The Coordinates of Loss

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Cee-Cee taught me so much.’ Rachel spoke softly, and Clara and Willard seemed to tune out the hubbub all around and listen to her words. ‘She taught me that bitterness lies in your very centre and, like a pit in a plum pudding, can taint the whole thing. She said forgiveness was better, sweeter.’

  Clara cried noisily and searched Rachel’s face. ‘She said that?’

  ‘She did.’

  Clara scrunched up her lace-edged handkerchief and blotted her eyes. ‘I miss her. I have always missed her. She was my very best friend.’

  ‘I know.’ Rachel smiled. ‘And you were hers.’

  Rachel and James took their leave, having paid their respects to the woman to whom they owed so much.

  ‘Who was the lady you were talking to?’

  ‘That was Clara. She and Cee-Cee were like sisters until Clara abandoned her – jealous, I think. Terrible. There were times in Cee-Cee’s life when she really needed her friend and Clara just wasn’t there.’

  ‘Thank goodness for Vicky, eh?’ He smiled.

  ‘Oh God, I’m thankful for her every day.’ She pictured her friend and missed her, wondering if she was at rewer. She felt an unexpected jolt of longing for that life far from here.

  ‘And to think it used to be me you thanked God for.’ He let this trail.

  ‘Trust me, James, I don’t thank God for much these days. Don’t take it personally.’

  ‘I am your husband. Bit hard not to take it personally.’

  Rachel looked out of the window, feeling his words like a weight about her shoulders.

  ‘I feel exhausted.’ James changed tack as he pulled off his tie and threw it on to the back seat.

  ‘Me too. That wasn’t easy, was it?’

  ‘No.’ He looked ahead at the winding South Road. ‘But I thought the service was good; there was a completeness to it, a feeling of closure that we haven’t had.’

  She sensed he was emboldened, able to speak without holding her eyeline.

  ‘I guess that’s part of the transformation I am still waiting on. Just the idea of a service . . .’ She shuddered. ‘I couldn’t do it, James.’

  They drove home in near silence and waited for the electric gates to whir open upon their return.

  Once inside, the two made their way into the kitchen and James headed straight for the fridge. ‘I don’t know about you, but I feel like a drink.’ He reached for the bottle of tonic and grabbed the gin from the cupboard before filling two tall glasses with ice, a wedge of lime and generous amounts of Tanqueray. He handed her a glass and they sat at the table where they had eaten hundreds of meals prepared for their family with love by Cee-Cee.

  Rachel looked at the chair in which Oscar used to sit, kicking his legs back and forth.

  Don’t kick the chair, Oscar! It used to drive her crazy.

  I don’t want pasta! Can I have ice cream?

  No! What do you think this is, a restaurant? Just eat the pasta!

  I don’t like it!

  Then go to bed; how about that? I have had a very long day and I can’t be doing with you being so fussy, not tonight. Go to bed!

  ‘To Cee-Cee!’ James raised his glass and pulled her from the painful memory.

  ‘To Cee-Cee.’ She did likewise and they both sipped.

  ‘I liked the church. It wasn’t too stuffy, felt nice.’

  ‘Yes, it did,’ she agreed, taking another sip of her drink and liking the clunk of the ice cubes.

  ‘I didn’t know her name was Cecilly.’

  ‘I did.’ She sipped. ‘It’s a sweet name. She told me that in one of her letters. They really are something, James; you should look at them.’

  He laughed and shook his head. ‘So what should I say to that? Refuse to read them? Hide under the duvet? Stomp my disapproval?’

  She knew he referred to the blue weekend bag stuffed with words of condolence that he had no doubt secreted back in the garage.

  ‘It’s completely different!’ She shook her head, in no mood to bicker with him.

  ‘Yep,’ he agreed, tapping the table with his fingertips. ‘I guessed it might be. Just like a funeral for Oscar would be completely different.’ He took another slug of gin.

  ‘No, no, James!’ she cut in. ‘Please don’t start with that again.’ She felt the rise of terror in her throat at the very idea of a funeral, a service of any kind . . .

  I couldn’t do it! I couldn’t let them bring an empty box into the room – or worse, a full one. I don’t want to imagine my son’s bones lying in it. I couldn’t bear to hear other people crying who didn’t love him as much as me. I can’t show my sadness in such a public way. I would crack. I would break . . .

  James stared at her. ‘Rachel,’ he began, his tone one of exasperation, and she got the feeling that all that had been simmering beneath his skin for the last few months was finding its way out of his mouth, possibly lubricated by the liberal consumption of gin. ‘We can’t keep having this conversation.’

  ‘I agree. Neither of us wants to have this conversation. So let’s not.’ She knocked back the contents of her glass and went to the fridge to mix a refill. ‘Do you want another one?’ She lifted the bottle.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

  She heard the tension in his tone.

  Three large gins on an empty stomach were what it took for her to feel a sense of calm wash over her. It had been a while since she had felt a drunken haze coat her thoughts and actions, and it wasn’t wholly unpleasant. James sat in the chair, similarly slumped.

  ‘I am a bit drunk, James.’

  ‘Me too.’ He smiled at her.

  ‘I hate arguing with you.’

  ‘Me too, but you drive me crazy! Life is so shit right now. It’s just shit.’

  ‘I know.’ She hated the tears that fell, taking the edge from her drunken happy.

  ‘I heard what you said to that woman – Cee-Cee’s friend, Clara,’ he whispered, his words spiked with emotion. ‘And you’re right, forgiveness is better, sweeter. We need to forgive ourselves. We need to understand that it was an accident, a terrible accident, or what will have been the point of Oscar’s life? I have spent every waking moment torturing myself with all the things I might have done or could have done, and I know it needs to stop. It needs to stop now. We need to celebrate the seven short but glorious years we had with him. He was amazing, wasn’t he? He was amazing and he was our boy.’

  ‘He was.’ She sobbed.

  ‘And you know, it was his boisterousness, his inquisitive mind, his love of nature, all the things we gave him – those were the traits that took him off the boat. All those things made him special and we wouldn’t have changed one single thing about him, would we?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not one.’

  ‘I envy you, Rachel. When you were under the water you said you saw him. What wouldn’t I give to see him one last time, just to get a glimpse of his little face.’ He looked out of the window towards the ocean.

  ‘It was wonderful. But I don’t think it was real,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know, Rach, but that doesn’t matter, does it?’

  She shook her head. James was right. It mattered little whether it was real or a dream or the imaginings of a mind full of desperate longing; the result was the same: it was the start of a new dawn of healing. Oscar had said goodbye and he had looked . . . happy.

  ‘I will carry that image in my heart for eternity.’ Rachel turned to her husband. ‘I know I could have been a better mum and that will haunt me, always. And I am truly sorry for what I nearly put you through that day, when I jumped.’ She shook her head; even the memory of that day was painful.

  ‘No, no, Rachel, you don’t have to apologise to me and never doubt that as a mum, you were wonderful! The things I said before were rooted in anger, spite, wanting to hurt you because I was hurting and I was fucked up. I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘It felt like you meant it.’

  ‘I am sorry. Please, I am sorry.’

  �
�I’m sorry too,’ she apologised. ‘I’m sorry, James, that I was dismissive of your pain, unfeeling about your hurt.’ She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t help it!’

  ‘I know. I know.’ He smiled briefly, as if glad of the acknowledgement, his mouth contorted with tears.

  ‘It was like I had been stuffed into this small, dark box and all I could think about was how much I hurt and how scared I was and there was no room for anyone or anything else. And no one could hear me and no one could help me.’

  ‘I could hear you. I could hear you, Rach, but you’re right, I couldn’t help you. I wanted to . . .’

  ‘I know.’ She stood and slipped into the chair next to his at the table. Leaning across, she rested her head on his chest, feeling his chin on her head. It felt nice. They both let their tears fall, unabashed. ‘We are different shapes now, aren’t we? I don’t even know if we fit together any more, not like we used to. I have a piece missing. An Oscar-shaped piece; a reminder that I will never be whole but also that he was a part of me, a part of you!’

  ‘Yes.’

  She felt him nod his agreement.

  ‘He was the best part of me, James, and you’re right about forgiving ourselves. I feel guilty about the smallest of things. They keep me awake.’

  ‘Like what?’

  She sniffed. ‘It sounds ridiculous . . .’

  ‘Please tell me.’

  She sat forward and tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘I can’t stop thinking about this one night when he wanted dessert but hadn’t eaten his pasta. He wanted ice cream and I said no. I worry over and over about the fact that he might have gone to sleep hungry and I ask myself, what would have been the harm in letting him have a bowl of bloody ice cream? I wish I hadn’t shouted at him and I wish I had taken him up a bowl of ice cream.’

  She looked up at the sound of James laughing. It started as a wheeze and developed into a full-blown chuckle. ‘Rach!’

  ‘What? It’s not funny!’

  ‘No, Rachel, you don’t understand.’ He leaned forward and held her arm, until his laughter subsided. ‘That night, I . . . I waited until you were in the bath and I took him up a big bowl of ice cream!’

  ‘You did?’ She felt the creep of a smile across her face.

  ‘Yes!’ He nodded. ‘A bloody great big bowl of ice cream with marshmallows and chocolate sauce and all the trimmings, and I sat on the bed with him while he wolfed it down! He didn’t go to sleep hungry. He went to bed chuckling, with a tummy full of ice cream and a face smeared with chocolate sauce.’

  ‘I can’t believe it! You have no idea.’ Rachel shook her head, feeling the worry lift from her shoulders.

  ‘I think that’s how we parented, how we did it – together, filling in the gaps, giving him what he needed when he needed it. He was so loved.’

  ‘By us and by Cee-Cee,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Yes. He had all three of us – a tag team.’

  She smiled at the image. ‘I feel . . .’

  ‘What?’ he coaxed.

  ‘I feel lighter.’ It was the only word she could think of to describe this new state.

  ‘Yep. Lighter. I know what you mean.’

  ‘Not better, not brilliant, not even happy, but lighter.’

  James nodded. ‘And that will do for now.’

  ‘Yep.’ She took a deep breath. ‘That’ll do for now. I love you, James.’ The phrase flew automatically from her mouth. It was instinctive but no less true for that.

  His instant tears were quite overwhelming. He swiped at his eyes with his fingertips. ‘It’s been a long time since you told me that, and I supposed you had stopped feeling that way and I understood. I did. Even though it was hard for me because I love you so much. I do.’

  Rachel looked at him and saw the outline of a man who reminded her so much of someone she used to know. He looked like the man married to the girl who loved life, the girl who flung her arms around his neck in the shimmering water of Jobson’s Cove and kissed his face, joy bursting from her with all that her wonderful life promised.

  She is still there somewhere, cocooned . . . she thought, as her eyelids fell and she knew it was time to tread the stairs for bed.

  The house seemed warmer when she woke. Rachel had stirred in the night and noticed she slept with her leg cast over her husband’s and it made her happy, this unexpected and comforting contact. It was still early and the sun streamed through the windows. The scent of coffee wafted from the kitchen. She slipped her arms into her robe and walked down the wide staircase.

  The pale-blue leather weekend bag that she had last seen punched to the bedroom floor now sat on the tabletop. James had brought it in from the garage – she had to admire his tenacity. Rachel pulled up a seat and dipped her hand in, withdrawing a clutch of envelopes, cards and letters. She took a deep breath and opened a card with a picture of a tree on the front.

  ‘Everyone in class three will miss Oscar’s smiling face. We have made a memory tree and every pupil wrote a special memory and hung it on the branches. Keeping you in our thoughts and prayers. Mrs Anderson.’ She read aloud.

  The next card was plain, white with a small gold cross, the message short and sweet: ‘Thinking of you, Mary and Ken Braithwaite.’ She didn’t know who Mary and Ken Braithwaite were, but was grateful they had taken the time and trouble to write. Rachel kept going through her tears and her smiles, reading and absorbing all the wonderful messages of love and support for her and James and Oscar.

  Her husband had been right; it did help. To know that her little boy had touched so many lives in his short time was a comfort. She fingered a note from Hank’s mum that said simply, ‘Hank wanted me to tell you that he cries when he thinks of Oscar, but then he laughs because he remembers something funny that Oscar did. I thought I should let you know.’ Rachel smiled. ‘That’s perfect, Hank. Thank you.’

  Next she pulled out a letter, folded into three, but without an envelope. As she opened it James appeared and took in the pile of cards and notes. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m doing okay.’ She looked at her newly showered husband and thought he looked younger than he had of late, as if well rested. He smiled at her and she knew him so well that this smile told her that this was going to be a good day. It felt as if some of the mist that had surrounded them had lifted and it was a welcome feeling.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘You are reading them. I’m glad, Rach.’

  She nodded, opening the letter; she laid it flat on the table. Reading quietly to herself, she let her eyes follow each word written in blue ink with a flourish, displaying beautiful penmanship that she instantly recognised.

  Dear Mr and Mrs Croft, Rachel, James,

  I write because sometimes I find the words that get knotted in your throat are smooth and ordered when you put pen to paper. I see your loss. I feel your loss and it takes me back to a time when I did not feel life was worth living. A time when my pain was such that I prayed for the angels to take me under their wing and relieve me from my burden. Of course they did nothing of the sort, their message loud and clear: Who are you, Miss Symmons, to think you can command the angels? So I lived a half-life. A quiet life. Until I met Oscar. He didn’t care for my sadness. He didn’t have time for my reflection, no sir. He ran at me and took my hand and pulled me from the gloom. He made me chase around that house playing games. He brought me joy, that little boy who loved me. He made me love life again! All by loving him. You see, I thought I had been denied the chance to raise a child, but I had not. That chance was given to me at a time in my life when I had no right to expect it. Not that the joy was any less for that. So I thank you both, and I thank you for Oscar, and as God is my witness, if I can hold his hand and ease his path to heaven then that will give my life a meaning greater than I could ever have dreamed. With love to you, amen.

  Cee-Cee

  ‘Oh my! Oh, James!’ she cried.

  ‘Cee-Cee’s letter.’ He nodded his u
nderstanding as he placed the coffee mug on the table. ‘I wanted to talk to her about it, thank her, but it never felt like the right moment.’

  ‘I’m sure she knew how you felt, James.’

  ‘Hope so. Drink up,’ he urged. ‘It’s a beautiful day and we should go and get some fresh air.’

  ‘I’ll go shower.’ She finished her coffee and made her way upstairs.

  If they weren’t out on Liberté it had always been their Sunday tradition to walk the shoreline before the heat of the day took hold, usually with Oscar running ahead, digging sand, flinging shells and pebbles out to sea or paddling in and out of the shallows.

  Rachel lifted the hem of her cotton skirt and strolled along the water’s edge of Horseshoe Bay, her feet sinking into the soft, darker sand, as the sun rose higher, turning the sky a pretty shade of turquoise.

  ‘Paradise,’ James commented as he looked towards the horizon.

  ‘It was.’ She stopped walking and stared out over the blue, blue sea. Loving the sound of birdsong, as if these winged creatures today shared her awakening sense of joy.

  ‘But not any more?’ James asked, as he sank down on to the sand with his elbows resting on his knees and his sunglasses now pulled down.

  She sat next to him and wrapped her long skirt around her legs. ‘We have lost what we had, James,’ she whispered. ‘We have lost everything, and when I was away it was easy to forget that we were wonderful! We were so wonderful together.’

  ‘We were.’ He nudged her playfully with his elbow.

  ‘I have done a lot of thinking. I’m glad I came back—’

  ‘Me too,’ he interrupted.

  ‘And I know that I’m still healing, still grieving. I suspect I always will be, and there’s lots I don’t know about what lies ahead. But the one thing I do know, James, is that I don’t want this life. I don’t want this life here without him in it. It feels hollow. It feels like a sentence. I see him everywhere and I can’t cope with the reminders in every direction I look. In some ways it’s comforting, but they hold me fast. I can’t move on.’