The Day I lost You

by Fionnuala Kearney

  I stop talking, not sure why I’m rambling about Sean’s belief in the afterlife.

  ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.’ Max suddenly seems nervous, pulling on his shirtsleeve every few seconds.

  ‘You don’t need a reason. You’re a friend of Anna’s.’

  ‘I’ve always thought you must have a million questions, about that day.’

  ‘Did you see what happened?’ I watch as his Adam’s apple reacts to my question.

  ‘Yes.’ He pulls himself together. ‘A group of us were sitting across the valley, looking through the binoculars to see if we could spot them. They had gone up top, all of them off-piste.’

  ‘Go on,’ I urge him. He’s looking at me as if he’s not sure I’m ready to hear. He’s probably right but I press him anyway.

  ‘We heard it first. We hadn’t heard the boom, that sound you hear when it’s a controlled one. When the snow came, it was as if the whole of the mountaintop just slid downwards.’

  I feel an ache in my chest that seems to have started in the centre of my heart and is sending gripping, clawing pains outwards. My hand automatically rests there. Pug is circling my left foot, looking up at me. She whimpers softly.

  ‘I was watching her ski,’ Max continues. ‘She was a great skier, beautiful to watch. That day she was dressed in an all-in-one red suit.’

  The one I bought for her last Christmas. I searched high and low, contacted every ski store in the land until I found the one she’d circled in a magazine. On Christmas morning, she had whooped with the delight of a two-year-old getting their first doll. That was our last Christmas together, the three of us. We—

  ‘One minute I could see her, then snow, so much of it, and I saw her go. She tried to out-ski it, but I saw her disappear …’

  His eyes fill quietly and immediately I envy him. I envy him the ability to cry when I’m left with this constant, searing pain in my heart. He wipes the tears away with his sleeve, looks across the room at me. I avoid his eyes and, afraid that he will judge me some sort of cruel, unfeeling woman, tell him, ‘I haven’t been able to cry. Not since … Not at all. It’s bizarre really, I could cry at Bambi beforehand and now, now …’ I stand. ‘It’s like my tear ducts are permanently blocked.’

  ‘I can’t stop,’ he says. ‘I was the one who asked her to come on that holiday with us.’

  ‘You feel guilty.’

  He nods aggressively.

  I want to tell him that he should, that it’s not my job to assuage his guilt, and that if he had kept his mouth shut that Anna would still be here with me and Rose. Instead, I tap his shoulder reassuringly as I walk across the room to the fridge. I imagine Anna trying to out-ski it. She would have tried. She would have tried hard because my daughter would have wanted to live. Every sinew in her body would have stretched to the max. I pour a large vodka from a bottle, hold it up in his direction. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten my manners. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ He shakes his head, angles it. ‘Is that her phone?’

  I sit down, place my drink on the table beside me. ‘Yes, it is. The police had it, they’ve just sent it to Anna’s father. I can’t help feeling it has been sitting in some evidence locker, ignored all this time. I actually thought she had it on her.’ My voice drifts.

  ‘I gave it to them,’ he says. ‘She’d asked me to look after it while she skied.’ He shrugs awkwardly. ‘After the accident, I gave it to them, knew they’d be trying to ping it to try and …’ He’s struggling to find a way to say ‘locate her’.

  I pick it up again and it’s moments before I realize I’m pressing the diamanté phone cover, my fingertips forced against the ridges, leaving red, circular marks. Her phone. I’ve phoned it, left so many messages for her. I’ve made sure her account remains open, just in case somewhere, on some parallel plane, it might be possible for her to hear my voice, to know she’s loved and missed.

  ‘Why?’ I ask him suddenly.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Why did she give you her phone?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just before she left, she literally tossed it through the air at me, said, “Look after that for me, will you?” Then she was gone. The signal was dire out on the slopes.’

  I’m unable to reply. I try to quell the pointed feeling I can sense in my jaw at the word ‘gone’.

  ‘She was always on it, constantly thumbing away. I assumed it was texting all the time. I mean, some of it was, but she told me shortly before the accident that she just used it to think into.’

  I swallow some alcohol, feel the burn, then say, ‘I’m not sure what you mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure either; it’s just what she said.’ He shrugs, hesitates a moment. ‘You know, I think one of the reasons I came here is to tell you that she was happy. On the trip? She’d been a little distracted just beforehand, probably just work stuff, but as soon as we got there, she told me it was as if the mountain air had cleared her head. She was happy.’

  ‘She was?’

  ‘Yes. The snow was great. On that last day, the fresh fall of powder had us all excited.’ He hesitates. ‘The group weren’t supposed to leave for another thirty minutes and had they waited … I’d injured my foot the day before; the hire boots, they were biting. I didn’t go with them that morning.’

  ‘Anna’s a fresh-powder fiend. She’d have been itching to get going.’

  He nods and I can tell from his expression he’s probably regretting the visit. What to say to the mother of the woman you possibly had feelings for; who left to go skiing with friends and never returned while you rested your leg nearby. And had she just left at the allotted time, not got overexcited by fresh-powder fall, they’d probably all be in the pub next to the office, mulling over their shared Dropbox of photos, downing beers. What to say? I can’t help him.

  He stands. ‘I should probably go. I’m glad you’ve got the phone. There’ll be pictures.’

  I look at my glass, just one mouthful gone. ‘I’ll drop you at the station.’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Please. Stay. I don’t want to put you out. Here, take this.’ He presses a business card into my hand, one with a handwritten personal email address. ‘If there’s ever anything you want to ask, I don’t know, anything … just call?’

  Outside, I can hear the wind has risen. From the front room, the chimney hoots an owl-like sound. The rain, which had trickled twenty minutes earlier, now slaps against the kitchen window.

  I crumple the card into my pocket. ‘I’ll drop you at the station. It’s starting to blow a gale out there.’

  He doesn’t argue. Before I leave, I plug Anna’s phone in to charge.

  ‘Stay, Pug. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  Pug trails behind us and I can hear her cry through the closed front door.

  Vodka has a way of sliding down the throat. It’s like a pleasant burning sensation as it flames its way to my hungry gut. I have waited for the phone to half-charge before entering the four-digit code that I know will open it. Incorrect PIN. I try her birthday, my birthday – all incorrect. I frown at it, baffled, sure that it had always been Rose’s birthday.

  I’m almost ready to throw it in temper when there’s another ring at the front door which makes me jump. Pug jerks in her sleep but doesn’t wake and I automatically look at my watch – 9:08. It’s late. I pad through the hall, as quietly as possible, and peer through the peephole, then open it so quickly that I almost hit myself in the face.

  ‘Nanny!’ she cries and leaps into my arms.

  Sean has no choice but to let go of her hand.

  ‘What? Hello, gorgeous girl!’ I hug her so tight, I feel and hear her gasp.

  Sean remains on the porch. ‘She wanted to come home,’ he says simply.

  Rose jumps down, takes my hand and is looking back to her father. ‘Come in, Daddy. Nanny will make you a cup of tea.’

  He bends down, opens his arms for a hug. ‘No, love, I won’t stay. We talked about this,
remember? I explained that if you came home I still had to go back. Your grandma and granddad are waiting for me.’

  She nods, releases my hand and goes to hug him. ‘Okay,’ she says.

  I tell her to bring her rucksack up to her room and she obliges, practically skipping up the stairs as Sean slides her small suitcase over the threshold.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask, when I think she’s out of earshot.

  ‘She just never settled.’ He shrugs. ‘As soon as she got there, she was crying to come back. She was crying for Anna, crying for … home.’

  I sigh. I have never told her Anna is dead because as far as I’m concerned she’s not. I have just nodded along with her father-inspired talk of angels.

  ‘And I guess she thinks of this as her home,’ he says.

  I bristle. ‘This is her home, Sean. She has lived here all her life, almost all of it here with her mother.’

  ‘And you,’ he says, and I can’t help but think I hear a trace of resentment.

  ‘And me.’

  ‘Now’s not the time,’ he seems to hold his breath for a moment, ‘but we do need to talk about ongoing arrangements.’

  My blood freezes. ‘Arrangements?’

  ‘As I said, now’s not the time.’ His breath hits the cold air outside in vapours.

  I glance up the stairs. ‘Now’s perfect, Sean.’

  ‘I’m not happy with Rose living here full time.’ His hands are parked in both of his low-slung pockets. I immediately think back to Anna’s accident and how I leaned on him a lot more than usual for childcare. He, in turn, leaned on his parents.

  Pulling the door closed between him and the stairs, I leave a gap wide enough to see and speak through. Somehow the best words that can come out seem to find themselves spoken. ‘Rose seems to be quite happy. Isn’t that what matters? In the circumstances.’

  ‘She does. I see that, but I’m her father and I need to do what’s best for her in the long run.’

  I have only met his mother once. A small, rotund woman who likes to eat cream éclairs is the physical image I remember. I also remember him parroting every word she said when we were together that one afternoon. I question now: are these his words or hers?

  ‘I see,’ I say. But I don’t. Rose is coming downstairs behind me, jumping on each step as if to make her presence known.

  ‘We’ll talk when I get home,’ Sean says. ‘I’m heading back there tomorrow, want to try and get the rest of the holiday with Mum and Dad.’

  I open the door wider again so that Rose can hug him goodbye and I’m reminded of the night of the news. Doug here on the same doorstep. The moment I heard about the accident, the primal reaction I had. Having said goodbye, Rose disappears into the kitchen and I stare at Sean, aware of the gushing sound of that fight-or-flight adrenalin in my veins once more.

  ‘Rose-lives-here-with-me.’ The words are punctuated, staccato.

  ‘Na-na!’ Rose runs into the hall, Pug jumping around her legs excitedly. ‘We got a dog!’

  ‘We have, darling. Why don’t you take her into the kitchen to play?’

  ‘Jess,’ Sean says from my doorway. ‘Anna’s been gone almost three months. I’m moving to Blackpool in June and I’m taking Rose with me.’

  His parents live in Lytham St Annes. I picture the scene. Grandma Éclair, a woman Anna couldn’t stand, taking over from Nanny Jess. Memories of long-gone rows I had with Anna about the father of her child surface. I am, I fear, about to be punished for never really liking him.

  ‘Over my dead body.’ I hiss the words and shut the door. With my back against the panels, I see Rose standing there, looking at me, her eyes wide and frozen in her tiny face. I hold out my arms and she runs into them. Silently, I promise her I will never let her go. Never.

  11. Anna

  Raw Honey Blogspot 13/06/2013

  Earlier today I was stopped in the street and asked if I’d take part in a television interview where they were wondering what it’s like to live and date in London. I told them, sure, I’m happy to be asked what it’s like to live and date in London.

  So, with no prep whatsoever, this gorgeous young interviewer called Faye waved a big mic at me and said, ‘So, here we have X, who we’ve just met. X, tell us, what’s it like living and dating in London?’

  So I did. I told her. I told her and her viewing public that it’s shit. That it’s impossible to meet someone in London. I’m a young, healthy, heterosexual woman and any man I’m ever interested in is either gay, living with someone, deeply involved with someone or married. There are no single worthy men. I’ve tried dating the allegedly worthy younger men and, trust me, they’re only interested in a quick fuck or they’re dull. And older men are gay or married.

  After she laughed nervously, she asked me if I’m interested in meeting a life-mate going forward and if I’d consider online dating?

  So, with no prep whatsoever, I laughed in Faye’s face and told her that I’d already tried online dating, which just confirmed for me that any interesting men are gay or married. Take Marcus, for example, I told her. We dated a few times before I found out he was already hitched. To be fair he did tell me, but, as I said, only after we went out a few times, so I said ‘Goodbye Marcus’. Then Leo. Leo was definitely not sure which way he bent and I told him I’d rather not be an experiment, thanks very much. Or of course, I told the lovely Faye, there’s always Tinder. I asked her if she’s tried the swiping phenomenon. Tinder, I told her, has the most expressive text language. There’s no foreplay; someone might just say, ‘You know you want to – just tug on my bone’, or how about ‘Wanna sit on my face?’, my most recent offering. I deliberately look into camera, tell them that dating in today’s world, and let’s not blame London, is a hoot. Great fun.

  Faye finished up gaping at me like a salmon struggling upstream. Her cameraman, thankfully, had stopped filming way before I stopped talking.

  Then I told her that monogamy is an outdated idea anyway.

  When I got to work I cried like a baby.

  It’s been over for a very long time now and still, I miss Him. I try to avoid seeing Him at all costs because it’s HARD. It is really hard.

  Here are the things I just miss:

  His feather touch.

  His voice. (He can’t sing but He has the loveliest speaking voice.)

  The sex. (With Him, He only has to touch me and I almost come. He’s ruined me for any other man. No one comes close. Forgive the pun, dear readers … )

  His jokes. (They’re awful; so old school, but they make me laugh.)

  Those lazy bed days. (There were never enough, but when we managed to snatch one together, usually in a small hotel on the river near Marlow – well, neither of us ever wanted to leave.)

  His calls. (He would call me most days; fill me in on his day, ask me about mine.)

  His hugs.

  His kiss.

  And the things I don’t miss:

  The fact that I could never just ‘be’ with Him in public.

  The fact that He has a lovely wife.

  The fact that I had to lie to people I love.

  The fact that we could probably never be together. Not really. Not in a ‘Hey, babe, I’m home, I’ve had a tough day, let’s just cuddle up on our sofa?’ kind of way. We could never have that.

  And, see, that’s really what I want.

  Comment: Hieroglyphic 24

  What a load of tosh! I’m single, living in London, heterosexual and interesting. Want my number?

  Reply: Honey-girl

  Hmm. No. You’re all right.

  Comment: Anonymous

  He’s married?

  Reply: Honey-girl

  Afraid so …

  12. Theo

  ‘Charles Everard is insisting on seeing you. He’s refused to let the carers in and won’t accept anybody else. Will you have time to slip by and see him after morning surgery?’ Sarah, Theo’s PA, spoke through his open door and above the sounds of the busy waiting room opposi
te.

  Theo looked at his watch, just as his mobile phone rang, his home number showing up on the display. He nodded agreement at Sarah, gestured to her to close the door behind her and answered his phone.

  ‘Bea, everything okay?’ It was, he realized, the first time she had ever called him, and coming so soon after his discussion with Finn, his heart was in his mouth.

  ‘Everything good, Theo. You wish I do shop for you?’ Bea’s English, though certainly better than his Spanish, sometimes left him feeling like he was playing charades.

  ‘Food,’ she continued. ‘You wish I get big food?’

  She was offering to do the weekly food shop. He rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb and sighed. The cupboards were indeed bare. He just didn’t seem to have the time to do everything he always did and add in the things Harriet used to do too. Everything food-related had been her domain. Since she had left, quick meals had been the order of the day, except on those rare occasions when he’d had time to buy fresh food, in which case Bea would always cook.

  Her doing the food shopping made perfect sense. She had use of the car, the one Harriet hadn’t taken to London with her. Why not? Promising that he would drop some money off to her at lunchtime, he hung up the phone, trying not to think about how even buying food looked different since Harriet left.

  Thirty minutes later he was driving to seventy-year-old Charles Everard’s house. Once a well-known artist, the man had lost his wife to cancer nine months earlier. Since then, he had been depressed, telling Theo that the light had gone out in his life. A recurring, chronic leg ulcer meant he had also been housebound for weeks, which didn’t help.

  After the third knock on the door, Mr Everard answered. ‘Thanks for coming, Doc,’ he said, allowing Theo to pass by him along a narrow hallway lined with stacks of old magazines.

  ‘Bad day, Charles?’ he asked.

  ‘All bad days,’ his patient muttered in between bouts of spluttering.