The Coordinates of Loss

by Amanda Prowse

  Rachel turned and caught sight of herself holding the boy in the hallway mirror. She pictured standing in the exact same spot, holding Oscar at a similar age. It was the most beautiful, sweet torment imaginable. She had forgotten the exact feel and weight of a sleeping child in her arms. Dozing with abandon, entirely trusting, as his little head lolled against her shoulder. Lowering her face, she inhaled the distinct scent of his toddler’s scalp and fought not to crumble under the memory that surged in her veins. Vicky returned with a large, padded bag of baby paraphernalia, which she hitched up on her shoulder before taking her friend in her arms, enveloping her and her child.

  ‘Rachel! Oh, Rach. My mum told me when it happened. She bumped into Brian. I can’t believe it. I just can’t.’ Vicky placed her fingers on the side of Rachel’s face, as they cried. ‘I would give anything for you not to be going through this. It is so cruel and must make the world seem like a wicked place.’

  ‘It does.’ Rachel let her lips graze Francisco’s head in a kiss.

  ‘I loved Oscar. I loved him; he was just like you: so funny and feisty and smart. I can’t imagine a world without him in it. I can’t believe that Francisco won’t get to know him. I used to picture that all the time, the two of them hanging out. It doesn’t seem possible.’ Vicky shook her head, and far from finding the conversation distressing, Rachel was strangely comforted by her friend’s ability to speak about him with such ease. It was again something no one else had quite managed, herself included. Even her mum framed each reference to her son with the stutter of nerves and a swallow of unease.

  Vicky held her arm. ‘I don’t know how to take this pain away from you, but I will do anything. What you are going through is the last thing in the world I wanted for you, my lovely mate. And I know that there are no words so I won’t try to find them. Let’s just go and sit on the floor of the front room like we used to.’ She turned right with confidence, into the small, square lounge where they had whiled away many an hour, lying on their tummies on the rug, watching episodes of Friends and Big Brother, dipping into a shared bowl of popcorn.

  Rachel hiccupped her tears and cradled the little boy to her chest.

  ‘Let’s pop him on the sofa.’ Vicky dumped her baby bag on the floor and removed a couple of cushions and Rachel lowered him gently until he lay, arms wide, still sound asleep. Vicky fetched his knitted blanket and tucked it around his sturdy legs and fat little feet clad in red-and-navy striped socks. She used the cushions she had removed to build a little wall along the edge, hemming him in so he wouldn’t fall.

  They sat on the rug with their backs against the sofa, Francisco sleeping behind them. ‘Did Oscar snore like an old man?’ Vicky asked.

  ‘Not really, it was more a sweet snuffle.’

  ‘This is weird for me, Rach. I have known you nearly my whole life and yet I don’t know what to say right now. I’m not equipped, so if I mess up just let me know.’

  ‘You’re doing fine.’ She spoke earnestly.

  ‘I think it’s best if we have a sign.’

  ‘What kind of sign?’

  ‘If I say or do something wrong or that makes you feel uncomfortable or if you just want me to shut up, then we should have a sign or a word that means I know instantly and we don’t have to discuss it, we can just change tack.’

  ‘Okay.’

  They both looked towards the window. Vicky spoke first: ‘What about a word like “peaches and cream”? You would only have to say that and I would know to change the subject or the scenery.’

  ‘That’s three words,’ Rachel pointed out.

  ‘Well, this is why you got two A levels and I could only manage a diploma in art.’

  Rachel smiled warmly at her friend, only realising now in her company just how much she had missed her. A rush of tears, matched by Vicky’s, instantly followed this flicker of happiness. They sat crying and holding hands for some while.

  ‘I like the idea of a code. “Peaches and cream” is good,’ she managed eventually.

  Vicky blew her nose on a tissue and rubbed her eyes; she took a deep breath and exhaled, as if readying herself. ‘How’s James doing – stupid question, I know. I just really want you to talk about James so I can gauge how you’re feeling about everything.’

  Rachel swallowed. ‘He is broken, like me, but going to work every day and has sort of created the illusion of normal to a degree. We talk once a week or so and it’s awkward and comforting at the same time. He called the other night and he was in the bank and we just sobbed and strangely that made me feel better, more connected to him. But sometimes I feel so angry with him I want to shriek, and others I miss his arms around me. I am very confused.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘I can’t seem to help it. I keep thinking if only we hadn’t got that bloody boat . . .’ She let this trail. ‘Cee-Cee, our housekeeper, is around. And she’s great.’ She disliked how this sounded – as if she had handed the baton of this very important role in her husband’s hour of need to Cee-Cee. She disliked even more the element of truth in it.

  ‘I suppose he has no choice if he has to work; he can probably only function by creating that illusion.’ Vicky, as ever, offered a caring, balanced view. This was just one of the things that Rachel most loved about her.

  ‘Yes. I understand that. But it was hard being with him. Too hard. We couldn’t talk easily and when we did it escalated into a fight in an instant, flared into us saying the most hurtful things before we had time to think about it. It was like everything he said to me and everything I said to him was a match to kindling. We both needed space.’

  ‘I guess you are both too hurt to think straight.’

  ‘We are, but I could never have imagined a situation where we would think that the solution was to be apart; never.’ She closed her eyes briefly and pictured dancing together on their wedding day. How quickly can we get rid of all these guests? he had whispered into her ear as he held her close . . . ‘I guess the point is there is absolutely nothing about my life right now that I could have imagined.’ She looked around the small living room. ‘James and I are fragments of ourselves and none of this has a rule book. It’s like we are floating, broken.’

  ‘Because you are, honey.’ Vicky squeezed her hand. ‘You are.’

  Rachel nodded. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Can you talk about what happened or is that peaches and cream?’

  ‘I can talk about it a bit,’ she whispered. ‘We’d taken the boat out and I woke up happy, I remember that much, and it was the last time I felt happy. And I don’t think I will ever feel happiness again. Not that I mind – I don’t. I kind of want to feel this sad as it keeps me tied to Oscar and what’s happened and I don’t want to forget a second of him, don’t want it to dilute. Does that make any sense?’

  ‘Not to me,’ Vicky answered with typical candour. ‘I think I would have to keep looking forward just to keep going, but you have a unique and terrible outlook and only you know what will get you through this. There is no right or wrong. Only what’s right for you.’

  ‘I left the cabin and Oscar was not on the boat. He’d . . . he’d just gone.’ She felt the prick of pain in her chest, remembered jumping into the ocean in her pyjamas, screaming, crying and calling out to him, Oscar! Oscar! and she could hear James in the water on the other side of the boat, screaming louder than she had ever heard . . .

  ‘And I know I should be there for James; I know we should be there for each other, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’ Vicky coaxed.

  Rachel looked at her friend, preparing to speak the thought that had lain dormant on her tongue since that moment when she looked up at him on the police boat. ‘I blame him to a degree.’ She let this sink in. ‘And he blames me and we are both right to do that.’

  ‘No, no, it was an accident, Rach.’

  ‘I know, but we’d had a bit too much to drink and when we woke up in the morning, instead of going instantly to find Oscar and make his breakfast’ �
� she took a deep breath – ‘we had sex and lay there looking at our phones for a bit. Can you imagine?’ She folded her arms over her raised knees and gave in to the tears that fell. ‘I looked at a news article about The Real Housewives of New York, just some irrelevant gossip and I sat there reading that, instead of . . .’

  Vicky twisted her body to face her. ‘Rachel, we have all done that and worse and it is right that you mourn your boy, that beautiful boy.’ She broke away, as her voice cracked. ‘And I don’t know how you recover, I really don’t. But waking up and checking your phone is just normal life. God, I have left the back door unlocked with Francisco asleep in his pram in front of it, and then felt a wave of relief that no one sauntered in and took him. I have left candles burning on the mantelpiece, forgetting to blow them out, and only noticed in the morning, thankful the bloody house didn’t burn down. I’ve jumped amber lights in a rush and not got T-boned by a lorry. I have even had a glass of plonk or two and it was only when I went upstairs that I realised Gino and I hadn’t switched on the baby monitor and Francisco was screaming so hard he’d been sick. There isn’t a parent in the land who hasn’t done this shit. But I was lucky.’

  ‘I wasn’t lucky,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know. But you can’t beat yourself up. You can’t.’

  ‘James said that I wasn’t the best mum, that my social life was more important.’

  ‘Well, that’s not true!’ Vicky cut in. ‘You were a great mum.’

  You were a great mum. Not are a great mum. That’s over. Done.

  ‘I think about all the things I could have done differently throughout his whole life, but also because we don’t know when he left his room. It’s possible, isn’t it, that had I got straight up and gone into him, he might have still been in bed and I would have woken him and he’d still be here?’ She let her head drop to her chest. ‘I mean, just because we couldn’t see him, couldn’t find him, doesn’t mean he wasn’t still close, and by the time the police got there with proper search crews and equipment he had gone too far, just disappeared. I keep thinking over and over that if only we had looked differently, or harder, or sooner! I don’t know.’ She rubbed her temples. ‘But the thought that I should have done something differently – I never stop thinking about it.’

  ‘Oh, Rach. Yes, it’s all possible, but you can’t change it. You have to try to let those thoughts go.’

  ‘It’s hard.’

  Vicky sidled closer to her friend across the rug and held her once again in her arms. She kissed her forehead. ‘I know it is, my love. I know.’

  This was how they sat for a minute or two.

  ‘Shall I brush your hair?’ Vicky dug into the baby bag and pulled out her Denman brush.

  Rachel bumped forward and Vicky sat behind her, brushing her hair with long strokes that eased the throb of her scalp and took her away for a moment or two.

  ‘I have always loved to brush your hair. It’s incredible, so long and shiny. Beautiful.’

  Rachel closed her eyes, not in the mood for any kind of compliment.

  ‘What’s it like being home?’ Vicky asked.

  She thought about the crappy interactions with Julie and Peter. ‘I think it’s always hard to go home under any circumstances, let alone now I am so messed up. Peter and Julie drive me crackers, and Mum means well, you know.’ She shrugged.

  ‘I love your mum and dad, you know I do, but you can’t stay here in Yate – you’ll go mad.’

  ‘I’m already mad.’ She picked at her thumbnail, ripping it with her teeth.

  ‘Madder, then. How long are you thinking of staying in the UK?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Maybe a little while longer, maybe forever, I can’t think too far ahead . . .

  ‘You need to come to where I am so I can look after you. And you need to be near life, not sat here looking at the four walls. I don’t think it’s healthy for you. And where we are in Bishopston is good for that. It’s bustling. You can come and stay with us for as long as you want. You know that. We have a spare room and it’s just waiting for you.’

  ‘I don’t need looking after.’

  Vicky laughed. ‘Actually, you do. And it wouldn’t be the first time. Do you remember when we left the Mandrake that time and you said the exact same thing?’

  Rachel pictured the nightclub that had been a favoured haunt of their youth.

  Vicky mimicked her voice: ‘“I don’t need looking after, Vicks!” God, you were adamant, and the next thing I knew you’d jumped on that bloke’s mountain bike and nicked it; he called the police and we were all chasing you down to the Watershed and the shit was hitting the fan and they were all screaming at me, as if it was my fault, and by the time we all got down there, you had crashed into the fountain and wet yourself.’

  ‘Oh, Vick!’ She leaned back and placed her head on her friend’s lap. ‘That feels like a lifetime ago. I can’t remember feeling anything other than like this. I miss him so much. It hurts.’

  ‘I know, my babber, I know.’

  ‘And I wasn’t joking; I am mad.’ She paused to choose the right phrase. ‘I only half believe that he is not coming home again. I used to think he might be being cared for by mermaids or something similar in an underwater city.’ She looked up to see the look of sadness cross her friend’s brow. ‘And then I thought he was on a giant sea turtle, surfing the waves and whooping and hollering! Having the time of his life, as he gallivanted far, far out at sea.’

  Vicky gave in to a kind of strange, strangled sob.

  ‘I told you I was mad.’

  ‘Not mad, darling, just broken, grieving.’

  At that moment Francisco woke with something like a giggle and kicked his arms and legs, unfazed by the strange environment, and his happy gurgle changed the atmosphere in an instant.

  ‘Hello, darling! Hello, you!’ Vicky cooed, as she scooped him up and grabbed his bottle. ‘Here, Rach, give him this while I sort his nappy out; he’ll need his bum changing.’

  Rachel sat back against the sofa and held the little boy in her arms, watching as he guzzled his drink with both hands on his bottle. She had quite forgotten the total preoccupation with which they did this, fixed on nothing other than drinking and filling that tum. It was lovely to see.

  If I had this time again, Oscar, I would never let you out of my sight. Not for one single second, I would not play tennis or go shopping, not ever. I would be a better mum. I would hold you close to me and never, ever let you go . . .

  CEE-CEE

  With James at work, Cee-Cee sat ensconced on the balcony. She was still adjusting to the new quietness of the house. After Oscar, Rachel had dictated the rhythm of the place. In the past weeks prior to her leaving, a slow gentle pulse of grief had crept from under the bedroom door and bounced from the walls of the hallway, tumbling down the stairs, filling each room with the saddest of echoes. Cee-Cee had spent many minutes hovering outside closed doors with an ear pressed to the cool wood, wondering if the mistress of the house slept or was in need. Rachel’s calls of distress, often made in a semi-wakened state, would send a jolt of alarm through Cee-Cee’s body no matter where she was or what chore occupied her. And whilst Cee-Cee wished nothing but peace for her, she realised she missed the noise of her, having found it comforting, occupying. Now she faced not only a familiar loneliness, which she thought she had outrun, but also the deafening quiet. It was a hard thing to describe, but her heart carried a new ache at the fact that James and Rachel Croft were apart. She felt a little like the conduit needed to keep communication flowing where she was able. Her prayers were that they would find a way back to each other, believing that this was where true healing lay.

  Cee-Cee looked out over the shoreline and noted the salt-bleached twigs and seaweed washed up on the tide; she thought of Grandma Sally, gently scolding her and Clara, as they trod the path to home.

  ‘Good Lord above, child, what is this in your hair?’ She reached out with nimble fingers and removed a larg
e sprig of sea grass, dropping it on the floor and wiping her hands down her starched, white pinafore. ‘You two been rolling around in the surf again?’

  She smiled at the memory. ‘We were always in that water!’ She chuckled gently and opened her notepad, raising her pen,

  Dearest Rachel,

  I wonder if you heed my prayers, which I send out to try and help you settle in the darkest of moments. It is still a shock to my soul when I think of all that has happened, particularly now you have gone and I do not have the distraction or joy of your company. It feels like punishment. Seven years old! I don’t think I will ever make sense of it, but as Pastor Daniel says, maybe I am not meant to make sense of it; although I confess that in my saddened state it has been hard to take comfort from that.

  The breath stuttered in her throat and she placed a hand on her chest, until the threat of further tears had passed. She did this, cried alone, when James wasn’t present, wary of allowing her grief to become part of the burden of the house.

  I will continue to tell my stories to you as a way not only to remember happier times, but also as a way to distract my mind from the pain of grief which seems to have quite taken me over, even more so since you left the island. I would like to tell you all about the big dance. Happy times. Goodness me, there was so much excitement over the dresses we were going to wear! And I remember, as the big day loomed closer, Clara and I were plain crazy with giddiness.

  I went outside to wave Clara goodbye one evening after dance practice and Albert Romsey called at me from over the street, ‘Hey, you!’ I wasn’t strictly allowed to talk to boys, but it was only Albert Romsey. I had sat next to him at Sunday school since I was three years of age and his momma knew my momma – in fact they might have been cousins somewhere down the line. I figured he didn’t count. Clara turned her head, ‘What do you want, pea brain?’ She was always fearless! Albert Romsey, who was one of Willard’s cronies, visibly shrank back against the wall. ‘I . . . I need to give you this,’ he stammered, as he stood there holding out a folded piece of white paper in his shaking hand. I took it out of pity for the poor stuttering fool and Clara and I laughed. Seemed our giddiness wasn’t confined to thoughts of the dance.