by E. S. Carter
I’d press it between two new, crisp sheets of paper as I told it how hard it was to watch Mum sob. The way her voice cracked and splintered when she told me that Max has a few short months, maybe weeks.
I’d close the scrapbook shut, and place it carefully on top of all the others when I watch her telling Galen by video chat that he needs to cancel everything and come home as quickly as possible. As I watch him break down before my eyes from thousands of miles away.
I’d pray for it to consume the garden and bloom for eternity as Rhys and I held her tightly and listened to the quiet sobs that she didn’t want Max to witness.
I’d spread it far and wide, in every room, in every corner, on every sill and surface, but, in the end, it wouldn’t make a difference.
We don’t have Star of Bethlehem, and even if we did, we’d still have sorrow.
Chapter Forty-Five
Max and Rhys are sat side-by-side on the deck steps, each drinking a bottle of beer and both lost in their thoughts.
Mum watches them from the kitchen window, a tea towel in her hand, a sink of dirty dishes before her, the water long gone cold.
The doorbell rings.
It echoes ominously throughout the quiet house.
“I’ll get it,” I tell her, even though she doesn’t move to even acknowledge that she’s heard the sound. She remains a silent sentinel, her eyes watching Max yet almost seeing nothing at all.
My feet on the tiled hall floor count down the moments until my hand is on the lock, pulling the door open without bothering to check in the peephole who it is.
My heart—even when bruised and battered and curled into a ball—knows who it is without looking.
Galen.
His clothes are rumpled and messy, his hair greasy, and his eyes are almost luminescent—unshed tears making them even more striking than normal.
“I don’t have my key,” he whispers, his voice rough and unused. “I didn’t bring anything with me, just jumped on the first plane.”
I want to reach out and touch him, but instead I step to the side to let him pass. “He’s out the back with Rhys,” I offer in welcome because what else is there to say? That’s why he’s flown twenty-four hours non-stop without luggage, and why he’s now stood rooted to the entrance of his family home unable to take the final step inside.
Because he knows that once he does, all this will be real.
“He’ll be happy to see you, Gal,” I say, reaching out to cup his jaw with my hand. He shivers at the contact, drops his head to his chest and takes that necessary step inside.
With hesitant steps, he walks past me and heads slowly down the hallway towards the back garden. I take far too long closing the door behind him and listening as his footsteps disappear. It hurts too much to see this reunion. I don’t think I’m strong enough. And then I remember Mum in the kitchen alone, and I force myself to take a deep fortifying breath before I turn and make my way back to her.
Mum hasn’t moved. When I look from her rigid form to the scene outside, I see Rhys walking away from Max in one direction as Galen walks towards him from another.
As if in freeze frame, Max turns and his face lights up at the sight of his son, before his smile crumbles and Galen launches himself into his arms.
My first tear rolls down my cheek and drips off my chin to splash on the countertop at the same time as Mum chokes out a sob. She crumples to the floor, her back against the breakfast bar, her head in her hands, and I drop to my knees and gather her in my arms.
“Let’s give them some time together,” I whisper into her hair as I rub soothing circles on her back. “You could use a break, some fresh air, and Gal and Max need some alone time.”
Her whole body vibrates with a shudder, and on her next steady breath she whispers, “Yeah, okay.”
We walk into town and stop at a small café for a cup of tea. I place the order and add two scones, hoping to get Mum to eat something. I’m sure she hasn’t for the last few days.
The lady that serves me has a mop of white curly hair and laughter lines thick in the corner of her eyes. She has a face that tells a story—a story of her life. She smiles at me like she knows. Like she can see the heavy, dark cloud over my head and she hopes her lovingly baked goods and strong tea will ease it, if only for a while.
I carry our order to the table, followed closely by white-haired lady with our tea. As I slide the tray with scones and fresh cream into the centre of the table, I don’t miss the same smile she gives my mother—one of empathy, compassion, and understanding—even though Mum is oblivious.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and she tilts her head, places her hand on my shoulder and gives it a fortifying squeeze.
You’ve got this. It gets easier. Just look at me. I’ve lived, I’ve loved and I’ve lost. And yet, I can smile now.
Mum looks at the baked treats before her and laughs, but it’s flat, weak. “Are you trying to fatten me up, Fflur? Wasn’t it just last week I was trying to do the same to you?”
“I’m being mother, this week,” I say. “Give you a break from it.”
She smiles then but doesn’t lift her gaze to meet my eyes. With precise movements, she places a splash of milk in her teacup, followed by a cube of brown sugar, and then picks up the teapot by the handle and swirls it around and around to encourage it to brew. She takes far too much interest in this task, and I sit on my hands to stop myself from reaching out and taking over. When she’s finally satisfied, she pours tea into both our cups and sets the teapot back on the tray but doesn’t make a move to sip her tea or eat her scone.
I take a deep breath, pick up my hot tea, and after a sip, I ask, “Tell me the story of you and Max? I know I haven’t asked before, but I’d like to know it if you want to share it with me.”
Her pain filled eyes flick up to look into mine, and I see both grief, and bright and brilliant love battle for dominance.
With unsteady hands, she brings her cup to her lips, smiles and tells me their tale.
It’s young love, friendship, long summers, shared dreams, heartbreak and betrayal, all wrapped up into one, and I’m struck by the similarities to my own tale of love.
The only truth she seems to omit is about Galen’s mother—her twin sister—and today is not the time to grill her about it.
Instead, I listen, and we laugh at some stories, shed a tear over others, but when she finishes, she’s eaten her scone, drunk her tea and there’s an air of something else around her, lifting her shoulders slightly, and lightening her load.
“Thanks for this,” she says as we link arms and take the half-hour stroll home. “I needed to remember everything that got us here. The good and the bad.” She rests her head against mine and says, “It was all worth it. Even if I don’t get to keep him forever. Every tear was worth it.”
When we get back home, Galen and Rhys are in the kitchen making dinner, and both Mum and I try and fail to hide our shock at the sight of them and burst into hysterical laughter.
Galen is wearing Max’s ‘I’d Recommend The Sausage’ apron that he got as a gag birthday gift one year. While Rhys has a tea towel wrapped around his head trying to mimic a chef’s hat and looking more like a bad Lawrence of Arabia, but whatever it is that they’re cooking actually smells pretty good.
“Yeah, yeah,” Rhys says, chopping vegetables. “Laugh it up, folks. But by the time we’re finished in here, you’ll all be signing us up for Master Chef.” He turns and offers Galen a fist bump, which Galen fluidly returns before turning his back and continuing to cook.
“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Mum says with a smile that isn’t fake, and I feel a little lightness return to my heart. “Where’s Max?”
“He went for a bath, said his lower back was aching and wanted a soak,” Rhys replies, and I don’t miss the way Galen’s back stiffens.
“Oh, okay. I’ll go up and see if he needs anything.”
The lightness from just a moment ago is soon swallowed by reality, and Mu
m leaves the room on heavy but quiet feet to head upstairs.
When the food is ready, Rhys calls upstairs to let Max and Mum know, and I set the table in the dining room while Galen carries in bowls full of chilli and rice.
Max comes in and sits down, looking more than a little tired, his face drawn, and cheekbones prominent.
“Something looks and smells good,” he says sniffing at the air with a smile on his face. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?” he asks Galen.
Galen places the last dish on the table and takes a seat on Max’s left, Mum on his right, and he smiles when Max scoops up a forkful and begins to chew.
“The first couple of times on the road, I got sick of eating takeout constantly, and one of the other guy’s girlfriends offered to show me a few easy meals anytime we were in a place with a kitchen. Which wasn’t often. Chilli was one of them.”
“It’s good,” Max says through another, albeit smaller mouthful. The disease that rages through his body quickly affecting his appetite.
“I chopped the onions and diced the tomatoes,” Rhys says, feeling left out of the spotlight. “I think my contribution made this meal what it is. Plus, he gave me the shitty jobs. Have you ever tried to chop onions? Those things are brutal.”
“Wanna hear a joke about cutting onions?” Max asks Rhys.
“Yeah, I bet it’s as bad as all your other jokes, but go ahead.”
Max sets down his fork and says solemnly, “I cried when my father cut up onions, even though he didn’t shed a single tear.”
Rhys falls for the opening line and asks, “How come? ‘Cos I swear it’s impossible not to cry cutting up those suckers.”
“Because I knew I was going to miss him. Onions was such a good dog.”
Mum gasps. “Your father cut up your dog?” While Rhys furrows his brow not getting the awful punch line.
Gal and I share a snort before Galen retorts, “Dad, that was a joke of many layers, and yet it was still bloody crap.”
Max tries and fails to feign innocence, “What? That was a great joke. Almost as good as—” he turns to face Mum and picks up one of her hands before bringing it to his mouth for a kiss. “—Baby, you’re so beautiful. You’d even make onions weep.”
“Hey,” she says, backhanding his chest but laughing all the same. “Leave me out of your jokes.”
“You two are weird,” is all Rhys says before rolling his eyes and tucking into his food with gusto.
Max eats a little more of his chilli, Mum watching every mouthful, and I sit there and marvel at the people around me.
How many more days will we get like this?
When the meal is finished, our time spent groaning rather than laughing at many more of Max’s jokes, he stands, looks down at my mother and says, “Take me to bed, beautiful wife, or lose me forever.”
Tears gather in her eyes at his reworking of a cheesy eighties film line, but she stands and takes his hand without letting them slip free, a smile filled with adoration on her lips.
Galen pushes up from his chair and leaves the room abruptly without saying goodnight, and Rhys, in one of his more thoughtful gestures, murmurs, “Go ahead, I’m on clean up duty.”
“Maybe I should go and—” Max begins, looking at the doorway Galen just exited.
“Leave him, love. He’s exhausted and could probably use some time to himself.”
Max looks torn but eventually nods his head, and they both wave us goodnight before leaving the room.
I stand to help Rhys with the cleaning up, but he stops me with his hand on my arm.
“I know you want to, so go and check on him.”
I look to the doorway and then back at my brother.
“What if he doesn’t want to see me?”
“He will.”
I find Galen in his room softly strumming his guitar.
“Hey,” I say as I peek my head around his door.
“Oh, hey. Sorry, was I disturbing you?”
I shake my head. “Not at all. You never could.”
He nods his head once. “Are you living here now or with your Dad?”
“Here. Dad’s house is smaller. I thought about finding my own place, but I’m a poor student, remember? Plus—”
I let my words die off. I won’t leave here now. Not while Mum needs me.
“Yeah,” Galen says, lifting the strap of his guitar over his head and standing to place it in its spot at the corner of his room. “I won’t be leaving either. I’ve told them to cancel everything for the foreseeable future. Our manager isn’t too happy about it all, but I really couldn’t give a shit.”
“So we’ll be like roomies again?” I ask, not wanting to lead the conversation towards anything that will upset him.
“Yep,” he says with a small smirk. “Just like when we were kids, hey.”
I smile sadly, “Yeah, life was simpler then.”
He walks towards me as if he’s about to come in for a hug, veering off at the last moment to grab something off his desk.
“I uh, need to grab a quick shower,” he says, holding up a towel he must have placed there earlier. “I’m shattered, and I really do need to try and get some sleep.”
“Of course,” I say brightly, using all my strength to keep the disappointment from my tone. “Night, Gal.”
“Night, Fflur. Sweet dreams.”
Alone in my bed, with Galen not far away, my dreams are filled with him.
What we had.
What we are now.
What we will never be.
I wake in the early hours of the morning feeling guilty.
None of that should matter now.
This time should be about Max.
Time. There’s that word again.
Sometimes it’s a beautiful benefactor and others only a harsh mistress.
Chapter Forty-Six
Days turn to weeks, weeks into months.
Mum is Max’s constant companion, never leaving his side, and if she does, she’s never gone far.
The time spent going for short strolls turns into time spent listening to music or watching old films. Eventually, it turns into time spent holding Max’s hand as he sleeps.
Gone are her womanly curves to be replaced by jutting bones.
Gone are Max’s toned muscles to be replaced by limbs that no longer want to move.
Gone is her soft, peaches and cream skin, now dry, chapped and sallow.
But what remains is a sparkling glint of green in Max’s eyes. And an abundance of bright shining love in Mum’s that not even the approaching dark clouds can diminish.
On the occasions we convince Mum to take some time for herself, even if only to shower and rest, one of us takes her place.
And it’s where I find myself now. Watching Max sleep as I try to read a book in the wingback chair that once sat in the corner of the living room, and is now permanently placed at his bedside.
He awakes with a start, gasping for air, and a pain that no meds can control pinches his gaunt features.
“Hey,” I soothe, reaching out for his water glass and straw. “Are you having a lot of pain today? I can call the nurse, see if she can up your doses?”
He looks up at the ceiling while gathering himself and slowly says, “No worse than when she saw me yesterday. I’m okay, Fflur.”
“Drink?”
His eyes flit to the water, and he shakes his head. “Not unless it’s vodka or even a gin.”
I laugh. “I’m not sure that would mix well with your medicine.”
“I’m not sure there’s any point worrying about that now,” he whispers with a smile and tilts his head to look at me when he sees my shaky one.
“Don’t be sad for me, Fflur. These last few years have been the best of my life, and I wouldn’t change a thing.”
I swallow down my emotions and take his hand.
“I hated you for a while,” I admit, and he chokes on a laugh and then winces.
“I know, and at the time you had
a right to feel that way. I just hope you don’t feel that way now.”
My words are hoarse, catching on my tongue when I reply, “No, I could never hate you now.”
The sound of Galen playing his guitar in the TV room floats through the open bedroom door. He’s been doing it a fair bit, playing for Max, pouring his grief and joy, love and pain, heart and hope, into new music.
“Have you two made up?” Max asks, his eyes flicking to the open door and the sounds of Galen’s soul.
“It’s complicated.”
“Love always is.”
Bright blue meets fading green and Max squeezes my hand. It’s a weak touch, his energy levels next to zero.
“I’ve watched you both since childhood. My son has always looked at you like you hung the moon and every single star in the clear night’s sky.”
My eyes leave him, and look towards the open door.
“You’d leave to go to your father’s and instead of playing footy out the back, Gal would sit outside on the grass with a book about flowers in his hands and memorise the names of every plant in the garden. When he’d done all those, he’d sneak into the woods and do the same with the wildflowers.”
“W-what?”
My head turns to Max once more and the smile he gives me is full of adoration.
“We’ve talked about it, your Mum and me. Don’t continue torturing each other because you’ve been waiting for our blessing. You already have it.”
I shut my eyes, and a tear slips free.
“But I know about Lena. I know Gal’s mother was Mum’s sister.”
“And?” he asks simply.
“Isn’t that wrong? Don’t you think it’s wrong?”
“Do you?”
I shake my head not knowing what I think.
“Listen, Fflur,” Max says, a grimace rolling over his weary face as he shifts on the bed. “Take some advice from a dying man.”
My throat tightens painfully, but I remain still, calm and composed, knowing that what he says now I will carry with me for always.