Milkshakes and Heartbreaks at the Starlight Diner

by Helen Cox

  You’ve probably had quite enough of me by now so I’m going to sign off but before I do I want to make this clear: I’m still very deeply in love with you. I can’t explain it. You’d probably tell me I didn’t know you well enough to feel this way but I don’t really care about reason right now. All I care about is that you understand how much I love you. Even now. When you’re all those miles away, hating me. I love you. You are more beautiful than you will ever understand. I hoped to spend my life trying to help you understand but I suppose I’ll have to settle for just telling you like this. After all you’ve been through you deserve happiness. Please, don’t deny yourself that any longer. Nothing you’ve done changes the kind of woman you are. So good at heart. So vulnerable and sensitive and tender. Imperfect? Yes. But who wants perfect? Not me. I want you. And all that goes with that.

  I love you. And I always, always will.

  Jack

  I folded up the paper. Rested my palms flat on top of it. I hadn’t noticed whilst I was reading but all the while, stealthy tears had been sneaking down my cheeks. Scrunching my eyes shut, I tried to steady my breathing.

  He thought I hated him? If only it was that easy. If only I could hate him. I would be so much more powerful. Love had made me weak. And not for the first time in my life. Love had made me cower and cry and run. Wasn’t that always the problem? At first, I’d convinced myself I was running away from Mr and Mrs Delaney. And then I’d claimed to be running away from Jack. Boyle. Humiliation. But none of that was true. It was all just pretend. I was running from myself. The dark parts of myself that I hated. And I was so surprised it hadn’t worked. Stupid, stupid girl. You can’t outrun your own shadow. It follows you everywhere.

  ‘Esther?’ Mum made a little, rabbity knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’ I sighed and dried my eyes on the back of my sleeve.

  ‘Oh love, are you alright?’ She walked over and put an arm round me. I shook my head, slow and stiff, unable to feel anything except the burn of the tears down my face. I handed her the letter which she accepted with a cautious hand. A few minutes of silence followed as she read. She didn’t cry but I could hear her breathing falter at Jack’s words. At the end she heaved out a sigh, and folded up the paper. She put it back down on the desk and pressed her lips together in a manner that always meant trouble for me.

  ‘Esther, I’m going to say something and you’re probably not going to like it.’

  Yep, there it was.

  ‘Great,’ I said, putting my head in my hands. Couldn’t she give me a break, just this once?

  ‘I wouldn’t normally interfere…’ She trailed off as I made a point of clearing my throat and shaking my head. ‘Well, you need me to interfere a lot of the time. But, just listen, alright?’ I nodded but kept my eyes down on the desk. Down on his letter. ‘Well, it’s difficult to say this so I’m just going to say it.’ She looked at me square on. ‘It’s time to stop shutting people out.’ Mum said this as though I should automatically know what she was talking about.

  ‘Er…OK? I know the last few years have been tough but I wasn’t aware I’d been doing that long-term.’

  ‘I know you’re not aware of it. But I’ve watched you do it for a long time now.’ She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear on each side.

  ‘Have you?’ There was a sting to my tone that even I wasn’t expecting.

  ‘You know, I understand the guilt you’ve felt over Michael. I felt the same when your Dad died.’ Without warning, her chin started to wobble.

  ‘I don’t think… Dad died of heart disease. That wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘Facts don’t stop the guilt though, do they? The guilt that your little girl will grow up without a father.’

  ‘Oh, Mum.’ I put both my hands on hers and blinked back more tears. Dad’s death had been a shock to both of us, but I’d never suspected she felt guilt over it.

  ‘I thought you coped really well after your father’s death but honestly? Looking back now I’m not sure.’ Her green eyes met with mine and I saw something I’d not seen in them for a long time: regret.

  ‘What do you mean? He’s been gone most of my life. I mean, I wish he was here, of course I do. No daughter wants to grow up without a father but you adapt. When you have no choice.’

  ‘But love, you’ve adapted by closing off –’ she sighed ‘– from any meaningful relationship.’

  ‘I think that’s a bit strong. I did get married.’

  ‘Not to someone you were truly in love with.’

  ‘When I married Michael I thought I did love him, otherwise I wouldn’t have married him,’ I argued, crossing my arms.

  ‘Oh, Esther, please, be honest with yourself. I saw you with Jack and you were a different woman. Even in the beginning, before Michael turned the way he did, you never loved him that way.’ Her jaw got tighter. ‘I knew that when you married him.’

  ‘You knew? How?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘Mother’s instinct? But I knew you’d married somebody you’d never fully surrender your heart to.’

  ‘Well, if you thought that, why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Oh, and you’d have listened, I suppose?’ She cocked her head to one side.

  ‘Alright. Fair point.’

  ‘And then when Michael did…what he did, you could have reached out but you didn’t. You cut us all out. And when the accident happened your first instinct was to close off. From me and Ryan and all the people who cared for you. And again in New York after what happened with Jack’s wife. And I’m worried, Esther. That now you’re going to lose someone you’re in love with because you’re shutting down instead of opening up.’

  I glared at her. Every inch of me wanted to scream that what she was saying wasn’t true. That it was just bad luck. An unfortunate chain of events and that I’d had no choice but to get some space from what was happening. But I knew. I knew what she was saying was right. I didn’t get to control what happened to me in this life. Only how I responded to it. And I’d shut down a long time ago, without even realising it.

  I couldn’t speak. I just opened my arms so Mum could embrace me. Which she did, pushing my head against her stomach.

  ‘I know you don’t want to get hurt again,’ she said whilst I cried into the cotton of her blue floral dress. ‘But, that’s life. We love people and sometimes we get hurt. Hiding from it forever won’t make you happier.’

  ‘But he’s already betrayed me,’ I said to her solar plexus.

  ‘You deceived him too, Esther. Told lies,’ came her words from above. ‘But he’s willing to forgive that, it seems to me.’

  ‘Forgiveness,’ I said, still talking to her stomach instead of her head. There was only one person I knew who was an expert on that topic.

  I had to go back to the beginning.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  It was late afternoon at St Botolph’s Church in East Finchley. Inside the churchyard, a pale sun dappled through the yew trees and they shuddered in the brash, September breeze. The gust had a faint smell of autumn about it … of damp pinecones and dead leaves. Taking in a deep breath, I pushed the black iron gate and it let out a rusty moan, my stomach churned at its raw lament. I hadn’t been here since Michael’s funeral. It was late November then and we’d huddled around my husband’s grave in thick winter coats and scarves, tears searing down our cheeks, listening to Reverend Quinn speaking about God’s will.

  I remember wanting to scream at him, and everyone else present, that there was nothing godly about this situation. That the hand of God hadn’t had me by the throat for seven years. It hadn’t been His hand on the steering wheel. Nor His foot ramming hard on the accelerator. Only Mum, Ryan and I knew it but no greater force than Michael’s terrible dedication to jealousy and cruelty brought us to his graveside that day.

  St Botolph’s was a modest church constructed of white brickwork. Its square bell tower stood just proud of the looming oak that’d been planted beside the gate. Oth
erwise, its thatched roof hung low for such a lofty building. It was timid and unassuming. Much as I had been nine years ago when I’d entered the chapel as a bride. Walking in the footsteps of that misguided young woman, I heard again the rustle of ivory lace. Looking down at the daffodils I’d brought along, cut from Mum’s flowerbed, they mutated into a small bouquet of blue forget-me-nots. My pre-wedding fluster returned. At the time I’d put that nervous twinge down to excitement but after everything I had to wonder: could I have known, deep down, that Michael was dangerous? That he would be the death of me? Or, at least, of the girl I once was.

  Stood at the south porch entrance, the bridal chorus rang in my ears. But that’s not what I’d heard the last time I walked through this door. Then, it was the funeral march. I’d come to bury him and, at the time, I thought that would make such a difference. That the throb and the guilt and the self-disgust would be buried with him. But he rose again. As did the spectre of his wife. No matter how far I ran.

  I couldn’t run anymore.

  Pressing down the handle, I opened the door. Methodical rows of short, stubby candles burned their prayers just beyond the threshold and, once inside, I was overcome by the scent of hot wax and burning dust. The nave was empty. I took a deep breath and began walking towards the altar. Just as I had the day I married him. All those friends and family, dressed in their finery, watched me take those final steps as Esther Knight. The last glimpse of her before I morphed into someone else.

  Did any of them know what kind of man Michael was?

  Some of his friends must have at least had an idea. If so, they never dropped so much as a subtle hint. And even if they had, I wouldn’t have listened. I was about to marry Michael. He wanted only me. And we were going to be happy. Well, I was half-right.

  Placing the daffodils on the seat next to me, I sat in the pew nearest the altar and stared at the space where Michael and I had stood when we made our vows.

  ‘Till death do us part,’ I said, and let out a bitter laugh.

  ‘Esther?’ said a voice with a rough, gravelly note. I started and turned.

  ‘Reverend Quinn.’ I sighed. He stood just a few paces away in his black robes and collar, his six-foot frame bent crooked by all the years of darting between the positions of kneeling and standing. His hair was even greyer than when I saw him last. It was now more in sympathy with his eyes which were pale and, more often than not, cloudy.

  ‘Heard you were back from America,’ he said. I frowned at him. ‘Your mother told me.’

  ‘Who didn’t she tell?’ I said, shaking my head.

  The reverend didn’t respond but instead closed the gap between us, moved the daffodils a little further along the seat and sat next to me, looking forward as I now was.

  ‘Pleased to see you again,’ he said. ‘Didn’t expect to.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m sorry, about last time. I didn’t mean to insult your faith.’ I winced. He nodded and smiled, which was more than I deserved. ‘I was angry.’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled a warmer smile. ‘I gleaned that much. But it’s forgotten.’

  ‘How do you do that?’ I asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forget. So easily. And, while I’m asking, how do you forgive?’ For the first time since the conversation began I looked straight into his eyes. His face was overcast, shadowed by deep thoughts.

  ‘Who are you trying to forgive?’ He smiled again when he saw my lips pout to one side, sensing my irritation at having one question answered with another.

  ‘Somebody I love,’ I said, thinking about Jack. ‘Somebody I hate. Well, two people in fact. Michael, and myself.’ I lowered my head again. What would a vicar think about the hating of dead people? Was that something you could do and still good-deed your way back to heaven?

  ‘Your father was a good man, Esther,’ said the reverend.

  My head jerked back in confusion. That was a little tangential, even for him. Perhaps the penalty for insulting a priest was humouring their subsequent, random rambles.

  ‘I was raised by a man who spent most of his life peering into the bottom of rum bottles,’ he continued. ‘Wasn’t so bad if he drank himself into oblivion. Worst that would happen is he’d belt us the next morning over some trivial matter. Perhaps his breakfast was cold. Perhaps we didn’t fetch his pipe quick enough. Whatever excuse he could find and sometimes he didn’t even bother finding one.’

  ‘God. I mean, er. Good grief. I’m so sorry, that’s just awful.’ I shuffled in my seat, knowing too well what it is to fear somebody you can’t escape.

  ‘Those were the good nights.’ Quinn’s face grew darker still. ‘But if he was conscious after the drink … well, we all hid. Under our beds, in cupboards. Once we even spent a night out in the shed. With us out of the picture he’d start with our mother. He’d punch her, and that was just the warm-up. You don’t need to know the rest but there are many things a young boy shouldn’t hear.’ He paused then, waiting for me to look at him again. ‘I’ll never forget my mother’s screams. No child that ever hears that sound does. And we – three boys – did nothing but sit and listen.’ The reverend paused again, allowing those last sentences to fester in the musty air.

  I had tears in my eyes but no words. The first time Michael turned on me, I’d screamed. Just like the reverend’s mother. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow he knew that. My hands began to jitter in my lap, the fingers on my right hand working over that little indentation on my ring finger. ‘Of course, my father was a lot of things but he wasn’t stupid. Even under the influence, more often than not he found us, hiding in some nook of the house, shaking.’ At this the reverend rolled up the sleeve on the arm nearest me. All along the skin was pebble-dashed with the most horrific burns I’d ever seen. The whole arm, red … still enraged over some brutal indignity from years ago. The flesh rose in white ridges and in places was eaten away.

  I covered my mouth with my hands and didn’t even try to fight my tears. Quinn’s dad had burnt him with the fire poker. Not just once. Not just twice. But, by the look of his arms, every time he emptied a rum bottle. ‘When something like this happens to you,’ he continued, in spite of my reaction, ‘you don’t believe it’s happening for the first minute. You’re certain it’s going to stop. That maybe it’s not really happening to you. Maybe it’s happening to somebody else, and you’re just a witness. But then the world starts to blur. Goes black around the edges. And all you can see is your tormentor. And you understand, nobody’s coming to help you.’ We sat in silence whilst I dried tears on the back of my sleeve. More tears fell in their place.

  ‘What happened?’ I managed to ask through my sobs. ‘With your father?’

  ‘Drank himself to death, as you’d expect. I never stood up to him before he died and neither did my brothers. And have I forgotten what he did?’ Quinn shook his arm. ‘Well, how could I? Forgetting was never an option. But it happened. I’ve accepted that. What he did. And that’s a lot harder than forgetting.’ It was then I realised the reverend was answering my original question. I’d been so caught up in his words I’d forgotten I’d even asked him anything. ‘I can’t change that it happened. Or that I did nothing to stop it. I made a choice out of a fear. A very human thing to do.’

  I shook my head. ‘You were just a kid.’

  ‘I was older than you before my father died. Still didn’t stop him. Still didn’t know how and not sure I’d know now if I could do it over.’ He turned to face me. ‘There are days I’d like to forget what he did. But it did happen. And I did the only thing I knew how to do. Just like anyone else would.’ He looked hard at me.

  I pressed my lips together and nodded. ‘So, I’m sensing you think I should forget about forgetting.’

  Quinn smiled.

  I let out a short laugh of relief through my tears. We may have had our differences but I couldn’t fault his sense of humour. Or his good heart. ‘But what about forgiving? Could you forgive him? After everything?’ I wasn’t sure if I
’d get a direct answer on this one. Quinn had been generous to open up to me like this considering the content of our last conversation and it wasn’t a fair question. In fact, it was the worst question. But I had to ask.

  ‘Do I forgive my father? Yes. But not because I feel he deserves it. That’s not my call to make anyway, though I know you might take issue with that statement.’

  I, again, conjured a thin smile.

  ‘I forgave my father because the truth is, what he did made me who I am. Made me compassionate. Made me charitable. Made me strong. And to judge him at his worst means I’ve got to be willing to be judged in the same way. You’ve got to ask yourself, Esther. When you’re no longer here do you want to be judged only by your worst moments?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, I do not.’

  ‘And should you judge yourself by your worst moments?’ Quinn pushed his point.

  ‘I…’ I frowned, focusing on the shrivelled leaves that’d been dragged in from the churchyard underfoot, rather than on Quinn’s question.

  ‘Esther.’

  I put a hand to my forehead and started holding my breath. My face pulsed as my body strained for oxygen. Quinn took my spare hand in his. I looked down at his arm, still bared, the burns skittering up his skin. I shook my head, unwilling to cooperate.

  ‘Forgive yourself,’ he said.

  I was getting redder. Would I die of shame?

  ‘You must forgive yourself.’

  Again, I shook my head.

  ‘You deserve forgiveness,’ Quinn tried one last time.

  Unable to hold my breath any longer, I opened my mouth and inhaled. As soon as there was air in my lungs, tears, hot with fear, burned down my face.

  ‘I can’t,’ I cried. ‘I’m weak. I’m so weak.’