The Last Goodbye

by Fiona Lucas

  More barking.

  “Lewis!” he shouted. “Quiet.”

  There was such authority in his tone that the dog instantly fell silent.

  “You have a dog called Lewis?” Anna asked, her voice raspy.

  She heard movement and faint panting, and then he said, “Daft animal,” under his breath and she could picture the dog sitting at his knee and looking up at him with complete adoration as he scratched it between its ears. “Yes,” he replied.

  It was a sign.

  Not from her deceased husband or anything stupid like that, but it was a sign. Why else would this man have not only her husband’s phone number but also a dog with exactly the same name as his favorite pet? This was another connection that couldn’t be ignored.

  “Can I call you again?” she blurted out.

  He took a moment to reply. “If you need to.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  “Goodb—”

  She jumped in before he could finish. “Is it okay if we don’t say that word? I know it sounds strange, but I’ve had too much of ‘goodbye’ today. Can we say something else or just hang up?”

  He must have got used to her strange ways by now because he just said, “Fine,” not sounding offended in the slightest. Thank goodness. “Sleep well, Anna.”

  She used all her determination to press her thumb onto her phone screen and make him disappear. After staring at her mobile for a few seconds then, thoroughly exhausted, she turned out the light. She turned onto her back and lay staring at the ceiling, and for the first time that day, Anna breathed out. All the way.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Brody stared at his shiny new phone. It was silent now, but the echo of Anna’s last words was still ringing in his ears. Lewis was nudging at his hand, asking for attention, but Brody kept his gaze on the screen. He didn’t actually expect it to jump into life again, but he kept looking at the display of recent calls. There were only four, all from the same number.

  Each entry was just a row of digits. Eleven to be exact. That was all that was left of her after she’d hung up. It seemed a little impersonal after the conversation they’d had.

  He pressed “Add new contact.” All the while he was typing her name into the correct field, he told himself he didn’t really need to do this because she was the only person likely to call him in the foreseeable future—and that was only a vague possibility—but he carried on anyway until he was finished.

  There was an icon next to her name, a lifeless little gray silhouette of a woman’s head on a paler background. It seemed too bland, so he pulled up the library of pictures that were preloaded onto the phone and chose one: an arching stalk of lily of the valley. For some reason, it seemed the most fitting.

  She’d sounded young, more than a little fragile. Lost.

  Brody knew what it was like to feel lost. He knew it very well. Maybe that was why he’d kept listening instead of hanging up.

  He stuffed his phone in his jeans pocket, then went and fetched Lewis, let him out of the back door of the cottage one last time before they both settled down for the night—Lewis in his bed in the kitchen near the oil-fired AGA, and Brody upstairs in one of the low-ceilinged, black-beamed bedrooms. He lay in his bed and stared at the misty, moon-soaked clouds through the open curtains, thinking about the conversation he’d had with Anna.

  She was still in the awful, early stages, when everything was raw and all-consuming, when you got stuck in an endless, grinding loop of hurt and sorrow. And regret. Don’t forget about the regret, he reminded himself. It might seem the most benign item on the list, but Brody knew it was the heavyweight. Regret would knock you to the floor with a single punch if you let it.

  Did I lie to her? he wondered as he shifted, trying to get comfortable. Would it have made a difference if he’d had someone to talk to, some faceless person who hadn’t known him, who hadn’t been tainted by the knowledge of what had happened? Logically, it seemed possible, but he doubted it. He doubted it very much.

  There was a faint scratching at the door, then it was nosed open by a naughty but rather hopeful terrier. Emboldened by the lack of a reprimand, the animal trotted over to the edge of the bed. A second later, the mattress dipped, and Brody felt the damp touch of a nose on his hand. Lewis collapsed on top of the duvet beside him and let out a long doggy sigh of contentment.

  He usually kept his phone in his study, but it lay on the dark wood of the old and rickety bedside table. He drifted off to sleep, half wondering if it would make another sound that night, but when he woke again the next morning, only four calls remained in the log. He shooed Lewis off the bed and dragged himself up.

  He caught sight of his distorted reflection in a wardrobe mirror that was cloudy and dappled with age. When had he last had a shave? Last week? The one before? Whenever it was, he looked a state. Maybe he’d do it when he came back from his run. Although he didn’t know why he was thinking of bothering with shaving. There was no one here to impress. Only Lewis, and being a shaggy kind of dog, he’d probably prefer Brody the way he was.

  He looked more like his father now he was getting older. There were a few specks of gray at his temples, which was expected, he supposed, given that on his last birthday he’d become officially middle-aged. Forty hadn’t been a shock, though. He’d felt older than that for years now. Much older.

  The lanes that crisscrossed this part of the moor were still sleepy with mist when he set out. The nearest village was five miles away, and the nearest town more like thirty, which was exactly why he’d chosen this spot for his home. Most likely, the only living things he’d see on his route were some cows and a few crows.

  He checked his watch as he began to run. The grocery delivery was due at eight, so he’d make sure he was back at least ten minutes before that. He turned and vaulted over a farm gate, which was no problem, thanks to his long legs, and powered up the edge of a muddy field toward the top of a steep hill.

  When he returned to the cottage, dripping with sweat, the pleasant sting of lactic acid in his muscles, Lewis came bounding into the yard to greet him. However, something else was also in his yard—a van with Hexworthy Organics emblazoned on its side in large green letters, its engine idling.

  Crap. It was early.

  Lewis, the traitor, went running off, tail wagging, to greet the driver, but Brody cut round the back of the outbuildings that were part of his property. Talking to the man wasn’t necessary: he always left a note with his order for the driver to leave everything in the small and very ancient conservatory that served as a mudroom. He wouldn’t quibble about substitutions. He’d take whatever they brought.

  He entered his garden and slipped back into the house through the French doors that led from the patio into his living room and then slipped into the study next door. This guy must be new, because he was pounding on the front door, yelling, “Hello?” Lewis was barking along, just for the sheer joy of joining in. Stupid dog.

  Read your clipboard, mate, Brody thought. All the relevant information is on there, and then you can sling your hook and leave me alone.

  What Brody could really do with was a shower, but the stairs could be seen through the glazed portion of the front door, so he sat down in his desk chair and waited, staring at a patch of chipped paint on the windowsill until the knocking stopped and he heard the rumble of an engine pulling out of the yard and disappearing down the lane.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Exactly a week later, Brody’s phone rang again. He was sitting in his small study, a fire tickling the logs in the grate. The room was crammed with shelves of books of all shapes and sizes. In the corner was a rather ancient high-backed armchair, left behind by the previous owners—as was much of the furniture in the house. At the time, it had seemed the easiest option. In front of the window was an old wooden desk, the kind with a green leather top. There wasn’t much on it but a fine layer of dust and his mobile phone.

  Its usually blank and lifeless screen lit
up just after ten that evening, vibrating softly on the leather surface of the desk. Lewis raised his head from his paws as Brody stood up to fetch it and replaced it again when his master was once again seated in the armchair next to the fire.

  “Brody?” she said, sounding for all the world as if she expected to be talking to herself, or an empty room.

  “I’m here.”

  He heard Anna’s sigh of relief. “I hoped you would be.”

  He smiled, surprised at how pleased he was to hear her voice again.

  She inhaled, held her breath for a second, then said, “I have a question I’d like to ask you. I’ve tried asking other people, but I suspect they’re telling me what they think I want to hear, rather than giving me an honest answer.”

  He settled into his chair, staring at the windows of his study, the night so dark it seemed as if someone had painted them black from the outside. “Fire away.”

  “Do you believe in soul mates? You know, one person for life . . . forever?”

  He pondered her question for a moment. “Not really.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I needed to hear you say that before I could be really sure about what I thought. Everyone has given me tips on how to wrap my head around grief, told me how I should be feeling, but it’s made it difficult to pin down what I really think about things. Important things.”

  Brody nodded. Oh, those well-meaning souls . . . He knew the sort well. “And what do you think, Anna?”

  “That Spencer was my soul mate.”

  “How did you know?” It wasn’t a question filled with judgment or scorn. He genuinely wanted to hear her answer.

  “I just did,” she said wistfully, “right from the very first time I met him.”

  “You fell in love at first sight?” Okay, now he was skeptical.

  “If that’s what you want to call it. Although, I didn’t think of it that way at the time. I wouldn’t let myself. I mean, it’s stupid, right? Fairy-tale stuff?”

  Brody gave her a grunt in lieu of a proper answer. It communicated his position just as effectively.

  “Seeing him for the first time was like running into a brick wall at full speed. I mean, physically—I actually lost my balance—and then I started getting all breathless and the soles of my feet began to burn. I tried to act normally, to say hello, and I just couldn’t do it.” She laughed softly. “But neither could he . . . That was when I knew that was it. This was him.”

  Brody frowned. “Sounds to me like you’re talking about physical attraction.”

  Anna let out a laugh. “I should have guessed that you’re a cynic.”

  “Yes, I am,” he said. “And proud of it.”

  She sighed.

  “Okay,” he said. “Prove me wrong. What was it about him that convinced you he was . . .” He paused slightly, finding it harder than he would have expected to say the next words. “. . . the One? What made you the perfect match?”

  Anna went silent for a while. He could almost hear her thinking. “I suppose, on paper, it shouldn’t have worked. We’re very different. I’m shy, but he was a complete extrovert, full of beans and always coming up with crazy plans and schemes. Spencer was a dreamer, and that’s what I loved about him: his imagination, his passion. That, and the fact that while other people might have thought I was black-and-white compared to his Technicolor, he didn’t. He believed in me in a way no one else ever had.”

  “I can see why you—or anyone—would be won over by that kind of support.”

  “It was more than just ‘support,’” she replied. “It meant everything to me. When you’re shy, it’s easy for people not to see you. They think they do, but they don’t.”

  “And Spencer saw things other people missed?”

  “Exactly. Other people called him a high-flyer, but he said he could only fly so high because I grounded him, because I was his anchor. That’s what I mean when I say we were soul mates,” she said, and Brody imagined her giving a tiny shrug. “We just fit together. It was easy . . . Effortless. And we made each other better. It wasn’t until I met Spencer that I really realized who I was.”

  “No one should need someone else to tell them who they are, Anna.”

  “It wasn’t that,” she replied, a hint of defensiveness in her tone. “He just loved me for who I was, let me be me.” She sighed. “And now he’s not here anymore. Losing him has changed me fundamentally. I won’t ever be the same.”

  He nodded. “You’re right. You probably won’t.”

  And then he regretted being so blunt. He’d spent too long in his own company, had forgotten that other human beings didn’t always appreciate such a straightforward approach.

  But all Anna said, with a smile in her voice, was, “Gee, Brody! Thanks for the pep talk!” He found himself laughing, and she joined in with him. When they both had fallen quiet again, she said. “I have another question . . .”

  Brody braced himself. He wasn’t used to having deep, meaningful conversations late into the night, not unless you counted the odd philosophical debate with his furry companion.

  “Why did you call your dog Lewis?”

  Brody smiled. It was as if she’d read his mind. “After C. S. Lewis, the author of the Narnia books.”

  “Oh . . . I loved those as a child. It took me years before I could stop checking the backs of wardrobes just to see if there were fir trees and snow there.”

  “Me too.” He liked that they had that in common. “Why do you ask? About Lewis?”

  “When he was younger, Spencer also had a dog called Lewis. I was curious to know if you’d named him for the same reason.”

  “And how did the other Lewis get his name?”

  Anna chuckled again. “After Lewis Hamilton. Spencer worshipped that man.”

  Brody shrugged to himself. Not a bad choice. “I suppose he’s very good at Formula One, but worship might be taking it a bit too far.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she said cheerfully, then sobered slightly. “The year Spencer died, I’d planned a surprise for his birthday. I’d booked for him to drive a high-performance car at Brands Hatch, but he never got to do it. The company was wonderful about it, though. They gave me a voucher to use another time, no expiry date or anything.”

  “Did you use it?”

  She sighed again. “I’ve been meaning to give it to my brother-in-law, but I keep forgetting. I think it’s sitting in a drawer somewhere . . . That’s the funny thing about the future, isn’t it? We have all these plans, some small, some grand, but things don’t always work out the way we expect them to.”

  “No,” Brody replied thoughtfully. No, they really didn’t. Ten years ago, if you’d asked him what his life would be like now, he’d have said he’d still be happily married to Katri.

  “I imagined my life—mine and Spencer’s, really—like a giant calendar stretching into the future, reaching through the decades. I’d penciled in plenty of future events. You know the sort of thing . . . In three years, we’ll definitely have a baby. In five years, hopefully, a second. Ten years after that I’ll be moaning about ferrying them round to all their activities, and ten years after that I’ll be attending my first university graduation.

  “I kept filling in the pages of my imaginary calendar, not even realizing I was doing it, because they were just wisps of hopes and dreams I was jotting down. I saw us growing old together, becoming grandparents, our hair going white, always griping that we couldn’t remember where we’d left our reading glasses, even though they were on top of our heads . . .” She tailed off and made a noise that was half-sob, half-chuckle. “I thought I’d be the sort of grandma who wore knitted cardigans and slippers and smelled vaguely of peppermints.”

  Brody smiled at the picture she’d painted.

  “But now I might never get to be a grandmother. Or even a mother.”

  He felt a stab of pain on her behalf.

  “And then one day I woke up and all the pages in my calendar were gone. Ripped out.”
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  He nodded to himself. “And then you don’t know what to do, where to start.” At least, that was how he’d felt in the beginning. Those paths were clearer in his imagination now. It didn’t mean he had any more ability to travel down them, however.

  “Exactly. And now every day I wake up and all I have are blank pages. It’s like a fog I can’t see through, stretching on for the rest of my life.”

  Brody didn’t say anything. He didn’t have any answers and he wouldn’t insult her with platitudes.

  “I know that I need to start putting something in there,” Anna continued, “that I need to start dreaming again, hoping again. But how do I do that without him?”

  He could hear the tears in her voice and it almost broke his heart. He wanted to give her a step-by-step plan, a bulleted list of how to climb out of that hole, but he wasn’t sure he had anything helpful to give her.

  “So I just keep traveling through the nothingness,” Anna said, sounding even wearier than she had before. “Waiting for the fog to clear, for inspiration to strike, but it never does.”

  Brody knew all about inspiration, about its stubborn refusal to arrive on time, if at all. “Do you think you’ll get married again?” he asked, needing to take his mind off the current subject.

  “Yes . . . No . . . I mean . . .” She let out a huff of exasperation. “I don’t know what I mean! I don’t want to be lonely, so getting marr—” She broke off and tried again. “So not being alone sounds good. I’m just not sure I can ever see myself with someone else.”

  He absorbed her words for a moment. “You feel guilty for even thinking someone could fill their shoes.”

  “Yes,” Anna said, sounding quietly relieved. “You’ve felt that way too?”

  “Yes,” he replied. Such a small word for all it encompassed.

  “What happened to—?”

  Anna’s voice was drowned out by Lewis, who suddenly leapt to his feet, ran to the French doors in the living room and started barking at the blackness outside. “Sorry,” Brody muttered as he ran after him, grabbing him by the collar and leading him back to the study. “He’s been a bit of a nightmare since he heard that owl outside last week. Every time there’s the slightest noise, he’s off, just in case it’s come back.”