” during the night. Caroline was in the shower, and when she’d come downstairs she’d found Michael, the phone in his hand, staring at the table. They were still just discovering each other. The night he’d find her waiting for him in his bathroom was months away in their future. Their knowledge of each other was shallow. And yet Caroline had accompanied him every step along the deepening shelf of his mother’s death, nurturing him through the funeral and the quiet sadness afterwards. She was acquainted with it. That’s what she’d told him. So he shouldn’t see it as an imposition too soon, upon her or them. She knew death and what it did to the living, so he should let her help him, which he had.
But now, in the wake of hers, Michael couldn’t help think that both Caroline and Oliver had been wrong. If he’d been able to speak to her, if her ghost should have visited him one night, he’d have told her you cannot be familiar with death; it can only be familiar with you. And if he’d known at that first meeting with Oliver what he knew now, then he’d have told him that there was a birth into maturity beyond having children or losing your parents. It was the birth of an amputated love. Of having found a person in whom life makes sense, someone who expands you, only to have their death suddenly close you again, like the teeth of a woodland trap. And in that closing to experience a slow tearing in the fabric of your days, your years. This, he would have told Oliver, is the truest birth into adult knowledge. A rare wisdom shared with life prisoners and locked-in sufferers, to have your future taken from you, and yet still remain alive.
―
“And so Dolly said sorry and now they are friends.” Lucy punctuated the end of her story by jerking the two dolls in the air in front of her, shivering their synthetic hairstyles.
Michael smiled. “Well, I’m glad,” he said. “It’s more fun being friends than not being friends, isn’t it?”
Lucy cocked her head in mock thought. “Maybeee,” she said, drawing out the end of the word.
A woman in a petrol-blue shawl behind them began cracking pistachio shells into a cupped hand, the painted nail of her thumb prising them open. Somewhere by the door the greetings of old friends rose above the room’s murmuring talk, like a piece of driftwood lifted on a wave.
“How old are you, Lucy?” Michael asked her.
“She’s four,” another voice said. Michael looked up to see an older girl looking down at them, her chestnut hair cut in a bob. She wore jeans, trainers, and a sweatshirt with the name of a boy band down one of its sleeves.
“Four and a quarter!” Lucy protested.
“I’m seven,” her older sister said, as if she hadn’t heard her. “My name’s Rachel.”
She spoke confidently, a child brought up among adults.
“Do you want to come and see my drawings?”
“What do you think, Lucy?” Michael said. “Shall we go and see Rachel’s drawings?”
Lucy hit the sofa with Dolly’s head. “They’re stupid drawings!”
“Well,” Michael said, trying to placate her, “isn’t that for me to decide?” He stood up. “Do you want to come, too?”
But Lucy wasn’t listening anymore. Michael’s acceptance of her sister’s invitation had instantly demoted him in her interest. Lowering herself beside the sofa, she was already talking to Molly and Dolly instead.
“Come on,” Rachel said, taking his hand. “They’re in the kitchen.”
―
The question Michael had managed to avoid among the Nelsons’ guests was eventually asked by Josh himself. They were standing together at the bottom of the garden, looking out over the ponds. Rachel, as promised, had taken Michael into the kitchen
Michael had only just begun seeing Caroline when he’d answered the phone one morning to hear a carer at the nursing home tell him his mother had “passed on” during the night. Caroline was in the shower, and when she’d come downstairs she’d found Michael, the phone in his hand, staring at the table. They were still just discovering each other. The night he’d find her waiting for him in his bathroom was months away in their future. Their knowledge of each other was shallow. And yet Caroline had accompanied him every step along the deepening shelf of his mother’s death, nurturing him through the funeral and the quiet sadness afterwards. She was acquainted with it. That’s what she’d told him. So he shouldn’t see it as an imposition too soon, upon her or them. She knew death and what it did to the living, so he should let her help him, which he had.
But now, in the wake of hers, Michael couldn’t help think that both Caroline and Oliver had been wrong. If he’d been able to speak to her, if her ghost should have visited him one night, he’d have told her you cannot be familiar with death; it can only be familiar with you. And if he’d known at that first meeting with Oliver what he knew now, then he’d have told him that there was a birth into maturity beyond having children or losing your parents. It was the birth of an amputated love. Of having found a person in whom life makes sense, someone who expands you, only to have their death suddenly close you again, like the teeth of a woodland trap. And in that closing to experience a slow tearing in the fabric of your days, your years. This, he would have told Oliver, is the truest birth into adult knowledge. A rare wisdom shared with life prisoners and locked-in sufferers, to have your future taken from you, and yet still remain alive.
―
“And so Dolly said sorry and now they are friends.” Lucy punctuated the end of her story by jerking the two dolls in the air in front of her, shivering their synthetic hairstyles.
Michael smiled. “Well, I’m glad,” he said. “It’s more fun being friends than not being friends, isn’t it?”
Lucy cocked her head in mock thought. “Maybeee,” she said, drawing out the end of the word.
A woman in a petrol-blue shawl behind them began cracking pistachio shells into a cupped hand, the painted nail of her thumb prising them open. Somewhere by the door the greetings of old friends rose above the room’s murmuring talk, like a piece of driftwood lifted on a wave.
“How old are you, Lucy?” Michael asked her.
“She’s four,” another voice said. Michael looked up to see an older girl looking down at them, her chestnut hair cut in a bob. She wore jeans, trainers, and a sweatshirt with the name of a boy band down one of its sleeves.
“Four and a quarter!” Lucy protested.
“I’m seven,” her older sister said, as if she hadn’t heard her. “My name’s Rachel.”
She spoke confidently, a child brought up among adults.
“Do you want to come and see my drawings?”
“What do you think, Lucy?” Michael said. “Shall we go and see Rachel’s drawings?”
Lucy hit the sofa with Dolly’s head. “They’re stupid drawings!”
“Well,” Michael said, trying to placate her, “isn’t that for me to decide?” He stood up. “Do you want to come, too?”
But Lucy wasn’t listening anymore. Michael’s acceptance of her sister’s invitation had instantly demoted him in her interest. Lowering herself beside the sofa, she was already talking to Molly and Dolly instead.
“Come on,” Rachel said, taking his hand. “They’re in the kitchen.”
―
The question Michael had managed to avoid among the Nelsons’ guests was eventually asked by Josh himself. They were standing together at the bottom of the garden, looking out over the ponds. Rachel, as promised, had taken Michael into the kitchen
Similar Books
