‘I think, Cee-Cee, about all those little things that now we have lost him have become big things. I nearly broke down the other day in Lindos looking at his cereal on the shelf.’
She busied herself at the sink, not wanting to witness his distress, giving them both a bit of privacy.
‘I can only imagine what it’s like for Rachel at those moments,’ he continued. ‘At least I get to picture him here and I can still see his things and it helps a bit.’
‘You miss her.’
He nodded.
‘Maybe it’s easier for her not to have to see them. You know I lost my little one?’
‘Yes.’ He kept his voice low. ‘Rachel did tell me.’
She nodded that she had expected as much and that it was fine. ‘I couldn’t stay away from his clothes or his bassinet. Eventually, my grandma swept the place of all trace of him. It helped at first, but then became a great sadness and I think I would have liked to have kept his things around me.’
‘It’s hard, Cee-Cee, isn’t it? I still can’t go into Oscar’s room without collapsing, and yet at the same time I want to be near his things. I want to remember.’
‘Of course you do, James.’
‘Rachel is living in a small flat with a mattress on the floor. I understand her need to pare her life down, to help her concentrate on the one thing that occupies her thoughts and to try and come to terms with everything, but I think she is punishing herself.’
‘I understand that too.’ She turned towards him. ‘I think it’s a normal part of loss – the guilt.’
‘Oh, I have plenty of that too!’ He gave a dry smile.
‘He was a happy, happy boy, always remember that.’
James looked up at her and this time did nothing to stem the wave of sadness that came over him. ‘Yes, yes he was. A happy boy. I don’t know how to be happy without Rachel, without Oscar.’
This admission, made in tears, was testament to how previous boundaries had been erased in the wake of Oscar’s death, and with it came a closeness, a new sense of kinship for all who found themselves at the centre of this tragedy. Without forethought, Cee-Cee walked over to the table and wrapped the young man in a hug and it was far from embarrassing; it was in fact quite lovely to be able to help a person in their moment of need. It felt like the greatest thing to do. She closed her eyes and thought of her baby’s daddy, who she doubted had ever reflected on the loss of his boy, or her for that matter, in this way. James was a good man. She had the feeling that the future might just be bright for these two young people whom she loved, and took faith from her belief; what was meant to come back to you, did.
‘I miss him. I miss her.’ His voice was muffled through his tears.
‘I know,’ she cooed. ‘I know.’
Cee-Cee changed the bed linen and ran her mop over the floors before sitting down at the kitchen table with her pad and pen.
Oh Rachel,
I have thought all morning about what to write, what to leave out, but I think I should tell it as it is. It has been a very sad day so far. James was upset at the breakfast table, missing you and Oscar, and it has had such an impact on me. Even now, on occasion, the memory of my own pain comes at me in a wave so fresh, so new and shocking that it’s enough to take my breath away and bring me to my knees. But it’s thankfully rare. I prefer now to treasure the time before I lost my son. And this will be how it is for you! You will think about Oscar and your reaction will be to smile and not to cry, and how wonderful will that be? It is what he deserves! As for me? Yes, I try to think of those hours, days and weeks and the wonder of it. Not that it was an easy time for me, not at all.
I guessed before I knew for certain that I was with child.
I kept the secret like a fragile thing captured in my cupped hands, a thing with wings that might take flight at any moment. The only person I might have shared it with was Clara, but she had been missing from my life, self-exiled, since I took up with Willard. But to be carrying a baby? Oh! I had never known such joy! I believed this child would not only be the sweetest gift I could ever have wished for, a purpose in my life, but I also figured it would be the thing that brought Willard back to my door and into my bed. It was as the Bible said: ‘Her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her.’
And this, too, I believed: that who I was and what I was would change in Willard’s eyes when I became a mother. I recalled the way my daddy had glanced at my mom when he didn’t know I was looking, his expression close to reverence and brimming with love, and I prayed and prayed that I would see that same look in the eyes of my husband when he looked at me. And I thought that maybe carrying a child might be the thing that made it happen.
I thought this was how it would turn out, but the good Lord had other plans for my life and for me. Willard seemed more shocked than delighted by the news that I was confined with child. I don’t know why – it was surely as plain as day that we were leaving the fate of my body in the hands of God, making no moves to interfere with His infinite plan and nature itself. I think he stayed home for a day or two; by that I mean he came home from work at the end of the day and I ladled him supper into a bowl and was pleased as punch to see him. In truth, I was moved to believe that this was the start of a change in him and the very thought filled me with hope. The air felt different. Food tasted good and I slept better than I had in an age with Willard by my side on that feather mattress at the back of Grandma Sally’s house.
My sadness was all the more when he started pacing, scratching his head and stumbling over his words, his eyes looking anywhere but at me in the way that he did when he was fixing to lie. I knew the signs. I’d had enough practice in our short marriage. And I think the day he up and headed off to town with a spring in his step was harder for me than at any other time because unlike every other time I had hoped, no believed, that things were going to be different, and it was the disappointment that was hardest for me to swallow. I cried, Lord, I did! Sitting and howling on the veranda as a storm cracked overhead, sending its bruised clouds and driving rain down to match my misery. It was disappointment that buckled me, certainly, but also I now think a whole heap of hormones swirling around inside me, which found release in those angry tears. Grandma Sally said very little on the subject, as was her way when she knew there were no words that were going to be able to change a thing.
I think I can say without pride that I liked the way I looked pregnant. Even my daddy commented on my bloom. I wasn’t afraid of the stretch of skin over my stomach; I wasn’t afraid of much – more excited than scared. And the birth was not too bad, not too bad at all.
Grandma Sally mopped my face and talked sternly to me and it was in a beautiful haze of achievement that they placed my boy against my breast. Willard Junior had arrived in the world and he was . . . he was beautiful! The most beautiful thing I had ever seen and he was mine. All mine. I held him in my arms and he stole my heart and my future. It really was that simple. My boy, only seven pounds two ounces and yet hitting my planet like a meteor of far greater proportions, disintegrating the world as I knew it and rebuilding it in his image.
And that was how it was. His face sat behind my eyelids with every blink and his welfare and his joy were the reasoning behind every decision I made. I swear he was the best distraction and waste of time ever created. And he was doing fine, getting stronger every day, and whatever his future held, I was sure it was going to be something wonderful – how could it not?
We sent word to Willard and he came by a whole forty-eight hours after our little one had made his entrance into the world. He said he had waited to give me a chance to settle down, but I could tell by the scent of rum on his breath and the bleary-eyed fumbling with which he reached for the boy that the truth was he had just been sidetracked. ‘What’s he called?’ he asked. ‘Willard Junior,’ I replied. The man cried and I didn’t have the heart nor the inclination to explain I had named him so not out of respect, but so that the boy might hav
e some link to the man I sensed would be more absent than not. And even though I didn’t labour under any illusion, and I knew rightly where my priorities now lay, I still felt a flicker of happiness at the sight of my husband cradling his firstborn son in his arms. More than a flicker. I cannot lie to you, Rachel. It was a happiness that filled me up.
I guess it’s still strange now that in my whole seventy-five years on earth, of all the things I have done and seen, it was during these seven weeks of being Willard’s mommy that I felt the most complete. The most happy. I had everything I had ever wanted – no, I had more than I had ever wanted. I got into a routine and my every waking moment revolved around my little boy. I didn’t care too much about Willard Senior. I stopped counting the days of his absence and I was entirely content with my baby. And what a baby he was! Tiny fingers and toes, the sweetest fat cheeks and big, big liquid brown eyes that looked into your very soul.
I loved him.
I love him.
It gets no easier to tell you what came next.
I have rarely spoken of it.
It’s like taking the lid off a jar with all the miseries of the world packed tightly inside, and that is a fearful thing to do.
But I think I owe you the details and I think it’s about time. Bear with me, dear child, sweet girl. I will go and have some tea and I will return to this letter.
Here I am.
Willard Junior was seven weeks and three days old. It was the end of a perfect day. Grandma Sally had held him in her rocker and my daddy sang to him as he fell asleep, beautiful hymns in his deep, rich voice that spoke directly to your soul. Willard had fed well and I laid him in the wicker bassinet that sat on one side of my bed. I left the windows open on both sides of the room to cool him down. The weather was fierce; it was just before Cup Match and there was the usual excitement in the air. I could hear the fast drumbeat of the Gombey musicians practising higher up in the parish and my feet tapped along in time. I went to sit on the terrace hoping to catch a breeze and I sat out for a while, not too long.
I went back inside to check on Willard Junior and maybe fetch a glass of iced tea.
I peered into the bassinet and I noticed that his tiny face seemed to have slipped from its anchors slightly on one side and his right arm and leg looked like they dangled, as if a little disjointed. I picked him up gently and noticed that his limbs had gone strangely stiff. His eyes had rolled back in his head, his beautiful, big, brown eyes, meaning I could only see the bottom of his iris and the white orb beneath. I have never been so scared, so panicked. His face was contorted, his mouth twisted, and from the corner of his tiny, perfect, rosebud lips dribbled white, foamy spit that spilled over his cheek, which had taken on a bluish tinge.
I was struck silent, trying with all my might to summon a voice, a noise, but everything was stuck in my throat by a plug of fear. I won’t ever forget how that felt.
Helpless.
Each second felt like an hour.
‘Oh, my Lord!’ I managed to scream eventually. I did. I screamed loud enough for the whole of Warwick Parish to hear and some have mentioned it to me since.
‘Call an ambulance!’ I yelled. ‘Call an ambulance! Help me! Get help!’ I have never felt so terrified in my whole life before or after. I whipped off his cotton, embroidered nightie and he lay in my arms in his napkin, and I kissed him and I sobbed, sending prayers up to heaven and hoping I could somehow make him better.
That I could somehow turn back time.
But I could not.
I prayed for a miracle.
But no one was listening to me, Rachel, not on that day.
My little baby, Willard Junior, not eight weeks on the planet, had left me.
Gone under the wings of a blessed angel, taken from me in all but body. I won’t ever, can’t ever forget the moment I lifted him from his cot and his little arms hung down and I knew . . .
Willard Senior didn’t come by.
I had to take him alone and say goodbye in a little room where he lay on a tin-topped table with a brown luggage tag tied around his narrow ankle, the kind you might put on a suitcase or a package, and that bothered me.
It still bothers me.
I don’t remember much after that.
I slipped away from my mind and I lay down on that feather bed at the back of Grandma Sally’s with one hand resting in that bassinet, as if my baby still slept soundly. I knew as long as I didn’t look into it I would be all right.
Grandma Sally told me that on the day we lost him, all the hibiscus turned from red to white, as if weeping away their colour for the loss of him.
I think about that a lot too.
There were a lot of visitors and there was a lot of talk.
Clara never came. I thought she might.
I heard the rumours spoken behind my back in church and I heard the whisperings of those sat behind me on the bus. Some said they thought I had sour milk or other some such nasty nonsense. I never paid no heed to that. I couldn’t pay much heed to anything other than my pain, my loss.
And that was that.
I carried on, somehow. A husk. I was sadder than sad with the joy gone from every bit of my life. I worked in houses, I worked in factories, I worked in hotels, earning my crust, toiling without too many thoughts other than paying the bills.
And the wheels of life kept turning.
I lost my mommy.
I lost my daddy.
And then I lost my Grandma Sally, but God forgive me when I say, while those deaths were sad, they were nothing compared to losing Willard Junior.
He was my life, you see.
And then, one bright day, most unexpectedly, your beautiful family arrived from England. I was a little nervous and I remember James being so polite, shaking my hand, and then you walked in, so young and so beautiful with kindness written on your face, wary of doing and saying the wrong thing. And this in itself made me smile and made me like you even more because it was as if you hadn’t realised that it was your house and you could do and say whatever you wanted!
God and his holy messengers work in mysterious ways, of that I am sure, and as you know on the day little Oscar came into my life, well, that was one I won’t ever forget. With his fair hair, blue eyes and cheeky smile, I had never seen a child like it! And oh! He near as anything stole my heart and I let him.
I let him in, Rachel, I did. He made me happy!
That darned hide-and-seek! ‘How many counts did you do, Cee-Cee? How long were you looking?’ And I will never forget the feeling of his little arms around my neck and getting to bathe him and cook his supper and wash and press his clothes . . . It gave me more happiness than I ever thought possible and for that I will forever, forever feel blessed.
He was my second chance!
Who would have thought? In my seventies, I got another shot at happiness from your little English boy.
This has been a hard letter for me to write, Rachel, and I am sure it will be a very hard letter to read.
I send it in love to you, sweet, beautiful girl.
Cee-Cee x
NINE
Rachel stepped out of her front door and waved to her neighbours of four months. It was a shared student house of six, as far as she could make out. Certain names she heard regularly – Josh, Olly and Jasper – although other faces seemed to come and go, often girls holding high heels in their hands, tiptoeing barefoot along the path of a morning. This sight of their lives laid bare, evidence of parties, empty bottles on the pathway, discarded pizza boxes on top of the bin and music drifting from beneath sash windows cracked open just a little, all took her back to when she first met James and life had been good. Interestingly for her, it was these times she held in her mind as the heydays, and not the opulent fine dining and fast cars that came later with his success. The student crew were always polite, smiley, and why not? They were young, living in this incredible city without too much to trouble them other than the odd assignment and what appeared to be a very healt
hy social life. She felt the familiar pang of regret that Oscar would not get to do this. Forever seven, my little boy . . .
Today, three of the boys sat smoking on the front step in jeans and sweatshirts and beanies; she wouldn’t mind betting they were coming in late rather than having woken early. With legs stretched out in front of them, they soaked up the rays of morning sun that managed to sneak past the high chimney pots and into their front yard. They had their tunes turned up. Rather than take offence at how they hijacked the quiet of this chilly morning, she liked the sights and sounds of life around her.
‘Morning,’ one of them called. As she looked up to respond, her eyes shot to the back of the hallway of the house through the open front door.
‘Oh my God!’ she called out. The boys stared at her and one sat forward and removed his sunglasses.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked a little nervously. Ignoring him, she locked her front door, shoved the key in her bag and marched determinedly up their path.
It was fortuitous that Vicky and Francisco were in situ when she arrived at work for her late shift. Francisco, newly walking, beamed, clearly pleased as punch with his new skill as he teetered from chair to chair. Quite right too. She smiled. It really was some achievement.
Last week she had stood watching him wobble like a drunk, and Sandra, en route to the kitchen with a tray loaded with dirty plates, had winked at her. ‘Don’t tell me you’re feeling broody?’ Rachel had not known how to answer; instead she gave a small nod and concentrated on wiping down the tables. She had in truth been thinking of Oscar’s first steps, recalling how she and James knelt at either end of their lounge of the flat in Richmond, hoping the soft carpet would cushion his inevitable fall. They had cooed and coaxed with their arms spread wide, encouraging their boy to go it alone, whooping with euphoria when he managed one, then two steps unaided. As Sandra laughed, Rachel had looked over at Glen and smiled, grateful that he had kept her confidence, Sandra displaying no sign that she knew her story.
The Coordinates of Loss Page 23
