by J. M. Monaco
Dave leans over the side and empties half of my mother’s urn, a slight wind blowing the ashes several feet across the ripples of water. I empty the other half, some of the ashes covering my hand, which I touch, examine, and smooth into my skin. We repeat the ritual with my father’s and Dave and I stand next to each other, swaying with the slight rock of the boat, holding ourselves steady at the side, as we watch our parents dissolve into the abyss.
The following morning at around 4.30am, I wake up to the sound of Jon’s loud snoring, which shocks me out of a dream. In the dream my parents and Dave and I are together. There’s a strong sense of Jon’s presence although he isn’t visible. It’s as if he’s hovering over us, a spirit in the clouds, watching and guiding. In the dream we all know that Ma is going, on her way out with the cancer, but we accept this and we are all content just to be together in each other’s company. My father is surprisingly affectionate with me, even though there’s something about his actions that warns me it’s only for a fleeting moment. It’s maybe after he’s said something he realises he shouldn’t have said, or done something he now regrets. He goes out of his way to get me a beer and a snack from the kitchen and he brings them outside. I am settled in a wooden Adirondack-style chair next to Ma. It’s the kind of chair my mother always loved but never bought for herself. We are in the back yard at their cottage and Dad creeps up from behind, sets his arms gently around my shoulders and leans over to embrace me, his stubbly face and the sharp point of his toothpick brushing against my cheek. I accept his hand, hold it and turn to Ma to see her smiling. She takes my other hand in hers and I think, this is what a mother and daughter do.
A trampoline appears out of nowhere and I decide I’m going to have a jump; no cane, no pain, only young, strong legs that are ready to bounce. I want to show them I have blissful energy and I want them all to marvel at it. And that’s what they do. Dave, Ma, Dad and Jon in those clouds, all smile and giggle with me as I bounce up and down, struggling to contain myself, not wanting any of it to end. I wake up to the sound of Jon’s snoring. For a second when I open my eyes I fear he’s struggling for his last breath and there’s silence, but it resumes again, his roaring declaration of life.
I nudge his shoulder to signal that it’s time to turn to his side. I curl up behind him into the spooning position we enjoyed so much in our younger days. The heat of his body, the pace of his breathing, up and down, is steady and reliable. He takes hold of my hand and moves it next to his warm bare stomach. I close my eyes in an effort to return to a sleep in which I can pick up where my idyllic dream left off, but it doesn’t happen. I orient my breathing to match Jon’s, count each one up to twenty, then start again; one, two, three, four.
A few more hours will pass, morning will come, the day will resume, like any other and we will still be here together.
Acknowledgements
I want to thank the team at RedDoor Publishing, Anna Burtt, Heather Boisseau and Clare Christian, for their passion and faith in this novel. Thanks to editor, Sadie Mayne, whose insights opened my eyes to hidden narrative possibilities. Thanks to cover designer, Clare Shepherd, for capturing the heart of this story.
Thanks to my family and friends for the many encouraging words and confidence in me. Extra gratitude is extended to those who took the time to read critically and comment on early drafts: Lisa Lipman, Sheila Brill, Bernadka Dubicki, and Janet Thumim.
To my loving husband – thank you for your endless support of my creative endeavours, for all those times you told me never to give up, for convincing me that this effort was worthwhile. Thank you for loving me the way you do.
To my children – thanks for your patience during those intense moments when I was grumpy, when I was somewhere else, either glued to a notebook, the laptop or wandering around in a blank-faced daze. Thanks for always, always, saying how proud you are of your mother at those moments when she needed so desperately to hear it. Thank you for loving me the way you do.
About the Author
J.M. Monaco grew up in the northeast region of the USA where she studied English and Creative Writing at undergraduate level. She worked in a variety of areas before taking up postgraduate studies in England where she completed her PhD. She now lives in the South West of England with her husband and children.