The Coordinates of Loss

by Amanda Prowse

  She crept down the stairs in her nightdress and hovered in the hallway. She looked through to the kitchen and stared at James through the open door, feeling her top lip curl in an expression of distaste. He was eating breakfast cereal. Eating! Filling a stomach with fuel for the day ahead. It was alien to her how he could do any such thing, how could he dance to the pulse of life when for her, time was fractured and her needs reduced to simply crying and seeking oblivion. How could he carry on? Did he not care? Or was it simply that he didn’t care as much? It had to be that, and she hated him a little for it because if he didn’t care as much as she did, wasn’t as affected, then she truly was all alone.

  ‘Morning,’ he called from the table, she was aware now that he looked straight at her. ‘I . . . I didn’t know whether to wake you. I came up for a couple of hours, but mainly I sat on the sofa last night.’

  She nodded. I didn’t ask.

  ‘Do you want some coffee, love, or . . . or some toast?’ He faltered, his voice soft.

  ‘Do I want some toast?’ She stared at him and her body folded. ‘I can’t eat. I can’t.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know how you can, to be honest.’

  She watched as he slowly placed the spoon on the table and swallowed hard, as if he had a lump in his throat.

  ‘This isn’t a competition of grief. This isn’t about who hurts the most, who has suffered the most.’ He spoke gently.

  Me. I can’t say it out loud, but that is me. I win! I win this fucking competition because I am destroyed but you – you seem to be functioning. You can exist! I win! I fucking win!

  ‘I know that, James.’ She blinked.

  ‘I need to . . . I need to try. I need to.’ He broke away in tears, burying his face in his hands as he sobbed noisily, his shoulders shaking.

  Slowly she made her way back up the stairs and fell into the bed only recently vacated where she pulled the duvet over her legs, ready for her next bout of oblivion. Her tears slipped from her eyes, tracing a familiar path over her nose and temples, dripping into the already damp pillowslip. Glancing at the clock was her private torture. She tried not to, but it was as if her eyes were drawn to the digital display by something stronger than her will.

  When she woke she realised she had again slept away most of the day.

  Sixty hours. Since I noticed him gone.

  Six was a record.

  Ten times six, sixty . . . don’t think about it. Don’t think about it!

  As her eyelids, which felt full of grit, grew heavy, she heard the bedroom door creak open. Cee-Cee crept forward and bent low. ‘You need to eat something.’ Her tone, as ever, quiet, calm and matter-of-fact. Steady.

  Rachel shook her head; the thought of eating was repellent.

  ‘I can’t. I can’t eat.’

  ‘You need to try.’

  She watched the woman place a dish of chopped fruit on the nightstand.

  ‘Cee-Cee – I wish . . .’ Her voice was a little slurred. ‘I wish I could turn back time.’

  The woman took a deep breath that was part sigh. ‘There isn’t a single soul the world over who hasn’t thought the very same thing. But truly there ain’t no point in wishing; you have to let yourself heal. Sleep and heal.’ Cee-Cee walked over to the bed and smoothed the hair from Rachel’s forehead. It was an unusual act of intimacy and warmth and she was grateful for the human contact that gave the smallest lift to her spirits. Rachel reached up and held her arm. ‘Can . . . can you hold me, Cee-Cee?’

  ‘Oh, sweet child!’ The housekeeper sat on the edge of the bed and held her in her arms, rocking her slowly like she was an infant. Rachel laid her face against her chest and breathed slowly, holding on to her tightly, as if she were a lifeline.

  ‘I can’t do it, Cee-Cee. I can’t be like this. I need to be out looking,’ she whispered, before closing her eyes again.

  ‘Shh. Sleep, child. Sleep.’

  In her pre-doze state she thought about the conversation between her and James about four months after they had moved into the house on North Shore Road. Cee-Cee had kind of come with the property, having worked for the previous incumbents for decades. The reference they’d supplied had been more a glowing testimonial of someone they’d clearly held deep in their hearts, rather than a professional recommendation for a member of staff.

  Rachel had not only been glad of the help, something she had never had before, but also Cee-Cee’s quiet efficiency meant that finding her feet in this new house and new island was a doddle. The woman took care of everything, and she was just wonderful, wonderful with Oscar! When Cee-Cee spoke to him, held him, her whole demeanour changed, as if he lit something within her. At the very sight of him her face broke into a smile, her eyes widened and her hands joined together, as if giving thanks for his very presence.

  Of course it was no substitute for having Rachel’s mum on speed dial and only a couple of hours away, or being able to call on her friends if she had a question or had run out of Calpol, but listening to Cee-Cee sing to her boy as she bathed him, watching the extreme care and attention with which she pressed his clothes, told him stories and prepared his food – it warmed Rachel’s heart and it certainly gladdened Oscar’s.

  There was no doubt he loved her.

  ‘Cee-Cee! Cee-Cee!’ He would run to her, launching into her arms when she arrived in the morning or when he came out of school.

  ‘Careful now, little Oscar,’ Cee-Cee would scold mockingly. ‘I am not a young woman any more and you will knock me over one of these fine days and then who is going to fix your breakfast?’ This she delivered before kissing his face and holding him close to her, as if relishing the contact.

  The two played endless games of hide-and-seek. Oscar liked to hide and Cee-Cee would call out, ‘I’m coming to find you!’ often without properly applying herself as, with a small wink in Rachel’s direction, she went about her business. When she did locate him – behind a curtain, sitting under a cushion or in the bottom of the closet – he would ask, ‘How many counts, Cee-Cee? How long did it take for you to find me?’ And she would reply, ‘Oh, hundreds and it took an hour!’ This pretty much satisfied him.

  ‘How old do you think Cee-Cee is?’ Rachel asked once, as she flicked through her magazine, sitting on the steamer chair on the balcony next to James, who tip-tapped into his laptop. He worked ridiculously long hours and when he did finally manage to extricate himself from the office, would then spend a further hour or two working at home. She nagged him occasionally but knew that this was part of the price they paid for this house, this life.

  He looked up at her and smiled. ‘Well, actually I know how old she is, so you guess.’

  Rachel considered the housekeeper’s wiry frame, smooth, burnished skin and her nippy movement.

  ‘I’m going to say late fifties, but she looks good!’ She tilted her head to one side.

  James laughed. ‘Wrong.’

  ‘Older or younger?’ she quizzed.

  ‘Cee-Cee is seventy.’ He held her eyeline, waiting for her reaction.

  She pulled off her sunglasses and squealed her response. ‘Seventy? Are you kidding me?’

  ‘I am not.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘I did a double take when I saw and had to check. It’s true; she is seventy.’

  ‘Flipping heck, I want to go to the secret fountain that she drinks from; she looks amazing!’

  ‘That’s what island life does for you. Doubt she has a worry in the world,’ James surmised.

  ‘I think she’s beautiful.’ Rachel looked out to sea, picturing the older woman’s high cheekbones and deep-set grey eyes, her wide mouth, and beautiful, elegant hands.

  ‘I guess she could be, but good God, it’s hard to see past the fact that most of the time she looks so miserable !’ he shuddered.

  ‘Don’t be mean, James.’ Nonetheless, she giggled over the top of her Diet Coke.

  ‘I am not! I’m just saying! My grandma used to have a phrase – “a face that could curdle milk” – and I never full
y appreciated it until I started to look at Cee-Cee over the breakfast table each morning.’ He reached out his hand and ran his fingers up along her smooth, toned calf. ‘Do you think she was born that way?’

  ‘No!’ she tutted. ‘And you are being mean, James, and I don’t like it.’

  ‘I’m only joking with you. You know I love Cee-Cee.’

  ‘No one is born sad.’

  ‘Maybe Cee-Cee is the exception,’ he whispered.

  It was only a minute later that she heard the shuffle in the bedroom behind them and the light tread of a slipper on the tiled floor. She turned to watch their housekeeper move rhythmically across the room with a stiff broom between her palms, swishing it left and right in a hypnotic dance.

  A few days later, mid-morning, Oscar was at school in Hamilton and Rachel sat at the dressing table, slathering cream over her neck and face and jutting her chin to look for the re-emergence of the stubborn stray hair that had taken up residence there. Gripping the tweezers – her weapon of choice – in readiness, she clacked the little metal prongs together as a warning. Announcing her intention to the offending stubble, letting it know it would never be given refuge on her face, not while she was still in possession of her faculties. It was like a battle. It was incredible to her how this woody little interloper seemed to spring up in less time than you would think it possible to cultivate.

  Cee-Cee arrived to strip the bed linen from the king-sized bed and fold it into the laundry basket. It must be Friday. As was customary, the beds would then be left bare to ‘air’ until late afternoon, when fresh-scented sheets would be tucked in just so, and the plump feather pillows decked in immaculately pressed pillowslips. Friday-night bedtime was always her favourite, the scent alone enough to make her dizzy with joy.

  ‘Let me help you, Cee-Cee. I’m only being vain. Truth is I don’t bother with make-up and stuff half as much as I used to when I lived in England. It’s so hot it just slides off my face!’

  As was her way, Cee-Cee ignored her, busy with the task. Rachel pulled off the bottom sheet and folded it into the hands of the housekeeper.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, Cee-Cee, but two things: James told me how old you are and I wanted to say that if at any time the job gets too much for you—’

  ‘It’s not too much for me,’ she fired back. ‘But if you have any complaints—’

  ‘No! God, no! You are absolutely amazing,’ she interrupted, keen to reassure her. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you. I really don’t. I can’t imagine being here alone; please don’t think that’s what I was getting at. I was just going to say that I am more than happy to do more, anything you need me to. In fact, I hate my laziness; it’s very seductive, doing nothing, and I can’t work here, which is fair enough – jobs for Bermudians is right – but please make use of me. I don’t want to step on your toes or interfere when it comes to chores. I know you have a particular way of doing things and I don’t want to mess that up. Plus, I know you are the custodian of this house, I am just passing through, but I was thinking that maybe you could sit down sometimes and I can get you a nice cup of tea? How would that be?’

  Cee-Cee paused, staring at her as if she were talking nonsense.

  ‘And secondly, I just wanted to say that I can’t believe you are knocking seventy. You are beautiful. Really beautiful.’

  Rachel felt her face colour. Cee-Cee stuffed the linen into the wicker basket and stood with her hands clasped in front of her.

  ‘I heard what Mr Croft said about me looking miserable and sad.’

  ‘Oh.’ The comment was unexpected and she felt the spread of shame across her chest and neck. ‘He was joking, ignore him. He can be an idiot sometimes.’

  She stared at Cee-Cee, who held her gaze, quite unabashed and undeterred by the awkward nature of the topic.

  ‘He spoke the truth. I am sad, sadder than sad. But I was not born this way. In fact, I was always happy. My childhood was wonderful. Wonderful.’

  Rachel took a step forward and placed her hand on Cee-Cee’s warm, slender arm. ‘Oh Cee-Cee! No! Why are you sad? I hope it’s not because of us? I would hate that. We absolutely love having you here, love having you in the house – as I have said, I don’t know what we’d do without you! And Oscar just adores you. He really does. You and he have a special bond. You know that, don’t you?’

  The woman ignored the compliment. ‘I’m not sad because of you. I’m not sad because of working here. I like working here—’

  ‘Good! That’s good,’ she interrupted, relieved.

  ‘The fact is my sadness came to me over five decades ago and that’s just how it is.’ She shrugged. ‘I lost my baby boy. He died.’

  The topic was so horrible, the announcement so unexpected, so at odds with the shield of privacy under which the woman ordinarily operated, that it rather threw her.

  ‘Oh, Cee-Cee, he did? That is the most awful thing.’ It felt awkward to be the recipient of information so very personal when she didn’t know the most basic thing about her. These felt like facts she had no right to.

  ‘Yes. Yes, it is. But there it is. That’s what happened. He died.’ She nodded.

  ‘How old was he?’

  ‘He was seven weeks old.’ The woman did nothing to try to stem the fat tears that fell down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. Rachel jumped to her nightstand and grabbed a fistful of soft tissues, balling them into the housekeeper’s hand. Cee-Cee blotted at her distress as she cried unabashed in the bedroom.

  ‘I am so sorry to hear that.’ Instinct told her to pull the woman into a tight hug, but Cee-Cee had always kept her distance – never with Oscar, but certainly with her and James – and she was acutely aware of crossing a line, embarrassing her. They were different generations from very different worlds.

  ‘I can’t begin to imagine what that must have been like.’ Again she laid her hand briefly on her arm and shook her head; this was the truth. ‘What was his name?’ She felt her embarrassment flare; was it okay to ask for this detail? Did discussing him bring relief or merely prolong the agony of the moment? Rachel swallowed, relieved by the slight lift of a smile to the corners of Cee-Cee’s mouth. This tiny memory, this one question enough to bring a flicker of joy.

  ‘He was called Willard after his daddy.’

  ‘Willard,’ she repeated, trying to picture a baby with sweet, fat cheeks and the beautiful eyes of his mum.

  ‘And he was perfect.’ Cee-Cee shrugged, as if that was all that needed to be said; no reason, no disease, no understanding. Rachel saw the pain etched across her brow.

  ‘It must have been a terrible, terrible thing.’

  ‘It is a terrible, terrible thing.’ Cee-Cee shot her a look, almost instinctual, a sharp lesson that this pain did not diminish, nor did the shock fade and that the image of a baby boy called Willard, forever stuck at seven weeks old, still had the power to reduce this lady, now in her seventies, to tears. ‘Lord only knows that’s the truth. It is terrible,’ she repeated. ‘He was fine.’ She looked into the middle distance, as if still struggling to accept that this might have happened. ‘I fed him, I put on the cotton nightdress my grandma had sewed for him and he was cosy and fine. I put him in his bassinet on my bed and I went to sit on the terrace, trying to catch the breeze coming up from Warwick Long Bay; it was a fearful hot night. And not more than an hour later I went to check on him and he wasn’t right. He was cool.’ She shivered, rubbing her arms as if remembering the feel of that temperate skin. ‘And that’s when I got sad. And I am sad, sadder than sad, and I won’t ever stop. Not till I see him again in heaven. Because that is what I believe – that when you get to heaven, you get to gaze upon the thing you loved the most.’ Again the corners of her mouth lifted in the beginnings of a smile.

  Rachel swallowed; the woman’s grief was tangible. It spun a cloak that covered them, there in that beautiful room on that bright, sunshine-filled day. The walls were suddenly dark and the corners gloomy because talk of death per
vaded them, coating everything they touched. She felt the rise of discomfort in her gut, but she wanted to show Cee-Cee that she cared and was interested. ‘And you didn’t have any more children?’ She was trying to piece the puzzle together, using snippets of the woman’s life. The woman who had a hand in each and every intimate aspect of their lives: who counted while Oscar hid, who sang sweet songs as she bathed him, told him stories, washed their clothes, prepared their food. A woman whom Rachel knew so very little about.

  Cee-Cee looked up and drew a breath, straightening her shoulders, as if rallying. ‘No more children. No more husband.’ And there it was again, an admission so stark it cut the air around them. ‘Willard would be fifty on June twenty-fourth. Fifty,’ she repeated, as if still trying to figure out how this could have happened, how the boy she’d fed and loved was no longer here and how the sneaky thief of time had stolen decades from right under her nose.

  Rachel felt a wave of sorrow and wished she knew what to say, what to do. James was so much better than her in situations like this. It was his skill: the ability to work a room, say the right thing, chameleon-like in his attentions with the right gesture, pitch and always, always with something fast, funny or appropriate up his sleeve that could divert any conversation, anyone.

  ‘I expect you want to get on,’ she’d whispered.

  ‘I expect I do.’ Cee-Cee lifted her arms wide and folded the bulky duvet cover in half and half again, gathering it into a bundle and placing it in the basket.

  Now, she felt Cee-Cee’s arms slip from her as she stood, vaguely aware of her creeping from the room. Rachel placed her head on the pillow and closed her eyes.

  I sleep.