Nothing at all.
Rachel reread the letter, particularly the final paragraph, and she thought of Vicky, her lovely mate, best friend, her sister in every other sense, who knew exactly what was best in her time of need.
James didn’t answer his mobile, so she tried the home phone. It was Saturday; she wasn’t sure if he had resumed his old routine and was playing tennis with one of his pals. This thought left her feeling torn. It caused a ripple of misplaced anger to flare in her veins at the fact that his life could go on without her, without Oscar. And yet at the same time she felt a flicker of happiness that he was not sitting alone at home, abandoned by her.
It was Cee-Cee who answered the call. Rachel pictured her in the kitchen and felt a jolt of nostalgia for the woman and the room in which she stood. It was the first time she had felt anything close to this since leaving a couple of months ago. She smiled to be in contact with the woman who she now, through her letters, knew better than ever. The woman who had been so very excited about the dance, for which her Grandma Sally, living in the cottage that was now Cee-Cee’s home, made her and her friend Clara the most exquisite dresses.
‘Cee-Cee, it’s me, Rachel.’
‘Well, it is certainly wonderful to hear your voice.’
‘Cee-Cee, I can’t tell you how much I love your letters!’
‘Well, I am certainly glad of that.’
She picked up the note of embarrassment in the woman’s tone. ‘It takes me back to Bermuda and I know the roads you talk about, the beaches you mention, and it’s like I am there and it feels wonderful, because I am there in that time, before . . .’
‘Then I shall carry on putting pen to paper, Rachel.’
‘That would make me very happy.’ She paused. ‘You asked me in your letter if I knew that feeling when you meet someone and you feel full of promise and excitement for everything that lies ahead.’ She pictured the first time she and James kissed, the way her heart leaped, and she knew . . . ‘I do know that feeling – I did.’
‘I knew it.’
Rachel could tell she was smiling and this in itself gave her a feeling of promise, of hope.
‘I keep you in my thoughts and my prayers, child.’ Her voice was thick with emotion.
‘Thank you.’ She noted the way Cee-Cee did not ask how she was – that much-used question that seemed to be the opener for every conversation and one she was no better at answering now than she had been at the very beginning. Cee-Cee’s words all that time ago came to her now: I am sad; sadder than sad and I won’t ever stop . . . It was without doubt because the housekeeper understood this life lived bereft.
‘And how are things there, Cee-Cee?’
‘I have no news, really; nothing changes. I am keeping things just so.’
Rachel pictured Oscar’s room, dust-free and neat as a pin, and her heart flexed with gratitude.
‘I am glad you are with your parents, and I hope you are finding peace.’ Cee-Cee’s warm, rich tones were as calm and soothing as ever.
Rachel noted she didn’t use the word happy because Cee-Cee knew that happy was a stretch too far, peace was the very best she could hope for.
‘Not yet,’ she said honestly, ‘but I can see that peace might lie ahead and so I guess that is progress of sorts. When I was in Bermuda I could only see a dark abyss. It was all I could do not to fall into it; in fact, there was a time when I wanted to.’
I jumped, Cee-Cee! I jumped and I wanted to end it all! And sometimes I crave the peace I felt when I had decided to go and join my boy . . .
‘That passes. It does.’
There was a beat or two of quiet when, across the oceans, the two women were connected by all that they didn’t say. Rachel felt energy in the silence. She closed her eyes briefly and pictured her housekeeper in the vast home that had grown so small and become a prison. The grand façade on the North Shore Road that housed rooms where sadness and regret ran down the walls and pooled on the floor. She pictured Cee-Cee, busy day and night with that mop, but no amount of cleaning could wipe away the scent of despair.
Cee-Cee broke the quiet, speaking slowly. ‘Being with family and those you love. That is where you will find peace.’
Rachel thought of her mum and her dad, of Peter and Julie, of Vicky and little Francisco and she thought of James . . . her James.
‘These people who love you and whom you love, these people who share your blood and live in your heart; it is with them that you will learn how to move forward. They are the keeper of your stories and the custodian of your memories.’
Rachel nodded, feeling the all too familiar slip of tears down her throat and along her cheeks.
‘Your family, your kin, that’s all you have; it’s all we have. Those in the present and those gone before, we all share the same things and we are bound. Understand that it’s in the life-defining moments, when a scream leaps from your throat, be it in joy or fear, and your hands reach out to grasp the wisps of reassurance that float in the ether – strands from a fine gossamer cloak woven of memories and stories – yes, it is in that single moment when your eyes and those of your ancestors are aligned, that is when you are touching your history, your people, your heritage. That’s when lessons can be learned. And whether they are living or whether they have passed on, it doesn’t matter, not in time. We are and we will always be together. That is how you move forward, Rachel.’
‘Thank you. Thank you, Cee-Cee,’ she managed, quite overcome by the woman’s eloquence, wisdom and the beauty of her advice. It was one thing to have read it in her letters, but quite another to hear it whispered down the line person to person.
‘Let me go and find James. I think he is in the garage. Do you want to hold on or shall I ask him to call you back?’
‘Yes, ask him to call me back, and thank you again, Cee-Cee. Take care.’
‘May God bless you and keep you safe.’
The woman’s blessing had the unexpected effect of making her cry harder. Rachel wanted to be kept safe from the harm that threatened to take her sanity or urged her to find somewhere high up and jump. She pictured Oscar again and the way he had waved at her from beneath the water, happy. He had looked happy . . .
James called back within minutes. His tone was flat and she sensed she was disturbing his peace. It felt horrible and jarred even more in comparison to the way in which Cee-Cee had comforted her so.
‘Have you heard from Mackenzie?’ she asked with her heart in her mouth.
‘No. But I don’t expect to. He said they’d only contact us now if they had news.’
She let this permeate. And felt a small sense of relief that there was no news, that nothing had been . . . found.
‘I just wanted to let you know that I’m thinking of going to stay with Vicky for a bit in Bishopston. I think it might be better for me than being cooped up with Mum and Dad.’ She stole her dad’s phrase.
James gave a wry laugh. ‘I thought you were going to say you were thinking of coming home.’
‘Do you think I should?’ She waited, torn, reading what she could into the pause and aware of an icy dread in her stomach that he was going to ask her to go back to that house where she would constantly be within sight of that big, big sea where Oscar lived now. And similarly dreading that he would not ask her to go back, as if her absence, like injured skin, had healed over, leaving no place for her there. She cradled the Tic-Tac box in her palm.
‘Honestly? I don’t know,’ he began. ‘Part of me wishes you were here, but then I think about those months with you sitting upstairs and it was hard, Rachel, it still is hard. And then that day on the boat, when you—’ He broke away. ‘I think about that a lot. It could have ended very differently and you didn’t think what it would be like for me? And I wonder how you could have done something like that.’
‘I wasn’t myself.’ I’m still not myself . . .
‘I know it’s difficult for you, of course, but I don’t want you to come home.’ He paused, as if to let
this sink in, and her gut twisted. Despite knowing it was the truth and at some level understanding why, she felt her hand slip a little further away from that of the man who used to rush home from the office at lunch, just to spend a little time with her. James continued, ‘I know how horrible that sounds. I had a knot in my gut, so afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing, and that’s gone now. It’s like I have one less thing to worry about, if that makes any sense.’
She was thankful for his frankness, no matter how much it hurt.
‘I love you,’ he whispered, choked. ‘You know I do, but I don’t know how we go forward from here. I can’t picture it.’
‘I can’t picture it either,’ she confessed.
They were quiet for a moment, letting this sink in. It was James who spoke first. ‘It’s the worst thing, not being able to see ahead when I thought I had life sussed – more than sussed. I held this image in my mind for so long of our future, working hard for that time, always thinking ahead to Oscar at ten, then Oscar as a teenager, always thinking of and planning for the things we would be able to do when he reached those milestones: playing cricket, skiing, or just him and me sitting on Elbow Beach, sharing a beer. And you and I like bookends to his life, happy bookends, all dependent on each other, and now . . .’ He let this hang for a moment. ‘Now there is a big hole in that future because he’s gone and you are not here and I know I have to paint a different picture, create a new future. But I don’t feel like I can; all I want to do is sit and wish I could go back to what I had. It’s tough.’ She heard the unmistakable sound of emotion in his voice and knew his words were a mirror to her own lamentations of loss. ‘The thought terrifies me, Rach, and makes me feel so sad, but I don’t know how else to survive. It almost feels better not to think about what I have lost, but to try and find a new, different path.’
‘You don’t mean forget him?’ she squeaked.
‘No! God, no! Not ever, ever.’ He cried openly now. ‘Of course not! But sometimes it’s less painful if I don’t think about him, don’t try to figure when he went or how. It kills me.’
She nodded down the phone and reached for Mr Bob, who she placed under her chin. This she understood because it killed her too.
Gino lifted her bag from the boot of the taxi.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind putting me up for a bit?’ She knew it was one thing to receive an invitation from her friend, but that didn’t mean her husband was on board. She hated the idea of imposing.
‘Rachel, you are welcome to stay for as long as you want, you know that.’ Gino walked up the path to the open front door. ‘But there are rules,’ he yelled over his shoulder. ‘You do not touch my Star Wars models or agree with Vick that we need to declutter the study, by which she means throw away my motorbike magazines, and you are never, ever to mention that blue football team that your dad favours while you are under my roof.’
‘Rovers?’ she asked with genuine innocence.
‘That, my friend, is strike one! We are a Bristol City house; red is the colour and I can’t have you mentioning the “R” word in front of Francisco. Kids are easily influenced.’
She nodded. ‘Got it.’
As she stepped inside the warm hallway of the Victorian terrace on Egerton Road, Vicky came hurtling down the stairs.
‘Here she is!’ She wrapped her friend in a warm hug. ‘I’ve just put him down for a nap. This means we have uninterrupted coffee time for thirty whole minutes! Sorry, I’m being bossy. Do you want to unpack or get coffee?’
Rachel smiled at her friend who had always been bossy; this awareness of it, however, was new. ‘Coffee sounds good.’
Gino parked her suitcase at the bottom of the stairs and walked over, planting a kiss on her cheek and crushing her in a hug. ‘I was so sorry to hear what happened, Rachel. I feel for you and James.’ Whether subconsciously or not he placed his fingertips over his heart.
‘Thank you.’ She had always liked the Italian’s wonderful nature, open with his emotions, affectionate and desperately loyal to his family.
Vicky and Gino’s house was lovely: homey and warm, with stripped, waxed floorboards dotted with rugs, a cast-iron fireplace in the sitting room and bookshelves in the alcoves either side of the chimney breast stuffed with books, family photographs in mismatched frames and the odd relic from their time travelling – a brass Shiva; a brightly coloured, miniature thangka painting; and a set of Japanese prayer beads carved from cherry wood and hanging from a hook. The sofas were square, deep and soft, covered in creased linen the colour of string, and peppered with boldly coloured, embroidered cushions.
The kitchen had the same relaxed air with old pine, butchers-block countertops, and a windowsill crammed full of herbs in a collection of earthenware pots. A shabby green dresser lined one wall, home to an eclectic assortment of serving dishes, plates and pottery mugs, some with handles missing, now stuffed with pens or paintbrushes. The walls were painted ochre and Gino’s beloved copper cookware hung from a cast-iron rack above the oven. A knife block sat by the hob. Gino always said that on the outside he might have been a systems engineer, working up the road at British Aerospace Engineering, but on the inside, he was a chef. The centrepiece to the spacious, glass-roofed addition was the eight-foot refectory table, crowded at one end with piles of clean laundry, a stack of magazines and a large, crowded bowl of fruit. Rachel was glad her friend hadn’t felt the need to make her home pristine; it made her feel more welcome.
She thought about the clean, cool lines of the villa in Bermuda and wondered how entering that made people feel: the acres of cold tiling, the white walls and crisp, painted edges. She wasn’t sure it was a true representation of her and couldn’t be classed as homey, but she supposed it was rather more impressive. Small wonder they were all happier on the cosy boat. And just like that she pictured jumping from the side of Liberté trying to see through the curtain of hair that fell over her eyes, as she bobbed and dived in the water, as fear set in her bones.
‘You all right, honey?’ Vicky stared at her. ‘You look pale.’
‘I’m okay,’ she managed, her voice small.
‘Why don’t you two go out for coffee?’ Gino suggested, as he unstacked the dishwasher. ‘It’s a bright, blue day!’
‘Yes! Great idea. There’s a fab café around the corner, just five minutes up the Gloucester Road.’
Vicky grabbed her coat and the two women walked up Egerton Road arm in arm along the uneven pavement. ‘I love living here.’ Her friend beamed. ‘I like being able to walk up and grab a pint of milk if I run out and I like the fact that there is life all around me and I can take Francisco out for nice walks and we are both interested in what’s going on. He seems to like the big red buses, and who can blame him?’ She laughed. ‘And there are so many great little shops and always someone to say hello to. I think I might have felt a bit isolated anywhere else, giving up work and staying at home.’
Rachel nodded. ‘When I first got to Bermuda, I was really torn. We kind of had it all – the house, beach on our doorstep, the lifestyle. But I was lonely and I couldn’t see the point of living somewhere so wonderful. I didn’t have anyone to share it with. I mean, it was nice to have Cee-Cee around but we weren’t what you would call friends, although since Oscar . . .’ She swallowed. ‘I guess it has brought down all barriers, as it does when someone sees you stripped bare with your soul and your heart exposed.’
Vicky squeezed her arm.
Rachel continued, ‘I found it hard not having Mum or you to call on. And we had made good friends when we lived in Richmond. It was a bit of a shock to the system.’
‘I bet. So how did you make friends?’
‘Through James’s work mainly. I met a lot of other ex-pat wives, British and American, and they were all friendly enough and then I started taking Oscar to kindergarten and the mums there became my friends too.’
‘But you didn’t love any of them as much as you love me,’ Vicky asserted. ‘The role of best friend was
never vacant.’
‘Of course not. Never.’ She looked at her friend and spoke the truth. They shared a childhood and history, and they loved each other.
‘Have you spoken to James?’
Rachel nodded. ‘It’s so confusing. Part of me wants to speak to him, misses him, and another part wants to keep far, far away and have no contact at all. I can feel what we had slipping away.’ She held her friend’s eyeline; this was a tough confession to make.
‘Don’t say that. You guys are going through so much, I am sure that after some time apart you will be able to find a way to go forward.’
She shook her head. ‘I love him, Vick—’
‘I know you do and he loves you. That’s always been obvious,’ Vicky interrupted.
‘But something has happened to us; something other than losing Oscar, or more accurately because of losing Oscar.’ She swallowed. ‘It’s hard to explain, but it feels like someone has snipped all the threads that held us together as a couple, and I can almost tell you the moment it happened: when we were at sea, while they were still searching. I looked over at him and something had changed. I felt it in my gut. I had only ever looked at him with love, lust even.’ She paused, thinking about that morning when they woke, climbing on top of him. ‘But I stared at him and felt a flash of something that was a lot like hatred.’
‘Oh, honey.’ Vicky’s tone dripped with sadness.
‘It’s true. I haven’t said that to anyone.’ She looked at her friend, knowing she would keep her confidence, as she always had. ‘And there are two things that I can’t shake from my mind.’ She took a breath. ‘It’s what we touched on at my mum’s. I keep thinking that we were having sex while Oscar . . . while Oscar might have been struggling or afraid; he needed me! And kind of linked to that is that I know I will never have sex with James again. I don’t want to. I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand to lie next to him let alone touch him. And that is the beginning of the end, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. It can be.’ Vicky nodded. ‘But maybe that’s only how you feel right now.’
The Coordinates of Loss Page 17
