The Coordinates of Loss

by Amanda Prowse

  She let her gaze sweep the beach and saw Oscar in his sun suit and hat, holding up a piece of seaweed. ‘Look at this, Mummy!’ She closed her eyes briefly and he had gone.

  James ran his hand over his chin and took his time in asking the question they both knew loomed.

  ‘Do you want to go back to Bristol?’

  She nodded. ‘I think I do.’

  James reached across and took her hand in his, holding it tight.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  She took her time in answering. ‘I think . . . I think I don’t want to uproot you from your job, the house, everything that you have worked for.’

  ‘None of it means anything without you,’ he whispered, all playfulness now gone.

  Rachel swallowed and held her nerve. ‘I am still so confused, James, but I do know that when I was in Bristol I had the luxury of submitting to how I was feeling without having to think about you or anyone else, and I know that makes me selfish—’

  ‘I understand. I do,’ he interjected. ‘And as much as it breaks my heart, I know that we are not the people we were; I know that we don’t fit together like we used to.’

  ‘I think I need to go back and try to find some clarity. I’m still trying to find my place in this new world. And that’s all I know right now.’ She wiped the tear that slipped down her cheek.

  He brought their joined fingers to his mouth and kissed their hands.

  ‘I wish you nothing but love, James, nothing but love,’ she managed, emotion turning her voice into little more than a squeak.

  ‘And I you, my beautiful girl.’ He ran his fingers through her hair. ‘Oscar’s brilliant, brilliant mum. I love you, but I don’t think it’s enough right now.’ He swallowed.

  ‘I love you too, but I don’t think it’s enough right now either.’

  Just as he had promised, her dad was standing in the arrivals hall waiting for her.

  ‘Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.’ He smiled. She stepped into his warm embrace and inhaled the familiar scent of his coat: petrol and glue. ‘You look well, babber. A lot better. How’s James?’ he asked, and she was glad that her dad was kind-hearted enough to think of him.

  ‘He’s figuring everything out, Dad. Taking it one day at a time; like all of us, I guess. But getting there. It was good to spend time with him – a measure of closure, if you like.’

  ‘And what was it like being in Bermuda again?’

  ‘It was lovely in some ways. Cee-Cee’s funeral was very moving and hard.’ She pictured Clara and Willard making their way down the aisle of the church in which he had married Cee-Cee and spoken vows in front of her God. ‘I feel like I’ve turned a corner, Dad. I know I can’t let Oscar’s death stop my life.’

  She saw the look of shock on his face – yes, she had said it: Oscar’s death. Oscar died. It didn’t get any easier, but she knew it was necessary to make it commonplace; this was how she stopped the fear, moved past the hurt. ‘I know I can’t let it stop my life even though it has changed my life – changed us, changed all of us. James said we need to forgive ourselves and he is right.’

  ‘He is.’ Her dad nodded as they walked towards the car wheeling her suitcase. ‘Hope you’re hungry; your mum has made you a packed lunch.’

  ‘Of course she has.’ She smiled.

  They drove along the motorway in amiable silence, just the way they liked it.

  At her insistence, he stopped the car on the Gloucester Road, Bishopston. She had already emailed the agent and secured her flat for another six months – a breathing space, at least, where she could take this newfound energy, this cautious optimism and make a plan for the future. She decided to think six months ahead and to keep repeating this, see how far it took her. She even thought about buying a sofa and maybe even a bookshelf. This was progress in itself.

  The pavement was busy and she took a moment to adjust to the crowds, the noise and the beep of tinny horns as traffic sat nose to tail going nowhere fast.

  She pushed open the door of rewer and smiled. Glen was busy at the coffee bar, Sandra took an order from a table near the back and Keith rang his bell from the kitchen. Glen turned and his face split into a warm smile.

  ‘You came back.’

  ‘It would appear so.’ She kicked the floor.

  ‘Do you still want your job?’

  ‘I do.’ She shoved her hands in her pockets. ‘For six months at least, and then I might try to revive my old career.’ If I am strong enough . . . If I have forgiven myself . . .

  ‘Okay then. Six months? I’ll take it.’ He nodded. ‘See you Monday.’

  ‘Thanks, Glen.’ She beamed at him.

  ‘No worries. You look well.’

  ‘I feel it.’ She shrugged; it was still a novelty to admit to this.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got something for you.’

  She watched as he ducked down behind the long counter and resurfaced seconds later, walking towards her with his hand outstretched. ‘I did my best. I didn’t get all of it, but some.’

  Rachel pulled her hand from her pocket, into which he dropped a small glass bottle with a dropper top that had once been home to vanilla extract. She shook the glass up towards the light and saw that it was a third full, packed with sand and one or two tiny crushed shells. The feel of it in her palm caused her stomach to fold. That day . . . that moment, Oscar, when I realised you had gone . . . She felt a little of her earlier optimism and energy evaporate.

  ‘Oh, Glen!’

  ‘I sifted it from the rubbish on the floor. Took me an age.’

  Rachel stared at him, marvelling at how he had known instinctively what to do and how it would make her happy. She crept forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you. This means more to me than you can ever know. And, Glen?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you find the right person, you will feel overjoyed at the prospect of spending your life with them, not cornered. Love is about freedom, even if that means being apart.’ She thought of her wonderful James and her heart flexed. ‘It won’t be about limping from one big event to the next; no one should choose drama. The mundane will be enough and you will feel happy in the everyday, happy now in the moment. And she will be very lucky to have you.’

  ‘Thank you, Rach.’ He took a deep breath and made a clicking noise with the side of his mouth. He had got the message, kindly and sincerely delivered: the girl who would be lucky to have him was not going to be her. She belonged to James, she belonged to Oscar, and a missing piece of her belonged to Bermuda.

  ‘No, thank you.’ She held up the little vial of sand and wrapped it tightly in her fingers.

  ‘Don’t mention it. It’s just sand, right?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘It’s just sand.’

  ELEVEN

  Rachel sat back on her swivel chair and raised her arms above her head, twisting her neck to the left and right, as she did at the end of any long day spent behind her desk. She looked out of the picture window from where she had a perfect view of a bend in the river with the SS Great Britain docked to the left and the footpath, busy with walkers and runners alike, to the right. She glanced at the calendar on her pinboard where a neat red ring circled the date. It was hard to believe it had been one whole year since she had stepped nervously over the threshold and into the shiny glass building to begin her new job in digital marketing for the data-analytics company. In the last year her confidence had soared; it felt good to be back in the corporate saddle, where her identity was predominantly based on her senior role and no one looked at her with the cocked head and tight-lipped smile of sympathy. And even if it was only for a minute, it allowed her to forget her sadness. Each night, after a brisk walk home through the bustling city with her woolly scarf fastened at her neck and her thoughts thousands of miles away under an inky-blue, star-filled sky, she fell into her bed and often slept soundly. This in itself was a welcome relief after the insomnia of grief that had dictated her routine since losing Oscar.
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  Her wide desk was devoid of the photographs and personal touches that littered her colleagues’ workspace. Not that she didn’t carry permanent pictures of her family in her mind: images of Oscar laughing, Oscar swimming, and he and James together in the pool or on Liberté ; images that sat behind her eyelids with every blink. But not having to respond to the inevitable questions that would arise from a photograph, or a memento of home, made life easier for her right now. And nearly two years since losing her boy, it was still all about trying to get through life, one day at a time, as best she could.

  Her mobile rang.

  ‘Hey, Vick.’

  ‘How you doing?’ Her friend cut to the chase.

  ‘Okay. Just packing up.’ She reached for her keys and handbag.

  ‘Are you nervous?’

  ‘Erm, a bit, yes.’ She thought about the evening ahead. ‘In fact, a lot. Very nervous. But also excited, if that makes any sense.’

  ‘It does. Remember what I told you: try not to think about it too much, try not to over-plan or picture it, just go with it – and know that Gino and I and your mum and dad – all of us – will be right by your side. You’ve got this.’ She spoke with conviction.

  ‘Thanks, Vick. I feel weird about seeing James.’ She swallowed the flare of nerves that made her feel a little lightheaded.

  ‘Of course, but we are all so looking forward to seeing him that any awkwardness will be diluted.’

  ‘Yep, I guess. Anyway, best go. I need to go home and change and whatnot. See you there?’

  ‘You bet, and remember if at any time it feels too much or you change your mind—’

  ‘I know – peaches and cream.’ She smiled down the phone at her best friend. ‘Peaches and cream.’

  At home, Rachel stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom and ran her palms over the calf-length navy frock, adjusting the cream ribbon bow at her neck and running her fingers through her shoulder-length hair.

  ‘You can do this.’ She nodded at her reflection.

  Stepping out into the cold night air, she smiled at the student house opposite, where a new batch of Josh, Olly and Jaspers now lived in the street she called home. She had eschewed the offers of a lift from her parents, and even one from Peter, preferring to walk alone and gather her thoughts. She walked past rewer and looked in at the place, all closed up for the night. It was her favourite hang-out and still somewhere that, if the demand called for it, Glen would throw an apron at her and she would ferry plates of bacon and eggs from the kitchen to the tables with a fixed smile and a bottle of ketchup in her front pocket. She would forever love this little café and the people in it who had become like family to her, scooping her up when she had needed it the most and helping her get through the darkest of times. That little job had been a lifeline, enabled her to find her feet, filling her days and distracting her long enough to let the healing begin.

  Rachel quickened her pace until she stood on the path, looking up at the flint-walled chapel where the sparkle of rain fell like gold in the lamplight. It felt a little magical and this made her happy. She pushed open the heavy oak door. Inside, the room was cosy. Candle flames lilted in the breeze and generous bundles of greenery set in sturdy vases had been placed in the deep window recesses and decorated the altar. It was perfect.

  She looked at the pews that were starting to fill up with all the people she loved, sitting shoulder to shoulder. Sandra, Keith and Glen had taken seats at the back and she was touched that Keith, whilst still looking a little grumpy, had donned a dark suit and black tie. Vicky and Gino held hands; Francisco had been left at home with his gran. Her mum, she noted, despite her pep talk only the week before, cried openly with a tissue pressed to her nose and this before the service had even begun. Her dad winked at her and placed his arm around his wife. Rachel smiled, reminding herself that grief had no blueprint; it was the right of everyone who loved her boy to mourn him in the way they saw fit.

  Once the fog of loss had begun to lift, it had been an easy decision to hold the memorial service for Oscar, and it felt right to have it here in Bristol where her son had roots. She thought back to one of her regular calls to James. They were now able to discuss the minutiae of life without guilt and each sentence was offered like a gently rounded thing, rather than with the sharp barbs of anger and blame that had made previous words lodge in each other’s breast, causing harm.

  ‘Have you had your lunch?’ she’d asked as she’d stirred a pot of soup on her stovetop.

  ‘Not yet, might nip up to the Fairmont and grab a salad. It’s a lovely day.’

  She’d looked out of the window at the silhouette of chimney pots against the dark sky and tried to remember the bright glare of midday sun through the window and what it felt like to feel the warmth on her skin. ‘Oscar would have me in the pool the moment he got home on a day like that.’

  James laughed. ‘Yep, you knew there was never any such thing as a quick dip; it was always a struggle to get him to come inside. Even when he was all pruney.’

  They both laughed. It was a sad little laugh of happy memories tainted by the knowledge of what came next.

  ‘His birthday’s coming up,’ James whispered.

  ‘Yep, two weeks, three days.’ She stopped stirring and placed the spoon on the countertop, her appetite suddenly gone.

  ‘I don’t know what I will do. Probably work late and just get my head down and then go home and drink gin.’ He spoke softly.

  ‘I’m thinking of taking the day off and pulling the duvet over my head and switching off my phone and sleeping, or at least pretending to.’

  ‘That sounds like a plan.’

  She knew he understood.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, James, that maybe it’s time we did something to mark Oscar’s passing.’ She took a deep breath, trying to read his silence. ‘I don’t know how you feel, but I was going to suggest that we have a memorial service for him, something . . .’ She paused, listening intently to the silence on the other end of the line.

  His response when it came was offered with the wobble of emotion she knew all too well.

  ‘I think that would be the best thing, Rach; the absolute best thing.’

  That had been a couple of months ago and here they were.

  She shrugged off her coat and handed it to Vicky, who placed it on her lap, along with her own. Rachel waved to James’s parents, happy they had made it. She walked forward and felt someone reach out and pat her arm. Looking down at the end of the pew, she stared into the face of the man she had not seen for over a year – her husband, her James. It was not only strange to feel the jolt of nerves for someone she was married to, but also odd to see him in this environment. It had been a long time since she had seen him in a winter coat. He smiled at her and she felt the spread of warmth in her chest, and something that felt a lot like relief.

  Here you are . . .

  He looked well, tanned of course, but he had filled out a little and seemed to have lost the sunken, sallow demeanour that had dogged him since that day.

  ‘Hey, you.’

  ‘Hey, you.’

  They each took a second, examining the face of the other, once so familiar, now relearning the new bruise-like shadows and lines of age; the marks of grief that they wore like battle scars.

  ‘This place is just right,’ he whispered.

  ‘I think so.’ She let her eyes skirt the small chapel.

  ‘Are you going to be okay?’

  She nodded, feeling the swell of joy bloom in her gut simply because he was by her side, tonight when she needed him most. She had quite forgotten how his very presence, the proximity of him, made her feel safe, settled – and the force of it took her by surprise.

  The little chapel was quiet; evening had been a good choice, the still of the night and the cloak of the dark contributing to the atmosphere of solemn thanks, given for a beautiful life in which she had been privileged to play a part.

  Post the joyous rendition of ‘Al
l Things Bright and Beautiful’ and with candles flickering, Rachel gave a small cough and stood behind the sturdy brass lectern, gripping the sides, grateful for the prop that kept her shaking hands steady. She spoke to the small gathering – people she and James loved and who loved them in return.

  ‘I have been worrying over what to say,’ she confessed, trying to control the quaver to her voice. ‘I wanted to say how much we love and miss Oscar, but I don’t know if I need to, as that feels like a given. He was a special little boy, an inquisitive, funny, smart little boy who was our joy. I know he is with us, part of us all, every single day. Our friend, our family member Cee-Cee, whom most of you don’t know – but trust me, she was very special and important in our lives – she told me this: “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.”’ Rachel paused and took a deep breath. ‘And she was right. Thank you. Thank you, Cee-Cee,’ she managed, looking up at the rafters of the chapel before letting her eyes fall to James.

  He stood and the two passed in the aisle, she felt the lightest brush of his hand against hers and it sent sweet tremors of happiness through her very core.

  She watched as he, too, steadied himself and looked out over the expectant faces.

  ‘My wife once asked me if she thought it was possible to be too lucky.’ He paused, and she pictured that night: she and James in the water with her arms wrapped tightly around him and the moonlight sending dappled shafts of light over the blue, blue sea. ‘I told her this . . .’ He stopped again, swallowed and fixed his eyes on her. ‘You are my mate as well as my wife, and you are the best mum. Don’t you worry, this life is just going to get better and better.’ He did nothing to stop the tears that freely fell; this in turn triggered the tears of all who watched him with his head slightly bowed, standing at the lectern. James coughed and exhaled, before calmly saying, ‘And it was true, Rach. All of it. There is no one else in the whole wide world Oscar and I could have loved as much. We were lucky. And I meant it, this life is just going to get better and better. From now on. We miss him, we will always miss him, but this is the moment. Better and better . . .’