Three-And-A-Half Heartbeats

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘But I for one would go through it all again in exchange for the three glorious years that we had with her. She was my little one, our little ray of sunshine, our pure joy and our pleasure.’

  It was the perfect eulogy and a much-needed public acknowledgement. For a while afterwards, the four sat in quiet reflection. Then Tom nodded and left the table.

  Grace reached out and patted her dad’s hand. ‘I know you’re right, Dad, but I’m still bogged down by how bloody unfair it all is.’

  Olive concurred. ‘I agree with you, my darling. I’m old and I’ve had my life. It is so, so unfair.’

  Grace could tell by her mother’s new pattern of lines that she had pondered the injustice of it every night until the daylight brought her some relief. She knew she would have lain in her bed, repeating over and over that it should have been her, not her darling granddaughter. No words of comfort could change that for Olive, so Grace offered none. Instead, she simply placed her hand over the back of her mother’s.

  Tom returned to the room, holding the photo frame. He tried to hand it to Olive. ‘This is Grace’s birthday present – from Chloe.’

  Olive stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth and wept. Mac took the frame from his son-in-law and ran his fingers over the uneven bumps; he even chuckled at the garish collection of jewels and beads. ‘Well, well. It is truly beautiful and very Chloe. Why have one jewel when you can have forty?’

  Grace smiled as she nodded at her dad. He held her gaze. ‘And you, my girl, are you looking after yourself?’

  ‘Oh, you know, Dad, everything is sort of carrying on regardless. The world turns, even if I don’t want it to. I haven’t had the energy to think or plan, I’m just being carried along like so much flotsam on the tide.’

  Mac closed his eyes briefly at his brave daughter. ‘Oh, darling, I would never liken you to flotsam. A fine rare seaweed maybe.’

  Grace smiled again. She loved her dad.

  Olive chipped in. ‘I’m more of a reed – I sway between crying and feeling fucking furious!’

  Tom positively choked on his tea and Mac thought that he must have misheard his wife of fifty years. Olive didn’t care.

  Grace shook her head as she wiped her tears on her pyjama sleeve. ‘Oh God, Mum! Alice wouldn’t believe me if I told her what you’d just said.’ She looked up. ‘Is she still afraid to come and see me?’

  ‘Yes, a little, I think,’ Olive said. ‘But she’s coming anyway.’

  ‘Today?’ Grace was surprised.

  ‘Yes.’ Olive glanced knowingly at her husband.

  Grace sighed. She knew she didn’t have the energy to fix Alice, but she was glad of the chance to move forward. ‘It’ll be nice to see her, Mum. It really will.’ She noted the relief in her mum’s expression.

  It was an hour later that Alice pulled into the driveway. ‘Happy birthday,’ she whispered as she entered the kitchen.

  Grace stood and took her little sister in her arms. She looked her up and down, noting her cheesecloth smocked top and her ripped jeans. ‘How are you, Alice?’

  ‘I’m… Oh God, Gracie, I don’t quite know how to start!’

  ‘Well, come and sit down. There’s cake, so that’s a good start – one of Mum’s Victoria sponges, though Dad’s been trying to take credit for it!’ Grace flashed a smile at Mac as she tried to put her sister at her ease.

  Alice kissed everyone around the table before taking up a chair. ‘There’s something I need to tell you, Gracie.’ She exhaled sharply.

  Grace stared at her, knowing in that instant what her little sister was going to say. She noted the bloom to her cheek, the slight swell to her already ample bosom. She placed her head on one side and let her tears slide from her nose. ‘It’s okay, Alice. It’s okay!’ She waved her hand, trying to catch her breath. ‘These are happy tears, I promise. You’re having a baby, aren’t you?’

  Alice nodded as she rummaged in her bag and produced a grainy grey scan picture.

  Mac reached out and held the image flat in his large hand. ‘What would our little Chloe make of this news, I wonder?’

  Mac was and would continue to be unafraid of talking about his beloved granddaughter. Grace was happy and reassured that, within her family, Chloe would never disappear, would never sink without trace; they would keep her alive in their minds and imaginations and would not succumb to the temptation to never mention her, however much pain that might save them. Avoiding talking about her would mean that she really was gone, gone from the earth and gone from their lives. They would never – could never – let that happen.

  ‘Not much, I suspect.’ Tom smiled.

  Olive laughed, thinking about how her granddaughter would have reacted. ‘Oh my goodness, yes, quite right. She’d have hated the whole idea! She would not have liked it one bit! Chloe was always the baby and our only baby – can you imagine asking her to share her grandpa with this little thing?’ Olive pointed at the image, a copy of which she had been gazing at for the past few days. ‘She would be having none of it. She’d say, “You are porridgeable, Grandma!”‘

  They all tittered, knowing this to be true. Darling, darling Chloe.

  ‘I did ask her if she’d like a baby sister or brother.’ Grace recalled the day – like all ordinary days with her daughter, now extraordinary; a precious day, one which she stored away, its details and memories like hidden jewels that she kept close to her chest, taking comfort from the feel of the treasure against her skin. ‘And she said she’d rather have a green bike with a basket. She was quite adamant.’

  They all gave small, soft laughs, picturing her cherubic mouth forming the words.

  Grace smiled at her sister. ‘Congratulations, clever Alice. I’m so happy for you, after all those tears…’

  Alice shrugged her shoulders. ‘I know! We gave up, completely gave up. After being told it would never happen, I accepted it, reluctantly, but I did, and the next thing, here we are!’ She rubbed her tummy. ‘I feel…’ Alice chose her words carefully. ‘I feel delighted, over the moon, obviously, but also guilty. I was nervous about telling you.’

  ‘I’d feel a bit like that too, if the shoe were on the other foot.’ Grace spoke openly. ‘I understand. But how sad it would be if losing Chlo were to take the joy from everything good to come. We can’t let that happen. We must celebrate your news, Alice. It’s wonderful! I bet Patrick is beside himself.’

  ‘He is.’ Alice beamed. ‘I’ve had to stop him redecorating and buying all sorts of contraptions that we can’t afford and I’m sure we don’t need.’

  Olive gazed lovingly at her incredible daughters; fine, strong, compassionate women. She knew her job was done.

  ‘You’ll be a great mum.’ Tom smiled, speaking the truth but finding it hard to share his wife’s magnanimity. It felt like he was handing the mantle on to Alice and Patrick and that thought left him feeling empty. ‘And you must let Patrick redecorate and buy his contraptions. Let him enjoy every single second.’

  Alice nodded. ‘I will. I promise.’

  ‘Do you know what you’re having?’ Grace hardly dared ask.

  Alice shook her head. ‘No, not yet. It’s too soon.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter though, does it – a baby’s a baby. It will be wonderful.’ Grace stood and held her sister tightly. ‘It will, it will be wonderful.’ She closed her eyes and remembered the moment they’d placed her little girl in her arms. ‘Welcome to the world, little one.’

  The evening stole up on them too fast. It had been a day of healing; the cathartic musings over the kitchen table had been restorative, with tea and birthday cake as the salve. It was worth more than therapy and left all involved with a feeling that they had moved forward a little, and had laid some ghosts to rest.

  Tom and Grace were still in their pyjamas, having waved Mac and Olive off in their little car only an hour before. They had somehow forgotten to get showered and dressed and now there was no point; as if by magic, it was night-time again. They sat in the sitting r
oom, nursing mugs of cocoa on the sofa. For the first time in as long as they could remember, the silence was far from uncomfortable.

  ‘I can’t believe she wanted a bike over a brother or sister.’ Tom sipped the foam from his drink.

  ‘Not just any bike – a green one with a basket. She was very specific.’

  ‘I can imagine!’

  ‘It’s incredible and horrible, Tom, how much our lives have changed in one year. I can see us all so clearly this time last year. You’d both decorated me that fab cake and cooked supper, Chloe was so excited, and everyone drank too much wine. It was amazing.’

  ‘Our lives didn’t change in a year, Gracie. They were changed in a matter of minutes. When we brought her home from hospital, sat on this sofa, chatted, tended to her, we had a life, a family. I had it all…’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘And by nine o’clock in the morning, it was all gone. My daughter, my marriage as I knew it, everything.’

  Grace wanted to offer some warmth, some kindness. She sidled closer to him. Perhaps she could offer physical comfort through proximity.

  Tom continued without registering her actions, as if afraid that if he reached for her, like a hesitant bird, she might fly away. ‘Even though she was only a little girl, Chloe managed to make this place into a home, didn’t she? Her routine kept us busy. It was the little things that made the difference. There was always noise, activity, mess – even her physical presence, singing or humming, like a comfortable background noise. And now…’

  Grace was silent. It was true.

  He continued. ‘Recently, I’ve been missing much more than just her. Missing the things that she used to do and missing the way that our home used to feel.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom. I’m sorry that I’m so crap at making things better. I just feel so preoccupied.’ It was the grossest of understatements.

  ‘Grace, I don’t expect anything from you. I wasn’t saying it for that reason. I know you’ve got a lot to contend with; more than most people will ever have to endure. I think you’re amazing and I think you’re doing a great job of keeping going. A lot would have thrown the towel in.’

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t considered it.’ She smiled at Tom. Poor, sweet Tom. He, like her, had had his life turned upside down and was trying to cling on to the wreckage of what remained. But she was trying so hard to stay afloat herself that she couldn’t deal with his sinking as well. It was every man for himself, women and children first.

  ‘That’s some news from Alice.’ He sniffed.

  ‘Yes. I’m pleased for her and I’m happy for Mum and Dad. This will be a lovely diversion for them.’

  ‘You don’t feel odd about it?’ he asked, cautiously.

  Grace rubbed her eyes. ‘Yes, of course I do. Even a bit jealous, if I’m being honest. But would I want to deny her the joys of being a mum? No, of course not. I know how brilliant it will be.’

  ‘You are one amazing lady, Grace Penderford.’

  ‘I don’t feel like an amazing lady, I feel like one who’s trying not to drown.’

  ‘Happy birthday,’ he whispered, still unsure if he should kiss or touch her.

  She sighed, grateful that he did neither. ‘Oh God, yes, my birthday. I had quite forgotten. Thanks, Tom. And I really love my frame.’

  Grace ran her fingers over the jewelled edge and smiled at the blobs of glue that an enthusiastic Chloe had daubed on the edges. And, just like that, she pictured her working dextrously with her little tongue poking from the side of her mouth. And, just like that, she was back to crying, folded over and inconsolable at her loss.

  These tears, however, felt a bit different, tasted different. They’d lost their metallic sour notes and seemed fresher, lighter, almost cathartic.

  17

  Sepsis – if you suspect it, say so. Effective treatment in the first hour can double the patient’s chance of survival

  Grace opened and closed the cupboards, searching for something to make for supper. Her appetite had improved a little in recent weeks and she had lost a little of the sharp-edged emaciation that had altered her face in the immediate aftermath of Chloe’s death.

  ‘Do you want me to make something?’ Tom offered as he came into the kitchen.

  ‘Don’t think there’s much to make anything from.’ She looked over her shoulder at the man she cohabited with and sometimes ate with, but didn’t sleep with; sex and any real physical contact were still too much to contemplate.

  ‘I think there might be fish fingers in the freezer,’ he said.

  ‘We had them for lunch the day before yesterday,’ she reminded him, knowing how easy it was to lose track.

  ‘So we did,’ Tom said. ‘How about we go to the pub?’

  ‘The pub?’ Grace furrowed her brow. They hadn’t been out socially for a long, long time and to do so felt like a big step. ‘I’m not sure…’

  ‘Come on, it’ll be nice. We can just go grab a table in the corner, order scampi and chips and walk home afterwards. What do you say?’ He gave a brief smile.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Don’t look so worried. I promise if at any point you feel uncomfortable or want to come home, we can. No questions, we can just pick up and leave. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ She nodded, still far from convinced.

  The White Hart was their local. It did a roaring trade in the summer, when the spacious garden heaved with visitors wielding order numbers as they waited for their pub grub, and kids ran amok around the tables, fuelled by bags of crisps and squeezy bottles of fruit juice. But the season hadn’t quite started yet, so it was a little quieter. There was always a cluster of locals around the bar that they knew by sight, and one or two kids from the local sixth form, chancing their arm, ordering pints of beer with Jägermeister chasers, which they then distributed to their mates who were a mere pint’s froth away from being eighteen.

  Grace brushed her hair and cleaned her teeth but was still disinclined to put any make-up on. She slipped into her boots and grabbed a cardigan to go over her T-shirt should it get chilly.

  She and Tom walked there in amiable silence. Listening to the birdsong as the light dipped. The pub was nearly in sight when, on rounding the corner, she looked up in time to see a flash of pink disappear by the large oak tree on the bend. Grace stared at the tree, quickening her pace until she reached it.

  ‘Grace?’ He called after her.

  She placed her hand on the nodes and cracks of the oak’s gnarly bark, peering behind the trunk.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Tom asked.

  Grace scanned the grass and tumble of weeds that had gathered between the edge of the field and the tree. She ran her hand over the tree trunk before staring up into the thick branches that blocked the sky overhead.

  ‘Is it just me, Tom, or do you think about her every second of every day?’ She lowered her gaze and studied her husband, waiting for his response.

  ‘I do.’ He looked at his feet, his hands shoved in his pockets. ‘Every second of every day. And if I wake up in the night, there might be a brief moment when I forget, but then it hits me like a stab to the chest – boom!’ He took his hands from his pockets and flared his splayed fingers as though revealing a magic trick. ‘And there she is, bobbing about in my head, and I want to reach for her, so badly.’

  ‘Sorry, Tom, I didn’t mean to start the evening off like this. Let’s go inside and have supper, like we used to.’ She slipped her arm through his. Tom patted her hand, glad of the contact.

  Grace found a quiet table by the fireplace in the corner and sidled onto the padded bench along the wall. She clenched her hands and placed them on the sticky tabletop in front of her. Tom navigated his way to the bar and nodded at a neighbour while waiting to be served. Grace saw a man to his right lean close into his companion and whisper, holding his half-empty pint against his chest, obscuring the logo on his rugby shirt; he let his gaze flick in her direction. His companion arched his neck slowly as if taking in a panoramic view, swept h
er with his eyes and looked away instantly.

  Yes, it’s me. I’m her mum… She picked up a beer mat and read about the Red Squirrel range of beers; anything for a distraction.

  ‘Here you go.’ Tom placed a large glass of red in front of her and slurped the top from his ale. ‘Cheers!’ He smiled, speaking jovially.

  ‘Cheers.’ She nodded.

  He took up the seat opposite and the two sat, quietly thinking of what to say. Both sipped their drinks, glad of the prop. It was Grace who found her voice first.

  ‘I told someone quite recently that we’ve become bent out of shape.’

  ‘Like a car, you mean? That’s been bashed?’ He smiled nervously.

  ‘Kind of. But more like we used to be smooth…’ She ran her palms slowly against each other. ‘Sliding together to form a whole, but now we’re spiky, different, and we can’t fit together, because we’re so changed.’ She held his eye, her tone steady.

  ‘Who did you say that to?’ he asked, interested.

  ‘To Huw, the man who owned Gael Ffydd, where The Old Sheep Shed is. I spoke to him a lot. It’s a special place.’ She flicked the edge of the beer mat between her thumb and forefinger. ‘It really helped, actually, having him to talk to.’

  Tom downed his pint. ‘Well, that’s good to know.’ His anger flared. ‘You couldn’t talk to me, but you were okay sharing details of our life with a fucking stranger.’

  ‘Please don’t be angry, Tom. I needed someone to talk to and he was there.’

  ‘Good for him. No wonder you were reluctant to come home. I could tell.’ He nodded, his teeth gritted.

  ‘I came home early!’ she reminded him.

  ‘Only because I drove all the way to bloody Wales to get you.’

  Grace stared at her wine, feeling as if all eyes and ears in the room were tuned into their discussion. She instinctively ran her finger over the neat pink scar on her forehead.

  ‘It wasn’t like that. It was more about the place than him. It’s so peaceful, beautiful; it was as if I could breathe, start over. I felt calm, better than that, I felt the beginnings of happiness, I could see it.’