The Coordinates of Loss

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Glen, is it okay if I nip out for a bit?’ She acknowledged the fascinated nudges and stares of some of the customers.

  ‘Of course! You take your time.’ He smiled. Kind and lovely Glen. Rachel grabbed her bag from the back and walked slowly down the street, thinking about her dear friend Cee-Cee and wondering if she had got her wish, if she really was reunited with those she loved right now. The thought made her smile.

  Vicky answered the front door with Francisco on her hip. ‘Well, this is a nice surprise! Are you okay, honey? I’m so glad you’ve come. I’ve been thinking about our chat last night; I couldn’t sleep. The last thing in the world I would want to do is upset you. You know that. I wouldn’t offend you for the world. It was wine and it was supposed to cheer you up; it all went wrong.’

  ‘I do know that. It’s okay.’

  ‘You look pale,’ Vicky added, studying her face.

  She nodded. ‘I’m having a bit of a day.’

  ‘Blimey, it’s only just gone eleven! Come in, come in!’

  Vicky walked into the little study and handed her son to Gino. ‘I’m working, Vick! Or trying to!’ He tutted, still managing to kiss the face of his son, now plonked on his lap. ‘Hi, Rach.’

  ‘Hi.’ She waved.

  ‘I know, Gino, but I just need five minutes with Rach. Thank you! I love you! I love you!’ She blew a kiss and closed the door before he had time to further protest. ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Rachel shook her head and sat at the kitchen table. Vicky sat opposite, mirroring their positions of the previous evening.

  ‘So, what’s up? Why is today such a write-off?’

  Rachel ran her hands over her face and planted her elbows on the tabletop. ‘Cee-Cee, our lovely housekeeper who used to look after Oscar, passed away last night.’

  ‘Oh no! That’s sad. How old was she?’

  The question by comparison confirmed the absolute horror of her son’s passing. Seven . . . he was just seven . . .

  ‘She was well into her seventies, but very young in mind and body; a dynamo. She was lovely. Quiet. Oscar loved her; they had a wonderful connection and that’s really hard for me. There aren’t that many people who knew him like she did and now she’s gone too. She wrote me the loveliest letters, written from the heart. I love her story – she knew tragedy, but it made her wise, made her kind.’

  ‘I am sorry for you. I know how fond you all were of her.’ Vicky sighed.

  ‘We really were. Plus, I might have just told James that I would go back to Bermuda.’

  ‘For good?’ her friend asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t know!’ She ran her hands through her hair. ‘I feel so confused. I’m scared about going back – worried that I might fall into that dark hole where I couldn’t see a future.’

  Vicky stared at her and she knew they both thought about her confession, and the fact that she had jumped into the water with only one aim.

  ‘But I do want to be there for Cee-Cee’s funeral, and I need to talk to James. He said we need to discuss things and I can’t deny that. He’s right; it will all be much easier face to face. I think he might want to talk about next steps.’

  ‘Like divorce?’ Vicky asked softly.

  ‘I guess so. I don’t know. Things are in limbo and that’s hard for us both. I owe him that conversation.’

  ‘How do you feel about that – the possibility of formally ending things?’

  Rachel considered just that and answered, as truthfully as she was able, ‘I feel sick, anxious. He’s my husband and I am his wife and it’s always been him, and the thought of losing him – completely losing him – as well as Oscar feels like more than I can cope with. But how things are right now . . . It’s not fair on him and maybe it’s what we both need to move forward. I don’t know, Vicks. As I say, I’m confused. And having to face my future? I don’t know if I’m ready. Maybe this limbo suits me a bit, stops me having to figure everything out.’

  ‘Well, I can’t say I won’t miss you, but I think he’s right. There are things that need sorting out. It’s not healthy just to let things drift.’

  ‘God, Vick, there is so much unhealthy about my life right now, so much that needs addressing.’

  ‘So take the plunge. Dive in!’

  The moment the words left her friend’s mouth, Rachel saw herself leaping from the side of the boat and her face crumpled.

  ‘Oh God, Rachel! I didn’t think! I am such an idiot!’ Vicky banged the table.

  ‘It’s not your fault, and I wish . . . I wish that simple words didn’t send me into a spin like they do. It’s exhausting.’

  Vicky squeezed her arm.

  ‘And it has been a really shit day. Just before I heard about Cee-Cee, I trod on my little Tic-Tac box with sand in it, you know the one?’

  ‘I do,’ Vicky whispered.

  ‘It went everywhere all over the floor and was mixed up with gunk.’ She sobbed, picturing it again and realising just what she had lost.

  ‘Oh no! I’m sorry. I know how much you treasured it.’

  ‘I did, and I feel crap for not taking better care of it,’ she admitted. I can’t take care of anything; I lose everything that is precious to me . . .

  Vicky stepped forward and scooped her friend into a close hug. ‘You are right; you are certainly having a bit of a day. I love you, Rach. It’ll all be okay.’

  ‘I know.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I love you too.’

  Rachel washed her face and made her way back to the café. It was just as the lunchtime rush was starting and in truth she was glad of the distraction. She spent the best part of two hours ferrying full plates and then empty plates to and from the kitchen, where Keith laboured over a hot stove and Sandra kept the atmosphere light with her soft voice and unabashed singing. During the early-afternoon lull she caught up with Glen at the bar.

  ‘I’m sorry about this morning, freaking out like that in front of customers and then running off for an hour.’

  ‘That’s okay, I shall dock your wages accordingly.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m joking, Rachel. You gotta do what you gotta do; I get that.’ He smiled at her and she got the distinct feeling he referred to more than just her emotional outburst and surprise absence.

  She nodded at him. ‘I might need to go to Bermuda.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ He placed his hands on his hips. ‘When were you thinking?’

  ‘Maybe next week.’

  ‘Oh, gosh, right! Nothing like a bit of notice.’ He sucked air through his teeth.

  ‘Our friend passed away, and—’

  ‘No need to explain. As I said, you gotta do what you gotta do.’ He took a breath. ‘Will you be coming back, do you think?’

  She noticed the slight nervous warble to his voice. ‘I don’t know,’ she answered truthfully. ‘I need to talk to James and make a plan, but the thought is scary. It feels like moving on, and I have been avoiding that for a while now. I am stuck, Glen, and James is too, and that’s not fair, I know. I wish I could give you a definitive answer, because that would mean decisions have been made, but I can’t.’

  Glen looked down at the floor. ‘I will do my best to keep your position open, but if we get busy then . . .’

  ‘Yes, I expected that.’ She smiled at him briefly. ‘I’m sorry to be so vague, but I’d rather not say one thing and do another; that’s not my style.’

  ‘And I appreciate that.’ He coughed and walked over to the coffee bar.

  TEN

  Rachel’s parents insisted on driving her to the airport, and in truth she was glad of the opportunity to spend time in their company. She sat on the back seat like a child while her mum chatted, handed out mint humbugs and tutted at the poor level of driving skill of just about every other road user. This despite being a non-driver herself, a fact that no doubt encouraged her dad to wink at Rachel surreptitiously in the rear-view mirror. Her mum also acted as impromptu navigator, reading aloud
the very large motorway signs informing them how far away they were from their destination along with the junction number for good measure. She also gave a regular and uninvited update on what speed her husband was travelling at, accompanied by either a pat on the thigh or a tut for good or bad performance.

  ‘Ooh, before I forget, this arrived for you, lovey.’ Rachel watched her mum reach into her handbag and pull out a brown envelope. She took it and smiled at the familiar slant of Cee-Cee’s handwriting.

  ‘It arrived yesterday, obviously sent before she . . .’ Her mum trailed off, embarrassed and still awkward on the topic of death.

  Rachel nodded and put the letter in her pocket, deciding to read it later without distraction. Her mum continued to chat.

  ‘Peter would have come over to say goodbye before you set off, but he’s been very busy with work and the boys, and Julie’s dad had a turn last week so she’s been up and down to Stroud. Poor love.’

  Rachel gave a nod, not wanting to discuss her useless brother with her mum, knowing that not only would it fail to change anything about his behaviour, but also aware that if she spoke her mind it might cause her mum upset. Neither, she knew, had the energy or the appetite for that, especially since her mum had given in to the storm that brewed inside her all those months ago. Rachel now understood more than ever that each of them had their own way of coping, and who was to say who was right? It was, as Cee-Cee had once told her, all about getting through each day and not trying to look too much further ahead.

  ‘So how long are you going for, exactly?’ Her mum twisted around and spoke through the gap between the front seats.

  She was now no better at fielding the question no matter who asked it. ‘I don’t know, Mum. It depends on a lot of things.’

  Depends on how it feels being back, what it’s like with James, the state of my marriage and how I cope . . .

  ‘Well, if you want picking up from the airport when you come home, just let us know and Dad’ll come down, won’t you, Brian?’

  ‘Of course. She knows that.’ He spoke plainly and she recalled the words he had spoken to her on one of their seven-mile walks of an evening: If I could have a wish, it would be to see your face every single day of my life over that breakfast table or it would be to turn the clock back to when you were small. She took in her dad’s broad shoulders on which she knew she could always lean.

  ‘You did seem very distressed about your housekeeper. I didn’t realise you were that close.’ Her mum’s tone suggested that her level of upset over Cee-Cee’s passing might be inappropriate or misplaced.

  Rachel pictured her with her arms spread wide and Oscar running into them. Can I have bacon and pancakes, Cee-Cee?

  You, my darling, can have whatever you want.

  ‘Calling her our housekeeper doesn’t really do her justice. She looked after Oscar; she looked after all of us. And she has been there for James when I wasn’t able. She was a massive part of our life in Bermuda, and the worst part is, I don’t know if I truly thanked her properly. I hope she knows how much we all loved her.’

  ‘I’m sure she did,’ her dad offered.

  Rachel thought about the way Cee-Cee had confided in her: I’m not sad because of you . . . I lost my baby. He died.

  I wish I’d had the courage to wrap you in a hug, Cee-Cee. I wish I’d held you tight and not felt so awkward, just like you did me when I needed it most. She cast the words out into the ether.

  ‘And what did they say at work about you up and leaving with so little notice?’ Rachel again noted the tone of disapproval in her mother’s question and her choice of critical words.

  ‘They were very understanding and said they would try to keep my job open.’ She thought of Glen. ‘But at the end of the day, Mum, I gotta do what I gotta do.’

  ‘Hmph, I suppose so.’ Jean adjusted her hands in her lap. ‘And you’ve just left that flat?’

  ‘Yes, there’s only a little over a month left on the tenancy, so I told the agent I’d let him know in a week or two if I want to re-let it or if he should start showing prospective tenants around.’

  ‘And you’ve left all your stuff there?’

  Rachel gave a small laugh. ‘Well, if by “all my stuff” you mean Peter’s old mattress, a vase, a laundry basket, two mugs, a plate, some cutlery and a kettle, then yes, I have left all my stuff.’

  ‘Well, I never did.’ Her mum sighed. ‘And what about James, how does he feel about you coming back after all this time? Is he excited?’

  Rachel wished she would stop with the questions, but this was quickly followed by a spike of guilt at the fact that she was again waving goodbye to her parents without a firm date for when she would be returning, or indeed if she were returning at all. She knew it was hard for them. I missed you, Rachel, each and every single day! And this alone was enough of a reminder for her to remain patient. ‘I expect he is nervous like me, Mum. A lot has changed and I think he will be on edge, but I’m sure it’ll be fine once we’ve seen each other. I don’t really know. I am trying not to think about it too much.’

  ‘It’ll all come good, babber, one way or another.’

  ‘I hope so, Dad.’ She sank down on the back seat and tried to imagine walking back into that house that she hadn’t seen for all of these months. Her stomach churned at the thought of it.

  Her dad pulled up at the drop-off outside the departure terminal and she hugged him warmly.

  ‘You know we are here, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, always, Dad. And thank you.’

  Her mum cried and Rachel matched her tear for tear, not only at the prospect of not seeing her parents for a while, but also at what she might find on that little fishhook-shaped island in the North Atlantic that she had once so loved.

  With Mr Bob secreted in her pocket, Rachel stowed her hand luggage and sat back in the chair to undertake a journey that she had done so many times before, but always with either Oscar, James, or both sat by her side.

  The plane rose higher and higher, and she knew this time the journey felt different because everything was different. She remembered very little about the flight from Bermuda back to the UK, taken at the height of her grief. On autopilot, she had tried not to think too far ahead, looking at her feet and literally concentrating on taking step after step after step, until she fell into the arms of her dad. She thought back to that time, when she existed in a fog, realising that she had come a very long way, now able to spend whole hours in the day without dissolving into tears; she even managed to keep down a job. And she had found the courage to travel back to the place that held such dark memories. This was progress.

  Rachel reached into her pocket and pulled out Cee-Cee’s letter. It felt somehow appropriate to be reading these words while the plane sped through the clouds, somewhere close to Cee-Cee’s heaven.

  Dear Rachel,

  I find myself in deep, deep thought.

  It’s a strange thing, but unlike some, I never expected happiness.

  I wished for it, longed for it even, but never felt that it was something I had any right to.

  My daddy was the same. I remember my mom saying he ‘planned for the worst, expected the least and anything over and above that was considered a blessing.’

  He smiled and hid for a living.

  And I guess I followed in his footsteps.

  While my mom worked shifts inside, cleaning the communal areas, he stood outside of the grand Fairmont Hamilton Princess Hotel on Pitts Bay Road.

  Rachel paused from her reading and pictured the hotel, which she and James frequented, a little link to Cee-Cee’s heritage that she had been unaware of.

  Day in and day out, rain or shine, he opened the grand door made of thick glass and wood, tipping his top hat, smiling at all who wafted by him either entering or leaving the five-star hotel.

  I figured his surly demeanour at home was because he had used up all the smiles he had for that day on the pale, pretty guests who shimmied in and out of his doorway. But now
I think it was just because he was plain exhausted. I visited him once, secretly, and stood staring from the other side of the street, hidden behind a cast-iron lamp post. Watching as my daddy, the man before whom I cowered and whose rare complimentary words dropped into my lap like shiny diamonds for me to gather up and save for rainy days, stooped low to open cab doors, head bowed. I watched as gaggles of chattering women looked the other way, as he hefted the door to and fro, leaving nothing for him – no ‘thank you’ or smile of good grace other than the cloud of expensive scent that hovered under his nose, a scent so rich with exotic promise, luxury and wealth that the very bouquet could sometimes reduce him to tears.

  I watched my daddy’s hand shift stealthily to his thigh and rub, once, twice as with almost imperceptible timing he flexed the foot of the same leg. He had a bad hip, an injury sustained in the war effort when he slipped on rocks up at the Dockyard and smashed his bones. I knew that no amount of fancy livery sitting on his shoulders or high sheen to his shoes could compensate for the fact that he had wanted to be a somebody. A somebody who could walk confidently into the lobby of that very building and would be gracious enough to offer thanks, as an equal, to the man who held the door. A man who might take lunch there and know the name of the maître d’.

  My daddy taught me a lot. Not only in what he said, but in what he didn’t say. I have his quietness, but not his bitterness. I learned that bitterness lies in your very centre and, like a pit in a plum pudding, can taint the whole thing. Forgiveness is better, sweeter.

  You see, I too had plans. Not big plans or grand plans, but if I had dared to peek into my future or tried to imagine what lay ahead, I saw me baking for a family, caring for a family. I pictured warm arms around my shoulders at night and I saw my grandchildren sitting in their finery in the pew in front of mine in St Anne’s Church, Southampton Parish, where I could keep an eye on them whilst listening to their sweet songs of praise.

  Yes, my dreams were all about family, my family. And I hope I do not overstep the mark when I say that I pray that this is what lies ahead for you, Rachel. I wish for you to find again the joy you had in being Oscar’s mommy.