Finally, in the spirit of candor, despite everything, I’d like to see you again, if you can bear it? One last good-bye.
Jennifer
Writing that letter completely emptied me, so it wasn’t until a few days later that I was capable of addressing the one to Isabelle.
How do you tell the sister you love that you are dying? And then pull the pin on that grenade and let loose all the hurtful things she’s done to you, which you’d previously left unchallenged? How do you justify bringing up old wounds she doesn’t even know she’s inflicted because you’ve never been brave enough to tell her about them?
But that was what I did. I told her I loved her and then allowed all the old hurt to explode onto the page. I cataloged each duplicity:
Remember when you stole my boyfriend? And not any boyfriend. Neil! My first love. The one I thought was forever. And you didn’t even apologize. As though there was some medieval law that entitled you to purloin from your younger sister whatever took your fancy. I told you how devastated I was but you just ridiculed me. It ruined so much. And I’m not going to hold you responsible for my lousy degree but I know I could have done better had I not been so heartbroken.
And on I plowed. I told her that her actions hurt and that her quick tongue hurt, too, and the fact that she was allowed to get away with everything didn’t make it okay. Besides, I wrote, I wasn’t the only one she treated that way. That there were a lot of people who might benefit from her knowing how I felt, even if I didn’t.
I changed my mind about writing to the doctor. I don’t want to shoot the messenger. I need him. I have an appointment in a couple of weeks—Eunice, the receptionist, tracked me down!—and I want him to behave like a doctor, not an apologetic victim. I guess he was only doing his job.
* * *
—
I’ve sat looking at these damned envelopes for days (too many crosses on my calendar). But, aware I’m wasting valuable time, I finally summon the courage to let them go and here I am standing in front of a bright red postbox.
If anyone’s watching me, they’re probably wondering what on earth I’m up to. I put my hand out to let go, then pull back. I stand and ponder. I count them like I might have dropped one. I check the addresses. I question my motives. Do I really want to post them? Isn’t it enough to write them and then simply file them away? And then I remind myself. I am dying.
So I get a grip and push the letters into the red slit of mouth.
And finally, with a flourish, I let them go.
It feels scary. My heart skips a beat wishing I could climb in and retrieve them, but I turn around and walk back home.
I did it! I actually did it. And I feel brave.
Day 79
If the Royal Mail does its job, then my recipients should receive their letters today. Tomorrow latest. I’m nervous and anticipatory.
What was I thinking?
Evidently you don’t suddenly become brave and thick-skinned overnight just because you’re dying.
At four in the morning, I wake up in a hot sweat, panicking, wishing I could take every sentence back. Horrified by what I’ve done. But now, with dawn starting to break and the birds starting to sing, it doesn’t feel so scary and somewhere deep inside me, I’m actually quite proud.
I wonder how they’ll react. Will I ever hear from Isabelle again? Or will she be so offended by my honesty, she’d rather let me die than utter an apology. No. She wouldn’t be like that. Offended yes but silent, never. Will Harry think I’m an irrelevance from his past who should have said all those things at the time? Will Andy still be so intoxicated with Elizabeth’s poison, he won’t feel a single ounce of shame or culpability or remorse? I can’t imagine Elizabeth will feel anything other than disdain. But I can take that from her. I’m used to it.
Elizabeth is the needy type who sees all women as a potential threat, who flutters her lashes at men while flashing the evil eye at any woman who comes near. As soon as we started divorce proceedings she came out from the shadows, with the strut of entitlement, hell-bent on not leaving her new man’s side. Andy and I would meet to discuss arrangements and there she’d be, all wide-eyed and innocent, steely in her mission to ensure I didn’t win him back. As if I was the one who deserved suspicion. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she had written the parting speech he gave in the kitchen that dreadful day.
They married as soon as our divorce was absolute. Their vows included the line “to the exclusion of all others particularly Jennifer.” Not really, but I wouldn’t have put it past her. Anyway, now she knows exactly what I think. She’s the only one I don’t feel bad about.
I told my boss, Frank, about my diagnosis yesterday. Emboldened by posting the letters, I finally managed to spit it out. He was extremely nice about it. Caring even. I never expected that from him. He said it was important I look after myself and that everything else was secondary. He said it was my choice when to leave but that I should cut back my hours. Eleven o’ clock to three at the most. He hugged me. Frank, the least huggy person in the world, hugged me! I think I welled up but then he got all fidgety and uncomfortable so I pulled myself together. I told him the only other person I was going to include for the moment was Pattie. He said whatever I wanted would be respected because only I could decide what felt right for me. How nice is that?
I popped into Pattie’s office immediately afterward. “You got a second?”
It was tough, far more painful than telling Frank. After all, she was my mate. She sat in stunned silence then fell apart. I requested her not to let the rest of the company in on the secret, not even my team. If anyone questioned why my hours had been cut back, she was to say it was because of a phasedown in HR and that I was completely comfortable with it. I told her I didn’t want to make people feel bad.
“But we all love you here. People will want to know. They’ll want to do whatever they can for you.”
“But there’s nothing anyone can do for me and I really don’t want them to feel any obligation or make them feel awkward.”
“Are you sure? You may need more support than you think.”
“If that’s the case, I promise I’ll ask for it, Pattie.”
She nodded sagely. “You’re very brave,” she said.
“If people keep saying that, one day I might believe it.”
“Believe it,” she said.
* * *
—
So from today, I start work at eleven. I no longer need to get up at seven but it’s irrelevant. Waking up at six thirty, getting up at seven, is so part of my routine I’m going to wake up early whether I need to or not. This morning I wake up at six and for a moment, I feel as though everything is normal until I remember. Nothing is normal. Nothing will ever be normal again.
I don’t want to hang around with these negative thoughts for bedfellows so I decide to head into work anyway. A show of strength for Frank. What do I gain from delay? I get up only to be overwhelmed by that heavy sense of lethargy, which is becoming more and more intense, seeping through my blood into my bones. I realize I have such low drive that even if I start to get ready now, I probably won’t get to work until eleven, anyway. Frank must have known something I didn’t.
I sit on the edge of my bed and muster up my determination. I tell myself I have to get past this. Mind over matter. So I stand up slowly, head to the bathroom, and take a long shower. I get dressed in a strange slow motion, putting on whatever’s to hand and make myself some tea.
I look at the clock on the kitchen wall. It’s not even seven thirty. This is ridiculous. I need to find a purpose. I should think about putting my affairs in order. I’ve already made a will. I did that when I got divorced.
I suppose I should write my funeral service to make sure it happens the way I want. As if it matters. As if I’d know! But at least my friends won’t have to wonder what to do with me. God, my funeral! M
Y FUNERAL. I’ve imagined it several times as a child in a game I used to play with Emily. In fact she invented it. Should I get in touch with her? Is that what this is telling me? No. It would be too weird. Too much time has elapsed. But my funeral is no longer our silly childhood game. It’s for real.
I go to my table and open my laptop. I stare as it fires up then shut it down. I can’t write my funeral service.
Not yet.
I’m not ready.
Maybe tonight.
Maybe tomorrow.
Perhaps I’ll go out for a walk. Get some fresh air into my lungs and give my blood a much-needed boost. It’s a lovely time to be on the heath. It will be pretty deserted and I can catch the changing colors of the leaves and enjoy some solitude in nature. I can’t take those things that are freely available for granted anymore.
* * *
—
The heath has always been important to me. I grew up in Hampstead Village and the heath is a local treasure full of beauty and nostalgia. As a family we used to come to the fair held every Easter and eat pink candy floss, brave the dodgems, lose money on the one-armed bandits, and watch my father try to topple coconuts to win a goldfish.
When I turned eight, my father would take Isabelle and me to the mixed bathing pond, which was so deep and so cold you couldn’t do anything but kick your legs and swing your arms for dear life. It would make him laugh as he held up our bellies. “I’ll make men of you yet,” he’d say.
Emily and I snuck our first cigarette hiding behind a massive oak tree, promptly declaring it our last as we coughed and choked. I even got my first kiss near the Vale of Health.
Andy and I would come here for romantic walks. He grew up in Hampstead, too. I’d seen him around forever, but he wasn’t my type. He was tall and blond, and all the girls admired him. They thought he was sexy and funny, but I only saw him as arrogant and sarcastic. Then one Saturday we bumped into each other on the tube and had no choice but to make conversation—surprisingly we hit it off. He got off the train before me, at Tottenham Court Road, and asked for my phone number. I admit I was flattered. He phoned the next day. He showed up on time for our first date. He proved reliable and I liked that. I’d had a few boyfriends after Neil, bohemians and men who were totally unsuitable, so with Andy it was like slipping into comfortable flats after the agony of stiletto heels. He felt safe.
When we got married, I was desperate to stay close to family and Andy had no objection—it was his turf too. Happily, we found a wreck we could afford just up the road in Gospel Oak. Some consider it Hampstead but don’t ever say that to a real Hampstead-ite. To them it’s a million miles away.
Still, it’s not as far away as the golf club suburb where my sister moved when she married her hotshit lawyer of a husband, Martin. If it was inevitable that I would marry the boy next door, it was just as inevitable that Isabelle would marry money. And that she would move somewhere grand. She was far more attached to status than she ever was to nostalgia.
Now, here I am on Hampstead Heath, facing my destiny, steeping myself in my past, in the only place I’ve ever truly known. I walk across this vast expanse of parkland, the early morning dew squelching underfoot like the slurps of someone enjoying a good steak. The leaves that cling to the branches of the trees for their final moments are all manner of gold and red and orange under the low sun. It’s the most beautiful intense day. I feel like I’m seeing the world through new eyes; appreciating the true glory of color before it fades to gray and mulch to make way for spring and new life. I reluctantly acknowledge I won’t see spring, and a wave of sadness sweeps over me.
I push back the negatives and focus on the beauty and the silence. A tall male silhouette catches my attention, intruding on my solitude. He has an impressive outline, broad and distinct against the rays of sunlight that throw a godlike glow across the landscape. A dog walker, I hope. But he has no obvious dog. My feminine hackles rise. As he comes closer into view, I feel uncomfortable, thinking I should take another path but I don’t want to be too obvious. We gain uneasy proximity and I can see he has dark curly hair that tousles over the upturned collar of a well-cut black peacoat. Surely he’s too well groomed to be dangerous? Anyhow, he’s deep in thought and unaware of me so I feel instantly bad for being suspicious for no reason. In fact, he is rather handsome and I look away, regretting my absence of makeup and my untidy hair.
Laughing to myself at my vanity, I carry on walking, not sure how best to pass him, whether to stare into the middle distance or look at the ground—odd the way you suddenly don’t know where to put your eyes in a vast open space. Before I’ve had a chance to decide, he says. “Morning! Nice hat!”
I touch my head as though I don’t remember I’m wearing one—a beret. “Thanks,” I say, head dipped, hiding a smile.
“Beautiful day!” he continues and he stops, which makes me stop too.
“Yes,” I say. “So beautiful. Cold, though.” God, do I sound like I’m complaining?
“So what brings you here at this hour? Dog somewhere?” He looks around, checking the void.
“No dog,” I say, wondering if serial killers look like this. “You neither, huh?”
“No,” he says. “I needed to blow off the cobwebs, get some fresh air. Been a difficult morning.” He has the most alluring smile, instantly engaging. “To be honest it’s nice to talk to someone. I’ve been so inside my head I’m driving myself crazy.”
“How funny. Same here,” I say. If he is a serial killer, he’s a very nice one.
“Thank God you get it,” he says. “And don’t think I’m some kind of lunatic.”
I splutter uncomfortably. “Oh, I get it,” I say.
“So why are you driving yourself crazy?”
It trips off my tongue, I have no idea why. His voice? His smile? My need to purge? “Well, if you really want to know, I have seventy-nine days left to live.”
Whaaat? Why do I say that? Forget my precision (thank you, calendar), but why do I tell a stranger? I could have said anything. A work problem. A credit card fraud. Somehow I’ve come up with a total conversation killer.
He gasps with genuine dismay. “That’s awful!” He stares at me in shock. I look back at him in the same way, biting my lip, wishing I could swallow the damn speech bubble that feels like it’s blazing over my head.
“Not great,” I say. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have said it. I wasn’t looking for sympathy, though.” His face has melted into a compassionate frown. “It’s just . . . very much on my mind.”
“Oh, I can imagine. That’s a blind sider but don’t apologize. I’m glad you told me. I’m the one who’s sorry.”
The concern in his eyes makes me want to believe him.
We look at each other, not quite sure where this is going. Then, something extraordinary happens, as though someone else has taken charge of the situation and without thinking, I spring forward and kiss him. Literally. Right there! I meet his open face and kiss his surprised mouth.
And you know what? He kisses me back!
Yes!
He does!
And suddenly we are glued together, hugging, kissing, his body curling around mine, warming me against the chill air. The kisses are lingering, tantalizing. His mouth tastes of cigarettes and mint. We relax into each other with an ease normally borne of familiarity. He lifts me up and waltzes me toward the protection of a massive beech tree, throws off my hat, running his hands through my hair. We tumble to the ground, our mouths reluctantly parted as my head floats down to his chest. The amber scent of his soft woolen jumper alludes to the smell of his skin, which is deeply arousing. He reaches under my arms, drawing me back to meet his face, rolling me so that I’m on my side, propped against him as he stares into my eyes, stroking my cheek before tilting my mouth to meet his. It reawakens a part of me long forgotten as my skin responds to his touch, his gentle discovery as, in tur
n, my hands discover him. Our earthen mattress, hard and unforgiving, becomes a mound of feathers. Entangled in each other’s clothing, scarves and belts, buttons and hooks become complex creatures needing unwinding, undoing. Layers are clumsily removed until flesh is pressing against flesh. We laugh between kisses, holding each other’s gaze, the high of shock and enchantment outweighing all caution and danger. I have never felt so free.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
There’s an awkward moment as he pushes inside of me but then his hands intertwine with mine and we look at each other, unabashed, smiling, laughing, kissing, and fucking like this is how it always is. How it was always meant to be.
He moves his hands down to cup my buttocks, protecting me from the rub of soil and the upward tilt of my hips heightens each sensation. I am totally in tune with his body, my mind immersed in the rhythm of each pulsating thrust. My breath quickens, my blood rushes through me, so alive, revived, until my whole body judders and I cry out with abandon, unshackled from a thousand woes. When he comes, he buries his face in my hair and his long cry crescendos against my skin. He kisses my neck then flops the entire weight of his body onto mine.
We hold each other, our heartbeats, our quickened breathing the only things punctuating a stunned silence before he whispers in my ear “fuck that was good” and I say “yes it was” only I’m not sure I say it out loud because I’m grinning so broadly. He clasps me to him like he’ll never let me go and I don’t want him to but then . . .
“I can no longer breathe,” I say, aware of being crushed where once he felt weightless. He lets out a deep laugh and rolls off.
“Okay?” he says, grinning.
“Better than okay.”
“Funny thing sex, isn’t it?” His voice has an incredible soothing burr.
“I’ve never laughed like that before.”
Death and Other Happy Endings Page 4