by K. A. Hobbs
Leaning forward, Imogen waits until I meet her eyes before speaking. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You’re much better at this than you think you are.”
Glancing up at her curiously, I tangle my fingers around the long strands of my hair that cascade down my shoulders, completely out of control after being utterly neglected for so long. “Aren’t you… I mean, don’t you have somewhere to be? I mean, somebody as chatty as you must be here with a bunch of friends, right?”
She flinches a little. It’s small but I notice it.
“No, not really. I have George, and I sort of have another friend called Leo. But… I moved to a new area recently and I don’t know many people.”
It’s hard to imagine that this charismatic woman could possibly be as lonely as me. She’s so easy to be around. There’s something about her that puts you at ease right away. “Well, with your people skills, I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before you have the entire neighbourhood eating out of the palm of your hand. Where have you moved to? Somewhere nearby?”
“Not too far.” She picks up her cup and takes a long sip, and something tells me she doesn’t want to talk about where she’s living.
I wonder why?
“Soooo,” I hedge, looking down at my super strong drink and watching the steam erupting from its surface as I warm my hands around the cup. “Close enough for cake dates, then?”
“Definitely.” Her face brightens immediately at the suggestion. “You’d like to have another then? Maybe even a lunch? Or we could go shopping? Ooooh, or maybe see a movie?”
My heart drops into my stomach like a stone at the simple, innocent mention of the movies. There’s only one cinema nearby—the tiny little two-screen place where you stick to the floor due to about a million years worth of popcorn landing on the seriously dated carpet. The popcorn machine was out of date in the sixties, and the less said about the heating system, the better. And yet, it was one of our favourite places. Ben took me there on our first date to see the very first Harry Potter film, complete with stale popcorn and a fun fumble in the back row while surrounded by children and their disapproving parents. After that day, we spent every Friday evening there, watching the latest releases, no matter how bad they were. It was just our thing—our place.
Since the accident, I haven’t been near it. I won’t even go down the street it’s on, no matter how far out of my way I have to go to get to wherever I’m going.
Dragging in a deep breath against the grief that threatens to drown me, I blink rapidly to clear my eyes before forcing a smile onto my face and meeting her excited gaze. “Coffee sounds good. Or food. I’m not much of a shopper.” My voice comes out choked, even to my own ears, but hopefully she’ll put it down to the insanely strong caffeine I’m drinking to stave off sleep tonight.
She looks at me like she knows exactly what I just remembered, and why it hurts so much to do so, then she smiles. “I would love to have lunch together, and if you’re not much of a shopper, how about a girls night in? Pyjamas, wine, chocolate?” she suggests, grinning at me.
Sighing with relief, I manage a genuine smile that feels alien to me after so long. “That sounds perfect.” I can’t help thinking how nice it would be to have a genuine friend—one who notices when I’m not there. It occurs to me to wonder whether Christina has even remembered why I’m not there. She’s done her friend duty and dragged me out of the house, and I’m sure the kilt guy has managed to completely steal her attention away by now so I don’t feel too guilty for leaving. I’m pretty sure that makes me a horrible person. She was only trying to help when she barged into my house this morning and physically hauled me from my bed, telling me I’d wallowed for long enough.
God, I miss my bed. I sprayed the pillows with Ben’s aftershave the moment his scent faded from the room, unable to sleep without being shrouded in memories of him.
“I don’t want to seem… nosy, but, what is it you’re going through? It’s just, you seem to drift off into a daze a lot, and it’s like you’re reliving something that’s slowly killing you from the inside. I… I’d really like to help you, if you’d let me try.”
I stare at her for a moment, trying to weigh her up. So many people have come and gone from my life since last February, some of whom just wanted a part of my tragedy, as though it was somehow glamourous to lose the love of your life; some I thought would always be there, but they ran at the first sign of any sort of weakness—and grief is a weakness. It tears me into shreds every single day, taking the best parts of me and destroying them, leaving me a broken shell. I look in the mirror now and I don’t recognise myself. No part of who I was with Ben stares back at me any more. The last thing I want to do is scare away this woman before our friendship has even begun.
“Sorry,” I murmur into my cup before taking a long sip. “I’m just a bit tired. I’m a teacher. This is a crazy time of year. My head is filled with crepe paper wings, glitter and tinsel. You know how it is.”
“Not exactly.” She smirks. “Not yet anyway, but I hope to one day.”
“You want to teach?” I question curiously. Teaching is the one thing I have left that sets my soul on fire.
“No, I don’t think so. I mean… it doesn’t matter.” She shuffles uncomfortably in her seat and avoids my eyes.
Clearly Imogen isn’t as open a book as I think she is. “Doesn’t… matter? How so?” I ask. It’s not like her to be evasive. At least I don’t think it is. I mean, how much do I really know about her?
“It’s a bit complicated, and I can’t really speak about it right now. But, one day? One day I’ll tell you all about it. I’m sorry I can’t right now, though. Is that okay?”
I smile, feeling compelled to reach out and take her hand where it’s sitting on the table. I squeeze it gently, enjoying the warmth of her skin against my cool hands. “Of course it is. You don’t have to tell me anything. We can just drink and enjoy being.”
“What are you doing tomorrow? Are you free to hang out?”
Leaving the house two days on the trot for something other than work… I don’t know how ready I am for that. I can already feel the ache in my chest that hits whenever I’m away from his scent for too long. There’s a part of me, I think, that still half expects him to poke his head around the study door at six o’clock every evening where I’ll inevitably be doing lesson prep, and ask what smells so good. I miss cooking for him. I’ve never had anybody appreciate my culinary efforts quite like he used to. He’d smack his lips with every bite and tell everybody he knew that my cooking was the reason he got down on one knee and popped the question.
“I, uh. I’m not sure. I think I might have a… thing.”
“A thing…” She looks at me for a little too long. “Like a ‘you don’t want to be out of the house again tomorrow’, thing? I can always come over. It’s Sunday. Sundays in December are for Christmas movies and comfort food. I can help with both, if you’d like?”
I blink and stare at her, getting the slightly uncomfortable feeling she can read my mind. How could she possibly know that? Is she some sort of Mystic Meg character or something? The last thing I need is somebody who can see past everything I’m trying to build. “How did you…? Who are you, Imogen?”
She rolls her eyes at me, smiling innocently. “That old banana again? I’m Imogen. You’re Molly. And I’ve been there, too, you know? Days where all I’ve wanted to do is stay in bed, ignore the world. But it doesn’t help. It doesn’t work, Molly. Whether we want it to or not, life is going to go on, and we either put on our best lipstick—and jeans that make our arses look fabulous—and make life our bitch, or it passes us by. Please, don’t get to the end of yours and regret all the things you didn’t do. Fight whatever it is that’s consuming you. I know… I mean, I’m guessing whoever is the cause wouldn’t want you to just… waste away.”
That’s not possible. I only just met this woman. She can’t possibly know all these things about me. Fear douses the hope
that had started to rear its head inside me, and my feet push me out of my chair with an urgency I don’t expect. “I… I have to go. I’m sorry.” My hands fumble for my belongings, all my fingers suddenly turning to thumbs as I try to grasp my bags and my coat, and stuff my head back into my hat. “This was… I have to go.”
“Molly!” Imogen gets up and is behind me in seconds. “Wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just mean… I understand. I lost… I lost my sister.”
I swallow and shuffle forward a few steps. “I’m sorry to hear that. But me… I’m fine. Just tired remember. I just need an early night.” I thumb over my shoulder as though my bed is right there behind me. I wish it were. I suddenly feel exhausted down to my bones, and all I want to do is collapse into his scent and float away on memories of us.
“Please, don’t leave like this. We were having a lovely coffee before I opened my big mouth. Forget I said it, please?”
“It’s not you. It’s me. All me. Always me. I’m sorry. I have to.” I push my way past the table, not stopping to rescue the salt shaker that topples over, spilling grains all over the wooden table top.
“Molly, hang on a minute.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, and scamper from the small coffee shop as though my tail is on fire, breathing in lungfuls of the biting cold air the moment it hits my cheeks.
Everything is just… too much. I feel like my body is exploding with sensory overload. All I’ve done for so long is work and spend time at home. I don’t go anywhere. I don’t speak to anybody much. My mum forces me to get up on the days she visits. Saying no to her is a little like trying to negotiate with a toddler. It’s just not worth the effort. And now, I’m in the middle of a cacophony of sounds, smells and sights, with Imogen’s words ringing in my ears along with the carols coming from a Salvation Army band who have set up beside the markets.
I need to get home. Now.
My legs stumble forward as I force them to keep moving. One foot in front of the other, carrying me away from everything that’s too much and towards the relative safety of my car. I hate driving. Since the accident, I prefer to walk for the most part, but I hate being driven even more. At least if I’m behind the wheel, I’m the one in control. So I was given a choice this morning. I drive or Christina. That was a no brainer. She still drives like a seventeen-year-old boy on drugs. There was no way I was getting into any sort of motorised vehicle with her. Not now. Not ever.
When I finally make it to my small Toyota, I take a moment behind the wheel to catch my breath. Musicians aren’t exactly noted for being physically fit, and I’m no different. My panicked dash for safety has left me winded and more than a little freaked out. I can feel the icy cold fingers of yet another panic attack creeping up on me, and I beat my fists against the steering wheel angrily.
I should be better by now. I should be fixed. Why can’t I fix myself? Why can’t I just move forward the way other people seem to be able to do?
I drive home far too fast, probably racking up a handful of speeding tickets on the way, but I don’t have it in me to care. All I care about is that moment when I can shut the door on the real world that insists on keeping going in spite of everything, and return to my cocoon where I can pretend that everything is normal. And when it comes, it’s just as blissful as I thought it would be. The front door slams home behind me and I sink to the floor with my back to it, my head rolling against the wood.
My heart slams against my ribs, trying to batter its way free as I try to regulate my breathing. As I always do when this happens, I picture Ben sitting beside me, his arm circling my shoulder and dragging me against his side. I can almost hear his voice crooning in my ear that it’s okay—that he’s here and he’s going to take care of me. He always took care of me.
“I don’t know how to do this without you,” I let out on a sob to the spectre of him. “Come back to me. Please.” My imaginary Ben says nothing. What can he say? He can’t give me the one thing I want more than anything in the world. Sometimes, I feel so angry with him for leaving me, and then the guilt churns in my stomach when I remember whose fault it is that he’s gone.
Silence shrouds me as the ghostly figure beside me fades away into nothing, leaving me alone. Always alone. My arms circle around my own waist, hugging my memories close as they sail through my head, too quickly to focus on any one for too long. It’s just a long reel of happiness. Even the arguments were special because they were with him. I’d give anything to fight over the last coffee pod with him first thing in the morning again, or to give him earache for leaving his dirty socks in the bed after kicking them off in the night. The things that once drove me mad now seem like precious moments that need to be cherished.
I stay put until exhaustion takes over every muscle in my body and the cold draught from under the door forces me to seek refuge in my bed where I wrap myself in the scent of him and drift, too wired from the coffee to sleep, but too lost in my own thoughts to be truly awake either.
I’m left standing there when Molly makes a run for it from the coffee shop.
Dammit!
I should have expected it. I should have thought before I opened my big mouth and put my small, yet seemingly large foot in it.
Everything was going so well. She had been warming to the idea of friendship, and I was feeling positive that actually I can do this. So of course, I had to go and ruin it. And instead of going back to George and telling him it all went well, that we’re going to have a girls afternoon in tomorrow, I’m going back dejected, and I’ll have to tell him all about how I royally suck at this, just like I knew I would.
As I walk up the driveway to the big house I now call home, I can’t help but remember the conversation I had with him a few weeks ago when I asked about how we become who we are and what happens when we get it wrong.
“So explain it to me again.” I frown, running my hand across my forehead.
“Okay…” George takes a deep breath. “We’re not the only angels in the universe. There are different kinds, and we don’t really meet them, but everyone who passes on goes somewhere. Leo told me that it takes a special kind of person to be granted access to this life. Not everyone is right for it, as you can probably imagine.”
“And do they ever let someone in and realise they’ve made a mistake?
He looks grim. “Yes, occasionally they do.”
“You’ve… seen it?” I whisper.
“Once.” He grows quiet, looking like he’s reliving something that affected him deeply.
“We don’t have to talk about it.”
“It was a couple of years ago. A new girl came in. She had been in an accident and had left behind a very young daughter and her husband.”
“Oh…”
“She was distraught. We all tried to help her settle, but it just wasn’t working. The Elders decided that perhaps the way to help her move forwards was to allow her to shadow another angel as she clearly wasn’t anywhere near ready to do it alone.”
I’m not sure why, but cold washes over me and I shudder.
“It was okay to begin with. It seemed to be helping her. She was finding some peace. Then—and we still don’t know how it happened—she managed to escape the one she was shadowing. By the time we tracked her down, she’d entered her old house and was cradling her little girl.”
I don’t know what to say so I don’t say anything.
“We had to remove her. She couldn’t come back here. The only good thing was that her husband didn’t see her.”
“How… Do you know how she is now?”
“I asked Leo. He said she’s happier—still deeply troubled, but happier. She doesn’t live here anymore. She’s with one of the other groups.”
“I can’t imagine. I think my life is tough, but to lose… I can’t even think about it.”
He sits forward and takes my hand. “Try not to compare. Grief comes in many shapes, many forms. It takes on life in the person who is left behind, but it takes hol
d of us, too. I’ll tell you what Leo told me. It’s not time that’s a healer, because there is no healer for some kinds of pain. It’s us. We only heal when we allow ourselves to, and even then it will always hurt. We just learn to manage the pain better. We heal ourselves.”
“I like Leo. He makes me feel calm. I could sit and listen to him talk all day long.”
He smiles. “I’ve spent many a night sitting and talking to him. He is the bravest, wisest person I know, and everyone can learn a lot from him.”
“How long has he been here?”
“I don’t know exactly, but his wisdom is not measured in the time he’s been here. It’s in who he is—how he is with other people.”
I squeeze his hand in mine. “I think yours is exactly same—your empathy, your kindness. Your wisdom is you, and if I haven’t told you, I’m so glad you’re my mentor. I’m so glad it’s you who is showing me my new life.”
He smiles a little shyly. “I’m glad, too.”
I push open the big red door and step inside.
The cold is diminished almost immediately by the heat in the foyer. The massive fireplace is lit, a roaring fire spitting and crackling in the grate. I remove my hat and scarf and turn to head in the direction of my room when footsteps echo along the corridor and George turns the corner.
Crap.
“You’re back.” He grins. “Want to come tell me how it went?”
I keep walking, determined to get to the safety of my room. “Not particularly.”
“What happened?” He frowns. “I left you when you were in the coffee shop, soon after Molly said yes to a girls’ night in.”
“Then you missed the disaster,” I call over my shoulder, speeding up my strides to get away from him.
He speeds up, too, and I know he’s right behind me.
“Imogen, can you stop for a second please?”
“I can’t. I need a shower.”
A hand reaches out, capturing my wrist and spinning me to look at him. “Please. Tell me what happened.”
