by Jane Green
“I feel drained,” admits Nell, walking into the house.
Lizzy pauses by the door, then steps back. “I’m going to go for a walk,” she says.
“A walk? It’s pitch-black. You won’t be able to see anything.”
“I need to make a couple of phone calls. I’ll just go and find somewhere quiet.”
“Don’t go beyond the hay barn or there won’t be any service,” says Nell, before peering at her sister in the darkness. “It’s very late. Who are you calling at this hour? James?”
“Yes,” lies Lizzy, setting off down the yard, where she pulls the heavy wood door of the hay barn aside and climbs up the mountain of last year’s hay bales until she reaches the top, before lying back and inhaling deeply.
This smells of childhood, of innocence, of a time when all she had to worry about was getting her homework in on time and whether or not she’d win the part in the school play. When she was a kid and Nell had a job here on the weekends, she would visit from time to time, and she and Jackie would climb up to the hay bales and hide, telling each other ghost stories for hours, talking about nothing, and everything, until Nell finished work and came looking for them, striding into the hay barn and yelling their names.
She sits up, leaning back against a hay bale, shifting to get comfortable, before checking her phone has service. It’s 10:34 p.m. Too late for normal people to make, or take, phone calls, but the food business isn’t a normal business. The pop-up supper club is tomorrow night, which means Sean will be busy organizing last-minute details. He sent her a long e-mail this morning, telling her exactly what the menu changes were, which staff members would be working the night, what bartender they were using.
But they haven’t connected about anything other than the logistics of work since she got here, and tonight, above all other nights, she needs to hear his voice; she needs to talk about the real stuff. She punches his name on her speed dial as she smiles, wondering just when it was that Sean became her emotional go-to, for that is what he has become. When she is happy, sad, excited, disturbed, or stressed, or utterly disbelieving that her mother has ALS and is choosing to take her own life in three days, the person she now chooses to share it with is Sean.
The phone rings three times, before going to voice mail. Which means the phone is turned on, that Sean is choosing not to answer it, but instead directing it to voice mail. She frowns and dials again. This time it goes straight to voice mail; this time he has switched it off.
As my business partner, she types furiously into the phone, you need to PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE WHEN I CALL.
She calls again, but nothing, and a swell of rage overtakes her. “You fucker!” she shrieks, hurling her cell phone into a hay bale. “Fucking asshole!” she screams, knowing, from all those years gone by, that no one can hear her.
He’s probably with his wife, she tells herself. He’ll probably excuse himself and call me back. She retrieves the phone and looks hopefully at the screen, but there is nothing. No dots signifying a response. Nothing.
How can he abandon me on a night I really need him? she thinks, now almost close to tears. She looks at her phone, goes into Contacts, and presses James’s name. Maybe he’ll pick up. And if not, she’ll keep going down her contact list until she finds someone who will.
James picks up on the fourth ring, his voice heavy with sleep.
“Are you asleep?” she snaps, when it is obvious he was.
“I’m awake now,” he says, as she pictures him sitting up in bed, snapping on the lamp. She pictures their bedroom, the mussed-up teal and white bedspread, the bamboo blind that is broken, half raised in a permanent slant, the John Marshall cow print on the wall opposite the bed, a huge, gentle black and white cow against a hot pink background. She pictures the Louis Somethingth sofa at the end of their bed that they found on the street one Saturday afternoon, years ago, that they claimed by sitting on it, phoning friends until they found someone with a truck who could come and help them move it to their house. She reupholstered it in lavender velvet, which was now as faded as its original velour, thanks to beating sunlight and all manner of Connor’s bodily fluids staining and weathering it to its original state.
She thinks of how she used to lie on the sofa when she was nursing Connor, listening to music as the stripes of sunlight fell across the burp cloth, completely at peace, with an absolute assurance that this was what her body was designed for, that motherhood was the pinnacle of all she would ever achieve.
What happened? she thinks, listening to the rustle of James propping himself up with the pillows from her side of the bed. When did it all change?
“What’s up?” he says. “What time is it?”
“Almost eleven, I think,” she says. “Sorry for phoning so late. I needed to talk.”
“That’s okay. How’s it going there with your family?”
“Not so good,” she says, tears springing into her eyes. “Urgh. I can’t believe I’m getting emotional. This is so stupid,” she berates herself. “It’s not like she was ever a great mother to begin with. But . . . she has ALS.”
“Whoa.” James sounds completely alert. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.”
“I know. Thank you. And as if that doesn’t completely suck, she wants us to help her take her own life. And as if that doesn’t completely suck, she wants to do it in three days. Can you believe it? My mother wants to be dead in three days. My fucking nightmarish, selfish, disinterested, loving-conditionally mother is planning on dying, and I will never get a chance to make this better.” Lizzy breaks into sobs, as James listens; she’s sniffing and sniveling, talking through her tears. “I have hated her for so much of my life, and now she’s dying, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Oh, Lizzy,” James says simply when she has calmed down. “Can we come out? Connor and me? Can we come and be with you?”
“No,” Lizzy wails. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know what to do.” She is now hiccuping her sorrow as she regresses to the frightened child she has never allowed herself to be. Not Lizzy. Lizzy is strong and fearless. Lizzy is charmed and invincible. Bad stuff does not happen to Lizzy because she does not allow it.
But this is out of her control, and she is unprepared for the flood of emotion that is overtaking her.
“We’ll come out tomorrow.” James is calm, and calming. Just like he was at the start. “We will get the train out. We’ll figure out what to do when we get there. How does that sound?”
“Okay,” sniffles Lizzy, her sobs and hiccups gradually subsiding. “Okay.”
After they hang up, she climbs down from the hay bale, her head already pounding from the tears, wiping her eyes as she makes her way back to the house. She’s not at all sure how James will help. What’s he going to do? she thinks. Bring his virtual reality games and sit in Nell’s living room playing them all day? But she catches herself in the cruelty of the thought and pushes it aside. The very fact that he answered the phone, that he is offering to bring Connor, is consolation enough.
thirty-eight
Nell is in bed, scribbling notes on the notepad she keeps on her night table, lists of what needs to be done on the farm tomorrow morning and who should do it. Usually she is organized enough that she puts these lists up in the barn the night before, so when the workers arrive they see the tasks and who is on which shift, but family has gotten in the way today. She will have to get up at the crack of dawn and put them up.
She keeps sighing, putting the pen down, and thinking about the events of the evening. Three days. She feels numb and disbelieving. Three days. What will it be like, she wonders, to be a motherless daughter? Will she, like the woman she once spoke to in the café that time, feel relief? Or will she feel regret?
Lizzy is right, of course, about three days being insane. But their mother seemed resolute. She had always been the sort of woman who changed her mind, who trilled that it w
as a woman’s prerogative, and yet this didn’t seem like something that would change.
Everything about this is different. There is no drama, Nell realizes. This isn’t about seeking attention. There is a resigned quality to her mother that she hasn’t seen before. Lizzy may not want to accept it, but Nell doesn’t see how their mother will change her mind, not when she is so resolute.
There is a light knock on her door. “Come in,” says Nell, unsurprised, relieved, and nervous to see Greta framed in the hallway light. This is the one thing she hasn’t thought about, she realizes. The one thing that has been squashed by the events of the evening.
“May I?” Greta pads in and sits on the bed. She is wearing pajamas and an old, soft robe of Nell’s that she left in the caretaker’s cottage for her. It is a baby blue and suits her.
“The kids told me about your mother. I wanted to check in on you and see how you are.”
“I’m okay.” Nell shrugs, the memory of their kiss flashing into her head as she looks at Greta, flushing. Did it really happen? Did she imagine the chemistry they had, the kiss?
Greta just looks at her. “Do you want to talk?”
“I don’t really know what to say.” Nell looks at her, her face screwed up in a grimace of discomfort as Greta nods.
“I understand,” she says. “You must be shocked.”
Nell nods, an unfamiliar lump in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m not quite sure where this is coming from.”
“This is your mother,” Greta says, and there is so much compassion in her voice, so much empathy, so much love, that Nell finds her shoulders heaving as she tries to swallow a sob.
Greta climbs on the bed then and takes Nell in her arms. Nell heaves sobs, crying quietly onto her shoulder as Greta holds her tightly and strokes her hair; and when, eventually, the sobs subside, Greta kisses her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth, and lays her gently back against the pillows.
“Would you like me to stay with you?” she asks.
Nell nods.
Greta takes off her robe and climbs under the covers. She puts an arm around Nell and pulls her close, murmuring gently. Nell’s body slowly unclenches, and she relaxes.
And soon, the two of them are fast asleep.
thirty-nine
I thought I’d bring you brea— Whoa! This is not what I expected.”
Lizzy is standing in Nell’s bedroom doorway with a large mug of tea in one hand and a plate on which sits a muffin, some butter, and jelly in the other. “Not that I didn’t expect it, exactly, I just didn’t expect it so soon. Actually”—she grins at Nell and Greta, who are only just rousing themselves from sleep—“I just have to say that I think it’s perfect, and it all makes sense, and frankly, Nell, if I’d really thought about it I probably would have realized years ago. I’ll just go and grab another cup of tea and a muffin for you, Greta.” She backs out of the room, grinning from ear to ear. “And very sorry to disturb. Also”—she pops her head back around the doorway, with a big thumbs-up—“yay, lesbians. Big fan.” Finally she disappears out of the room.
“Did she actually say ‘yay, lesbians’?” says Greta, leaning back on the pillows and turning to Nell, watching the corners of Nell’s mouth twitch.
“She did. That’s my sister. She actually said that.” Nell shakes her head with a smile that turns into laughter, which becomes more and more hysterical, the two of them leaning on each other, heaving with helpless laughter.
“Oh, God,” Greta says after a while, wiping the tears of mirth from her eyes. “How do we tell her that nothing happened?”
“Right,” says Nell, feeling a swell of disappointment deep in her belly. Nothing happened. She fell asleep with Greta’s arm wrapped around her, Greta’s head resting on hers, and woke up, just now, in the same position, both of them moving apart only when Lizzy burst into the room. Now they are both leaning back against the headboard, Greta’s head turned to Nell’s.
“Although,” Greta says, “if I recall correctly, I did kiss you yesterday.”
“You did,” agrees Nell, a flutter in her stomach as the room seems to still and she stares into Greta’s eyes. “What do you think about kissing me today?” Nell finds herself saying, a lurch in her groin.
“I think,” Greta says, moving closer, not taking her eyes off Nell’s, “that’s an excellent idea,” and she softly moves her lips onto Nell’s, taking her bottom lip between her own before their tongues meet, and Nell dissolves in a sigh of pleasure.
“Lock the door,” whispers Greta when they pull apart, Nell trembling with desire. But Greta gets up to do it, then climbs back on the bed and dips her head to kiss Nell properly. This time, the kiss goes on and on and on.
Nell kisses like she can’t get enough. She is ravenous, wanting to taste, to touch, to explore. Greta lifts her top, exposing her breasts, and Nell traces the curve of one breast, one nipple, with her fingers before taking it in her mouth.
It is so soft, thinks Nell, allowing herself to be transported, allowing herself to give in to the flickers of lust, to every fiber of her body feeling alive.
She is so soft. All curves and gentleness and deep, hidden space. Nell licks and smells and inhales and laughs . . . and—oh! This is what it feels like! So soft! So good! She is on fire, aquiver, weak, and—oh! This! And a bliss washes over her like she has never felt before.
Afterward, in Greta’s arms, after they have shouted to Lizzy to go away and not disturb them, after they have giggled when she shouted that she was leaving the tea outside the door, afterward Nell cannot stop smiling.
“Was it that good?” Greta whispers with a smile as she traces Nell’s lips with her finger, as Nell kisses her finger, kisses all her fingers, licks her palm, wanting to bury herself in this woman.
“I don’t know if I have the words,” Nell says softly, thinking there aren’t enough words in the English language to describe what her body has just gone through, what she has just gone through. “It was . . . transformative. Earth-shattering. Cataclysmic.”
“It was that good?” Greta smiles as she leans her head on Nell’s shoulder and traces her fingers down her neck, down her chest, around her breast, stroking over her nipple, which rises to attention as Nell catches her breath.
“It was,” Nell whispers, amazed at how her body feels, what this woman’s touch is doing to her, what it is like to be able to slip her hand between her legs, how exciting it is to feel her there, her sacred space, the moistness that is for her, and her alone. “And it was something more,” Nell whispers as it is Greta’s turn to gasp. “It felt like coming home.”
forty
Do you really think we have to be with her?” says River, setting plates on the kitchen table. “I love Ronron, but I’m not sure I want to be there when she dies.”
They are in the kitchen, Lizzy stirring scrambled eggs, yellow and creamy, flecked with fresh herbs. Nell, having placed croissants she grabbed from the coffee shop into a linen-lined basket, is dolloping homemade jam into a small ramekin, but a smile is playing on her lips as she relives, over and over, the way her body sang this morning, the joy of discovering something she never knew she was missing until today.
“It’s just awful,” says Lizzy, taking the pan off the stove but continuing to stir with a wooden spoon. “I keep forgetting, then remembering. Jesus. ALS. Why couldn’t it have been something like cancer? At least there’s a fucking chance.”
“Fuck,” says River, emboldened by his aunt’s swearing. “I just . . . Do you think she means she wants us there in the room? Because I don’t know if I really want to be there in the room. I mean, do I get a say in it? It’s awful. The whole thing is awful, and it sucks massively that she’s really sick and she’s going to die, but do I actually have to be in the room and watch her go? I mean, I think that’s pretty gross. If that’s okay to say. I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t be saying all of this.
”
Nell doesn’t know how to respond, but Lizzy speaks up. “It’s okay, honey.” She reaches over and pats his back. “First of all, I don’t think we should be worrying about this now. I think we have a little more time than we think. We need a little more time. Also, though: Yeah. I get it. I definitely don’t want to see a dead body, especially my mother’s.”
“Lizzy,” Nell says slowly, pushing thoughts of Greta out of her head, “if she says she wants three days, don’t you think we should maybe respect her wishes? We have no idea what kind of pain she’s in. If it’s unbearable, is it really fair to ask her not to do something that will alleviate that pain?”
“Yeah, when it’s death, yeah. I do think that’s fair,” Lizzy snaps, before taking a breath. “Look, I’m sorry. I know there are beautiful people who do beautiful ceremonies in states where it’s legal. Trust me, I’ve been up pretty much all night reading about it. I know people throw parties, and make the decision when and how they’re going to go. I’m not saying I don’t think we should do that. I’m just saying we need more time. Don’t call us home, announce you have ALS, and tell us that you’re planning on being dead in three days.”
“I know,” says Nell. “I feel the same way. I just don’t think we have any idea what she’s going through. I feel so guilty that I barely see her. I’m right here. Every time she calls and asks for my help, I feel resentment and anger. And now all I feel is guilt and regret. I want longer too. I just don’t know if that’s fair.”
“I don’t know,” says Lizzy. “Have you ever seen a dead body?”
Nell shakes her head as Daisy walks in. “No.”
River turns to Daisy. “Have you?”