by K. A. Hobbs
I smile softly, leaning in to his side. He’s still warm from the bed and smells of fabric softener and his spicy cologne. The selfish part of me wants to beg him to cry off work and stay here with me. There are so many better ways to spend a Sunday during the summer holidays than in accident and emergency. But, this is the downside of dating a superhero. Some days, he has to go and save the world.
“You’ll be home later?” I ask hopefully, earning myself an affectionate nod and peck on the end of my nose before he heads up for a shower.
The day drags by interminably slowly with nothing to do. I drink my bodyweight in coffee before cleaning the house from top to bottom, a task I’ve been promising myself I’d get around to since school broke up for summer two weeks ago.
I pause for a moment over the piano, my fingers caressing the smooth wood and itching to dance over the keys below. The house is so quiet and there’s nobody to hear, so I pull out the stool and slide into place in front of it, feeling that old sensation of rightness coursing through me, almost relieved that it hasn’t passed with time.
Despite the lid being closed for so long, the keys are dusty under my fingers as I tap a few of them, hearing the pure tone ringing out around the silent room. A thousand memories flood back through me of happy times spent behind an instrument, playing all sorts, sometimes alone, sometimes with Ben or other friends. Accompanying children singing old favourites like Away in A Manger and Little Donkey over and over again at Christmas. Each memory holds a lifetime of emotions, the years rolling back, but instead of bringing me to my knees with grief, they make me smile. I still occasionally cry for what I’ve lost, but more often now, I smile at the thought of what I had and even more so what I have now.
Before I know it, my fingers are dancing over the keys while Libby trots over to snuggle at my feet, promptly falling asleep. I play old favourites and even explore new melodies borne of my more recent experiences. Everybody has their own theme—Imogen, George, Sebastian… even my mum. Because all of my life, that’s how I’ve expressed myself when words have failed me.
I put my fingers to the keys and my soul bleeds out through the music.
I sit there for what may be hours. I don’t even notice the passage of time. After rediscovering my old therapy, I let it all out through the music as the sun crosses the sky and eventually disappears over the horizon, leaving the room in semi darkness. The dark doesn’t faze me, though. It simply changes the melody a little until my fingers are numb and my eyes are squinting for a rest.
Satisfied, I push back from the instrument, earning myself a disgruntled growl from Libby who struts off to curl back up on the couch. As I walk from the piano, I silently vow to never neglect it for so long again. With the little caffeine monster in my throat calling to me for sustenance, I head to the kitchen, stopping short in the doorway.
Something is different, something I can’t quite put my finger on. It feels… warmer somehow—filled—as though I’m not alone.
“Seb?” I call out cautiously, reaching for the nearest implement and finding myself armed with a spatula.
Only silence answers me—silence and the heavy thudding of my heart.
“Seb? This isn’t funny. Are you messing with me again?”
I take a few steps forward, my eyes spinning all over in search of the company I’m so certain I have, but the room is empty. It’s just me. Me and…
On the counter that I know I cleaned and tidied earlier is a brown package tied with a dark red ribbon. Frowning, I look over my shoulder once more before cautiously plucking it from the surface and inspecting it more closely. The ribbon is securing a long, elegant white feather to the package, which almost conceals my name written in a small, neat hand.
More than a little freaked out by how it got here, I stare at it for a long time, my eyes blurring from the lack of blinking until curiosity gets the better of me.
Carefully, I peel back the ribbon, laying the feather to one side before tearing through the paper. I’m no closer to understanding when a stunning pale blue leather journal appears, accompanied by an envelope of the same colour.
My eyes sting when I catch a tiny whiff of an all too familiar perfume, homesickness for my best friend invading my thoughts for a moment before I force myself to focus.
Flicking through the journal, I find nothing inside. No inscription or writing of any kind. Just blank pages waiting to be filled. Slicing into the envelope, I sink onto one of the counter stools, pulling free a long letter written in the same handwriting. Scanning over the first few lines, I find my fingers covering my lips as an audible gasp leaves me in a rush. It’s from Imogen. I’m sure it is.
I’ve tried to write this letter so many times over the last two days, but each time I try—for once, and I think you’ll find this amusing—the words just won’t come. It pains me more than I can express that this is how I have to tell you, but where I come from, there are rules. And they have to be followed. So here goes…
I’m an angel. It’s not a joke. I actually am. All those times you joked about it, all those times you said things that made me believe you already knew on some level, you were right.
Everything I told you is true. I was a ballerina, I did live in London and I do have a sister called Olivia. I did get a new job, which took me away from my family, but it wasn’t one I applied for, or even wanted to have. I didn’t have a choice, but you know what? In a sad, strange, heartbreakingly beautiful way, I’m glad I am what I am. Because if I hadn’t been, what would have happened to you?
When I was told I had my first charge, I was terrified. How could I help someone so strangled by grief when I was choking myself? But then I met you, and I realised you were exactly what I needed. You challenged me and pushed me out of my comfort zone. You showed me that life was hard whoever and wherever you are.
It’s been the most humbling and beautiful experience helping you to find happiness again. You’re like a phoenix being reborn from the ashes. You chose to fight even though you didn’t realise you did. I am so fiercely proud of you—so honoured you were my first.
The heartbreaking thing, and the reason I’ve struggled to find the words to explain is… I can’t see you anymore, or more specifically, you can’t see me. You see, angels of my kind, we’re called Protectors of Light, and there are so many different kinds who get sent to earth to help those who are in the worst place they could be for whatever reason. Our job is to guide you to the light and remind you how good life can be. We help you become whole again and when that final piece of you clicks into place, you’re no longer be able to see us. You’ll no longer be able to see me.
That moment happened yesterday at the beach. I hadn’t left. I was standing right there beside you when you looked for me, only you couldn’t see me anymore.
Don’t panic. Don’t be scared. This is how it was always supposed to be. You have Seb now. He’s been the most beautiful life change for you. I know he’ll make you laugh, kiss away your tears and then drag you to bed and make you growl with delight. He’s your angel, too, but one you get to keep. Treasure him. Adore him. And let him do the same to you. You deserve to be worshiped like a Goddess because you are.
When an angel officially passes over, we get our wings. It’s a very special moment and I’ve waited for what seems like a long time for mine. But they came. The white feather I left you is from those very wings, my wings, the wings you helped me to earn.
Keep it safe, keep it with you and I’ll always be able to find you. I’ll always be able to see where you are, wherever life takes you. The book? It’s to keep in touch. Tell me about what you’re doing, where you’ve been and what you’re scared of. Don’t be afraid to share the bad and the good, and know I’m always with you, watching over you and soothing you as much as I can. And if you find you’re struggling, I’ll be able to guide you, even if you can’t see me.
I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye properly. It came as a surprise to me that you found your last piece when you
did. I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to lose you yet. Please know it wasn’t my choice, and if I could, I’d stay with you forever. I wish I could have told you everything in person. Life is cruel—you know that only too well—but maybe it’s for the best. No matter how much I tell myself a few more days and I’d have been ready, the truth is, I never would have. I’d never have been ready to leave you.
Your mission from me is to live. Live life to the full, do things that scare you, play music loudly and eat those cookies you love, and don’t always share them with Seb. Don’t let your past carry you away too often, but don’t be afraid to remember either. Remembering is a gift, but living is a bigger one.
It’s been an honour to guide you. And one I will never forget. You were my first, and I’ll always remember you.
I truly wish life could be different, that we could share many years together, but one day, when you’ve lived your life, one filled with love and laughter, I’ll see you again. I know I will. You’ll be a different person then, and I will be, too. Don’t be in a rush to get here. When your time comes, I want you to be ready. Walk into your new life with a smile and open, sure arms. I’ll be there to greet you.
Thank you for being the best friend a girl could ask for, for teaching me who I am and showing me what others see when they look at me. Thank you for welcoming me into your life and not only accepting my faults but encouraging them like they’re not faults at all. Thank you for showing me what true love feels like, and how it comes in many different forms. When anyone asks, I’ll always tell them I have two sisters on Earth—you and Olivia—and that I was blessed to have you both.
Love always,
Immy x
By the time I’ve finished reading, silent tears are streaming down my cheeks, falling steadily and dripping onto the page, obscuring the words that make up Imogen’s final goodbye.
My scrambled brain struggles to make any sort of sense of the words as I read and re-read the letter over and over. Part of me wishes it was another of Imogen’s practical jokes, but I know even she couldn’t be this creative, and she’d never, ever be that cruel.
The house suddenly feels emptier and colder than it ever has before, despite the heatwave still raging outside and scorching the earth. Shivering, I wrap my arms around my middle, my hands smoothing over the goosebumps that have risen on my skin.
Imogen… gone.
I can never see her again.
How can that be?
None of this makes any sense. How can I be sitting here in the middle of my normal, Cornish cottage, in my normal kitchen, surrounded by my normal life and be contemplating the existence of angels? I mean, there was always a tiny inkling in my brain convinced that my best friend was somehow sent to me by a higher power to drag me up by my bootstraps when the world and my life within it became too much.
I must have read the letter a good dozen times by the time I hear the clicking of a key in a lock followed by familiar stomping footsteps in the hall. My breath catches as I wait for his usual greeting.
“Where are my best girls?” he calls out to the excited percussion of scampering paws on the wooden floor. I can practically picture the wriggling, tail-wagging reunion without being able to see it. It’s the same every day. Our new routine. Our life together. The life that Immy has quite clearly instructed me to live.
My eyes scan those words that have caught my eye with every re-read:
“Don’t let your past carry you away too often, but don’t be afraid to remember either. Remembering is a gift, but living is a bigger one.”
Life is my gift. The gift that has been denied to so many taken too soon. Warmth flushes through my chest as I clutch the letter close to my heart and look up to the sky, offering a teary smile to my best friend and hoping she can somehow see it. I have no idea how I’m going to do any of this without her. The thought of moving forwards in this perfect new life without her by my side is almost crippling, but nonetheless, I take the first step forwards without her, followed by the second and the third, each one quicker as they pull me towards the man who somehow went from the one who stole my future from me to the one who gave it back and filled it with promise.
My body crashes against his with a small sob. Strong arms catch me easily, the way they always do, and they hold me close, his pleasure in seeing me infusing me with the confidence that in spite of everything, it’s all going to be okay.
Sixteen months later…
The air is crisp and cold, my nose tingling as my gloved hand tugs on Seb’s as he laughs and indulges me, following along with my harebrained determination.
Lights twinkle against the wooden huts as somewhere nearby the Salvation Army band fills the air with the sounds of Christmas. My other hand drags the pointless pushchair along behind me, the wheels scraping over the cobbles and bouncing all over the place because my daughter has her daddy wrapped neatly around her little finger. She’s cuddled cheerfully against Seb’s hip, her sweet curls bouncing as he teases her. Her tiny high-pitched giggle floats on the air, mingling with all the sounds of happiness around us, and I can’t help but join in.
“Come on, slow coach,” I urge, laughing as I pull harder on the hand not protecting our child.
“Remind me again why it just had to be this market on this day,” Seb questions with a long suffering chuckle. He’s used to my random ideas by now, and the way I am determined to infuse Imogen into our everyday lives, as much for her namesake as for me.
When my daughter was born and they told us we had a girl, there was never a single moment’s hesitation over her name. We both looked at each other and then down at the tiny bundle in my arms that we’d suddenly become responsible for, and said in unison, “Hello, Imogen.”
She is our entire world now, and I am obstinately determined that she will grow up knowing all about the woman who brought her mummy back to life and gave her her name.
So here we are, finally in the very spot where Immy and I first clapped eyes on one another. It’s hard for me to imagine now the despair that I felt back then, the black hole I’d fallen into, my hands clawing at the edges to find the light but unable to get any sort of grip until a hand shot out through the darkness, grabbed hold of mine and refused to let go.
She brought me to this place—this life I have now, contented, with a family I love with my whole heart—and she will always, always be a part of that family, no matter how far away she might be. I know she is always by my side. You don’t always have to see friends to know that they’re there at your back, holding you up and urging you forward.
Taking my daughter from her father’s arms, I hold her close, dropping a delicate kiss against her curls, so much like her daddy’s. She is a beautiful amalgamation of all the best of both of us.
Stroking her hair as she rests her cheek against my chest, I look around, my eyes taking in the space around us as memories surround me like a blanket. I smile and drop my lips to my daughter’s ear and whisper, “Once upon a time…”
Once the story of my time with Imogen has been told, we all explore the markets, spending ridiculous money on tacky decorations to make the house sparkle in honour of my best friend. I want Imogen’s first Christmas to be perfect, and Seb indulges me in my overspending and over decorating, that smile of his following me as I show our child everything before heading off in the direction of the only coffee shop I’ll ever visit in Truro.
Warm light spills from the wide windows and takes me back to another Christmas, very different to this one—the one I just told my little girl all about, with Miserable Molly and the angel who saved her.
With little Immy fussing in my arms and my handbag dropping from my shoulder, I just want to get inside and get the biggest coffee on the planet down my neck, so I sigh in irritation when Seb’s hand shoots out and stops mine midway through my grab for the handle.
“Moll, look,” he says gently, a small smile curling his lips as he tilts his head in the direction of the door handle.
There, tied to the metal with a dark red bow, is a large, perfectly formed white feather, just like the one she left with the journal I write for her every single night before bed.
“I knew it,” I whisper, reaching out to free the feather from it’s prison and breathing in that oh so familiar scent. “I knew she’d be here somehow.”
I know I won’t see her, but I stupidly glance around anyway, my body filling up with peace at knowing that while she might not be in my view anymore, she’ll always be by my side.
And then, with my family by my side and the feather in my hand, I walk inside, safe in the knowledge that she knows I’m doing as she said. I’ll never forget the ones I’ve lost, but I’ll never again allow it to stop me from seeking a future bright with love, light and happiness.
THE END
They say it takes a village, but in my case, it’s usually more like an entire planet to get me organized. Co-authoring has been the most fun, and there are so many people I want to thank for helping Team Hobbinson along the way.
To my amazing co-author and friend, Kerri—There are no words. From the moment you swung into my life, you’ve made me smile every single day. You’ve saved me from myself so many times and kept me smiling when all I wanted to do was cry. And then, one day, we cracked a joke about writing a book together, and now look at us. Writing this book with you has been the most incredible journey, and I can’t thank you enough for your endless patience when the real world dragged me away from our imaginary one, when the cursor sat flicking to itself for ages while I searched my murky mind for the right words, and for keeping me on task when I wanted to nap instead of writing. For every eye roll at my lack of organization, there was a whole world of support. You are the Queen Hermit, the Buzz to my Woody, the Imogen to my Molly, and I love the bones of you. Here’s to the next in the series!
