The Last Goodbye

by Fiona Lucas

  For the first time since she’d started speaking to him, it felt strange—maybe even a little wrong—that she hadn’t shared this information with her mother. She stared at the chicken as she pushed it round the pan with a spatula, letting her thoughts gather, and then the story of calling Spencer’s phone on New Year’s Eve began to spill out, ending with her telling her mum all about the solid shoulder she’d been crying on for a good few months now. “I think it made a difference,” she said. “Having someone to talk to who not only could empathize but who’d also experienced the same thing.”

  As the words left her mouth, she realized she still wasn’t clear on the details of Brody’s loss, even though she’d asked him about it a handful of times. Reviewing the conversations they’d had over the last couple of months, she noticed a pattern—every time she asked him a more personal question, he sidestepped it, but he did it so neatly, deflecting the conversations back in her direction, that she’d never spotted the trend until that moment. What was up with that? She made a mental note to pin him down properly when they next spoke.

  “I’m glad you found someone you could talk to,” her mother said. “But didn’t the grief support group help with that?”

  Anna shook her head. “It’s not the same. It felt so forced, sitting in that dingy room, spilling everything out to strangers.”

  “But this man on the phone, he was a stranger too, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was,” Anna said, “At first . . .”

  “So how is that different?”

  “I don’t know if can explain it, because I’m not really sure I can pin it down myself. Maybe it’s the fact it was just an anonymous voice, no expectations, no judgment. All I know is that it helped. He helped.” As Anna stirred her curry mixture, she was overcome by a sudden conviction. “Everyone who’s lost someone should have the opportunity to talk like that, Mum. Not counseling or therapy, although those things are good—but with someone who gets it because they’ve walked that path.”

  Her mother smiled the very same smile she used to smile when Anna brought home her nearly always glowing school reports. “Well, that sounds like a great idea!”

  Anna squinted at her mother. “What idea?”

  “Setting up something for widows and widowers to talk to each other. I’ve been saying for ages that you needed a project to work on, something to feel excited about.”

  Anna nodded slowly. Her mother had been saying that. For months, if not years, just as Gabi had. But she hadn’t been ready to listen to them, had she? It had taken ages for her to relent to any of Gabi’s suggestions for evening classes, and even longer before she’d found a class she enjoyed. But here she was now, nine months of salsa under her belt, and actually looking forward to it each week. Maybe there was something in what her mother was suggesting too?

  “I wouldn’t know where to start,” she confessed.

  “No, me neither. I mean, you found this Brody by accident. How would anyone else do it? You can’t just start at the top of the phone book and begin dialing random numbers—if anyone had phone books anymore!”

  Her mother was smiling now, and Anna smiled back. The idea was wonderful, but there were other things she needed to focus on at present. “Anyway, Mum, what I’m really trying to get across is that I’m ready to make some changes to my life.” She took a deep breath. “And that includes starting to date . . .”

  “Oh!” She’d obviously caught her mum off guard with that one. “Oh, Anna . . . I think that’s . . . Well, it’s a big step. But it’s wonderful!”

  “I have to admit, I’m terrified.”

  “Of course! But if you think you’re ready . . . Is it this Brody chap?”

  Anna blinked. Brody? “Um. No. He . . .” Her brain tangled around that idea. That was clearly impossible, because . . . because . . . “No, it’s not Brody, Mum. He’s just a friend.” But even as her mouth said the word “friend,” she realized that was a pale and faint description for what Brody had come to mean to her. She shook her head, unable to process that thought right then. “His name is Jeremy. He’s from salsa. He’s asked me out before—a few months ago—and classes have just started up again after the summer break. He’s still single, and I think he’s still interested.” She’d had a brief conversation with him after class, and although she was out of practice at this sort of thing, she thought she was reading things correctly.

  “Oh, well, do keep me updated on—”

  Anna became aware of an acrid smell from the frying pan. She looked down and swore. “I’d better go, Mum! I’m burning the dinner!”

  “Of course, of course,” she replied. “Love you, darling! Now go and save that delicious curry!”

  Anna said a hasty goodbye, then turned her attention to her dinner. Was the chicken charred? She inspected it with her spatula, turning different bits over. Maybe a little. But not so badly she needed to abandon the dish. So what if it was a little smokier than normal?

  She tipped the can of coconut milk into the pan and stirred. As she put the rice on, her thoughts returned to her conversation with her mother. How wonderful it would be if everyone could find their own Brody. But how would you do it?

  She glanced across to her phone still sitting on the shelf, and reached for it, intending to use the timer function to make sure she didn’t burn the rice as well, but when she saw row upon row of colorful icons, she froze.

  An app.

  She shook her head as she picked up the phone and set the timer going, then she put the phone back on the shelf and looked at it, watching the numbers counting down to when her dinner would be ready.

  Was that even possible? Just the thought made something surge inside her chest. She didn’t know. However, she knew a couple of people who might.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Brody drove into his yard, climbed from his Land Rover and slammed the door, aware that Lewis was probably sitting on the other side of the back door waiting for him, wondering where he’d been. Brody had driven all the way to the outskirts of Dartmouth that morning, but he hadn’t been able to take Lewis with him. Therapists (or whatever the official title was) didn’t appreciate furry, four-legged chaperones for their appointments, he’d discovered.

  He’d looked the guy up on the internet a couple of months ago, not long after Anna had told him about going to the racetrack. This had been his sixth session. He had no idea if it was working yet. Especially as the only place he’d been, other than out on the moor or on his own land, was to Ibrahim’s office for his sessions, and just driving in the direction of any town got him all stressed out anyway.

  He unlocked the back door and was greeted by a slightly frantic and pleased-to-see-him Lewis, before the dog bounded past him, running off to the other side of the yard, where he started barking in the direction of the footpath that ran down the side of the property. It wasn’t a territorial kind of bark, but a look at this! kind of bark.

  At the very same moment, Brody saw a flash of color in his peripheral vision. He turned to see a woman in brightly colored walking gear, and beside her, a man in darker, more muted colors.

  “Oh, hello!” the woman called out. “Thank goodness! I think we’re a little lost . . .” And she made to clamber over the drystone wall that acted as a boundary between the footpath and his garden. Brody started to back away, even as the woman made eye contact and waved a badly folded map at him. “I don’t suppose you know the way to Hexworthy, do you?” she said loudly, completely ignoring the fact she’d just hopped onto his property uninvited. She was middle-aged, and what his mother would have called a “jolly hockey sticks” type. “We’re booked at a B and B in the village . . .” She broke off to look at her partner in crime.

  “The Sheep Dip Bed-and-Breakfast,” he supplied.

  “The Sheep Dip Bed-and-Breakfast,” she repeated, as if her companion hadn’t just said exactly the same thing, and turned her hopeful gaze back to Brody.

  Brody just stared at her, frozen to the spot. His he
art began to pound, and his fingers went numb and tingly.

  Remember what Ibrahim said, he told himself raggedly inside his head. You are okay. You are not having a stroke. Just the same non-dangerous symptoms you get every time you have a panic attack. Don’t fight it, just . . . notice. Accept.

  Ibrahim had suggested keeping a record of when and where he had his most anxious moments: what triggered them, how long they lasted and how bad they were on a scale of one to ten.

  Six, Brody thought, matter-of-factly in the corner of his brain that seemed to be functioning almost normally. Although it could peak at an eight or nine if she keeps striding toward me that way.

  From talking to Ibrahim, he’d worked out that it was other people—strangers, more specifically—that triggered most of his panic attacks, and the more of them there were around, the more severe the episode, especially if he was in a confined space, like a shop, or even an outside area without many exits. He needed to know that he could get away, that he could escape.

  Not for the first time, Brody chided himself for not planting a hedge or getting a fence, but hardly anyone used this old footpath. These were the first walkers he’d seen in months.

  There was nothing he could do about that now. His only options were (a) turn on his heels and run, which would make him seem incredibly rude, or (b) talk to the woman. And since his feet seemed to be cemented to the dusty ground, it appeared option (a) was more wishful thinking than anything else.

  Concentrate, Brody! What was the first technique Ibrahim said to employ?

  Breathe.

  He needed to breathe.

  The thought came cleanly and smoothly into his head like magic. As if it belonged there. He dug his feet even harder into the cobblestones and lifted his head, stared the woman in the face, all the while inhaling as evenly as he could, then letting the air out slowly again.

  Hockey Sticks slowed a little to let Wiry Man catch up, so they approached him together, then thrust the map out at him. “Would you be able to point out where we are?”

  Brody nodded. He was so familiar with his little corner of the moor that it didn’t take more than a second before he jabbed a finger at the map.

  The woman squinted at where he’d pointed and looked back up at him. “Is it far?” She tipped her head up to look at the sky, which was taking on a golden tinge as the sun threatened to set behind one of the tors on the horizon. “We’d like to get there by dark, if possible.”

  “Five . . .” he managed to utter, but it sounded as if he was talking with a tablespoon of gravel in his mouth. He held up his hand so she could count his fingers.

  “Five miles?”

  He nodded vigorously and pointed to the lane that headed west and down into a little wooded valley.

  “Well . . . Thank you,” Hockey Sticks said, even though her face suggested she wasn’t sure her thanks were welcome. She was mostly right, not because Brody had lost the ability or will to be helpful, but because he was counting down the seconds until the pair disappeared from view and he could implode or lie on the floor or whatever else his body felt like doing to compensate for dealing with their intrusion.

  Lewis was sitting beside him, looking hopefully up at the woman, tail wagging so hard it was flinging up a little cloud of dust and dirt. She bent down to stroke his head quickly, then she and her partner were off with a jaunty wave.

  When they turned the corner into the lane, Brody let out the breath he’d been holding and supported himself by resting his hands on his knees. He was feeling more than a little shaky and his pulse was still galloping.

  But you did it, the usually unhelpful and accusative voice in his head said. You didn’t make a fool of yourself in front of them—well, not much. You didn’t vomit. You even spoke!

  I did, he thought, as he dragged in a couple of deep breaths. I did all of that.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It was a warm night for September, so when Brody let Lewis out for his last run down the garden for the evening, he didn’t stay at the back door as usual but stepped out onto his patio.

  As he waited for his dog, he dialed Anna’s number. If she hadn’t already called him by this point in the evening, he’d got into the habit of phoning her instead.

  “Hey,” she said softly when she answered, and he could tell she was smiling, as pleased to hear his voice as he was hers. “I was just about to call you, but you beat me to it!”

  Brody began to pace lazily back and forth as they filled each other in on their days. Anna had met her sister-in-law and baby nephew during her lunch break. “Teresa mentioned Gayle again,” she said wearily. “I understand it’s awkward for her and Scott. I have to keep making sure there’s no chance of Gayle and Richard popping round every time I go to visit them. It can’t be fun for them being piggy in the middle.”

  “I know you’ve said you’re not ready but hear me out. Let me side with Teresa for a second, play devil’s advocate . . . Because it might not be a bad idea to meet Gayle and discuss how you feel, so you can move forward without all the animosity.”

  “I know it might be helpful and, even if just for Spencer’s sake, I can’t ignore her forever . . .”

  “But not yet?”

  “No. I’m just still so angry with her. I can’t seem to get past it—and this isn’t me, Brody. I’m not that person. I’m not the person who simmers with resentment, who holds grudges.”

  Lewis was sniffing around some bushes further down the lawn. Brody strolled out onto the damp grass, feeling the whisper of cool night air on his face. He’d been where Anna was at one point, so stuck in his anger that he’d ended up pushing everyone away. He didn’t want her to end up like that. How could he explain it to her?

  Open up. Tell her the truth. Tell her something real about yourself.

  Brody swallowed. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to share things with Anna. He thought about it all the time, like when he’d met the hikers the other day, or only this morning, when he felt triumphant after writing a full paragraph in his notebook.

  He turned back to face his cottage, his gaze drawn to the glow of warmth from his study window. It made him think of the little “not elf” sitting hidden out of sight on a high shelf.

  “Grief is a funny thing,” he began slowly. “People think of it as sadness, but it’s much more complex than that. It has so many layers, so many tangled emotions—including anger.”

  “I know that,” Anna said. “They mention anger in every grief book out there, how you might be angry with the person for abandoning you, even if it wasn’t their fault or their choice.”

  “It goes deeper than that.” Brody took in a deep breath. It was now or never, and he was about to jump off into the deep end. “Sometimes you get angry with other people instead. For me, it was with my parents. They tried to be there for me, but I was just so stubborn that I perceived it as meddling, and I got cross with them, and then it just . . . snowballed . . . until we couldn’t talk without me feeling a fiery ball of rage in the pit of my stomach.”

  Anna made a sound of recognition.

  “Yes, I had reason to be irritated with them at times,” Brody continued. “They were meddling and occasionally being a little judgmental, but the fury I felt was out of balance with what they actually said and did, which was really them just trying to help the only way they knew how. It became easier to be angry with them than to be sad about what had happened. I couldn’t see it at the time. I truly believed I was justified in taking the stance I did, but looking back, I can see that I blew it all out of proportion. Does that make sense?”

  “Maybe,” Anna replied warily.

  And here was the six million-dollar question. “Do you think there is any possibility you’re doing the same thing with Gayle?”

  The silence that followed was taut. Brody could sense her struggling with what he’d said, but he trusted her to see the truth.

  “Maybe,” she said again. “But it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. I still f
eel what I feel. And I know she won’t apologize to me for her part in the way things are between us, that I’ll have to be the bigger person and take responsibility for it all, and the idea of giving her a free pass just smarts, so at the moment it’s easier to leave things as they are. Gabi has said that maybe it’s a good idea for me to have a break from all the lunches and photo albums, and I’m inclined to agree.”

  Brody felt his throat tighten. This was how it started. But to explain fully how dangerous it was just to put things off, to believe the opportunities for healing and reconciliation wouldn’t diminish as time went on, he was going to have to be more specific, and that meant telling Anna things he didn’t want to tell her. Things he didn’t want to tell anyone because he felt too guilty and ashamed.

  He ran a hand through his hair and turned and strode further down the lawn into the darkness. He could hear the gurgle of the stream that ran down the boundary at the bottom of his garden. Sometimes, he sensed that Anna had him on a pedestal, that she thought he was wise and sensible and . . . good. If he told her everything—not just about the state of his life now, but about what happened nine years ago—that pedestal would be smashed and broken. She would never see him in the same way again. Worst-case scenario, he could lose her friendship forever. The thought terrified him.

  But it would be worth it if he could help her, if he could prevent her from screwing up her relationships with bitterness and misplaced blame, the way he had. He was just working out where to begin when she spoke. “And talking of moving on, I had an interesting chat with my mum the other week. I’ve been meaning to mention it. I told her how much our conversations have helped me and she suggested setting up something similar to help other people who’ve lost someone.”

  Brody wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or frustrated he had a stay of execution. He’d come back to this later in the conversation. “What sort of something?” he said, frowning. Anna wasn’t going to suggest adding more people into their conversations, was she? He didn’t much like that idea.