Read Online Someone to Watch Over Me by Madeleine Reiss - Free Book Online
Authors: Madeleine Reiss
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cherished as Charlie could have disappeared without a trace, like a shaken Etch A Sketch.
Jen was the only person brave enough to suggest an event of remembrance. A funeral was out of the question of course, but she said tentatively that perhaps Carrie would find it helpful to have a memorial or celebration of her sonâs life. The first time Jen suggested it to her, Carrie reacted with fury and insisted that Jen leave her house straight away.
âHeâs not dead,â she sobbed. âIâm his mother, Iâd know if he was dead, wouldnât I?â She didnât talk to Jen for a fortnight and then rang her up and apologised.
âIâm sorry. I know you just want to make me feel better, but I canât give up on him.â It was only when she was persuaded by some other members of her bereavement group that perhaps she might view the event as a kind of vigil, that she changed her mind.
âI think it would be nice for people to be able to just think about him and tell stories about what heâs like,â Carrie said and Jenâs heart hurt at the firm use of the present tense.
Thirty close friends and family members met up at the beach one chilly April morning. No one else was there except for a few bird watchers, their chests bristling with binoculars, and they had the whole expanse of sand and sky to mourn him. Carrie stood frozen and dry-eyed, watching the waves furl and unfurl and remembering the feel of him inside her, rocked in her water.
The memorial on the beach marked some sort of turning point for Carrie. She understood for the first time that she had a choice. She could die without him or she could live without him and she needed to work out which she was going to do. She had kept some sleeping pills that had been given to her by her doctor in the weeks after Charlie went. She got the bottle out of her bathroom cabinet when the night seemed particularly long or when memory hit her like a wave, knocking her off her feet and sucking her under. There were times, when if she had believed that dying would enable her to see him again, she would have done it in a heartbeat.
Jen didnât pretend to understand; in fact she often said the wrong thing because there wasnât a combination of words anywhere that would do justice to what had happened. But she was there when Carrie raged against the poem by Henry Scott Holland called âDeath Is Nothing at Allâ,
which had been sent to her by a well-intentioned relative.
âOf course heâs not slipped away to the next fucking room. If he was in the next fucking room there wouldnât be a fucking problem would there?â
When Carrie finally decided the time had come to go through Charlieâs things, it was Jen who helped her to sort everything into boxes to save or give away. She held her friend when the discovery of a Motherâs Day card tucked between recipe books on the shelf made her scratch her own face. On the second anniversary of his disappearance she remained sober whilst Carrie drank vodka after vodka whilst clutching Charlieâs jacket.
The two of them had thought about the possibility of opening a shop together years ago, but the suggestion in those days was only one of many. There was also the fantasy Bed and Breakfast project, which was to cater exclusively to broken-hearted women. Perched in a harbour in a Cornish village and painted the hue of clotted cream, this establishment was to be staffed by a team of young men with surfboard stomachs, dressed in cut-off denims. Each room was going to contain a mini fridge stocked with jumbo-sized tubs of ice cream and the price of the room would include complimentary beauty treatments and salsa dancing lessons. Another of their great ideas was the fantasy School of Chocolate project. This unlikely academy was a cerise-coloured chalet in the Swiss Alps. The students, footsore from the slopes, but chic in their Chanel ski wear, would learn how to
Jen was the only person brave enough to suggest an event of remembrance. A funeral was out of the question of course, but she said tentatively that perhaps Carrie would find it helpful to have a memorial or celebration of her sonâs life. The first time Jen suggested it to her, Carrie reacted with fury and insisted that Jen leave her house straight away.
âHeâs not dead,â she sobbed. âIâm his mother, Iâd know if he was dead, wouldnât I?â She didnât talk to Jen for a fortnight and then rang her up and apologised.
âIâm sorry. I know you just want to make me feel better, but I canât give up on him.â It was only when she was persuaded by some other members of her bereavement group that perhaps she might view the event as a kind of vigil, that she changed her mind.
âI think it would be nice for people to be able to just think about him and tell stories about what heâs like,â Carrie said and Jenâs heart hurt at the firm use of the present tense.
Thirty close friends and family members met up at the beach one chilly April morning. No one else was there except for a few bird watchers, their chests bristling with binoculars, and they had the whole expanse of sand and sky to mourn him. Carrie stood frozen and dry-eyed, watching the waves furl and unfurl and remembering the feel of him inside her, rocked in her water.
The memorial on the beach marked some sort of turning point for Carrie. She understood for the first time that she had a choice. She could die without him or she could live without him and she needed to work out which she was going to do. She had kept some sleeping pills that had been given to her by her doctor in the weeks after Charlie went. She got the bottle out of her bathroom cabinet when the night seemed particularly long or when memory hit her like a wave, knocking her off her feet and sucking her under. There were times, when if she had believed that dying would enable her to see him again, she would have done it in a heartbeat.
Jen didnât pretend to understand; in fact she often said the wrong thing because there wasnât a combination of words anywhere that would do justice to what had happened. But she was there when Carrie raged against the poem by Henry Scott Holland called âDeath Is Nothing at Allâ,
which had been sent to her by a well-intentioned relative.
âOf course heâs not slipped away to the next fucking room. If he was in the next fucking room there wouldnât be a fucking problem would there?â
When Carrie finally decided the time had come to go through Charlieâs things, it was Jen who helped her to sort everything into boxes to save or give away. She held her friend when the discovery of a Motherâs Day card tucked between recipe books on the shelf made her scratch her own face. On the second anniversary of his disappearance she remained sober whilst Carrie drank vodka after vodka whilst clutching Charlieâs jacket.
The two of them had thought about the possibility of opening a shop together years ago, but the suggestion in those days was only one of many. There was also the fantasy Bed and Breakfast project, which was to cater exclusively to broken-hearted women. Perched in a harbour in a Cornish village and painted the hue of clotted cream, this establishment was to be staffed by a team of young men with surfboard stomachs, dressed in cut-off denims. Each room was going to contain a mini fridge stocked with jumbo-sized tubs of ice cream and the price of the room would include complimentary beauty treatments and salsa dancing lessons. Another of their great ideas was the fantasy School of Chocolate project. This unlikely academy was a cerise-coloured chalet in the Swiss Alps. The students, footsore from the slopes, but chic in their Chanel ski wear, would learn how to
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