Lament

by Stewart, Lynsey M.

  ‘Religiously,’ he deadpanned.

  ‘I get it. You don’t believe.’

  ‘And you do?’

  ‘I lost my faith in God along the way,’ I replied.

  ‘Ah, the grief highway. Me too,’ he said. ‘Look up, Miss Bevan.’ He pointed towards a stained-glass window depicting heaven above us. Angels in the clouds, beams of light to the ground below. ‘I don’t believe heaven or hell are places people go to when you die. I’ve already experienced both. Heaven when my wife was with me, and hell when she died.’

  I shivered at his words, how profound they were. He’d spoken very little about his wife before. It was always an unwritten agreement that we just knew each other’s stories. We had Eli to thank for that. A girl who was besotted with the both of us.

  ‘A few days after the accident, my grandma said it’s not death you should fear. It’s being left behind.’

  ‘She’s an insightful woman,’ he replied, shuffling on the hard seat. ‘My wife would hate me being here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She knew it was all a lie.’

  ‘What would she say if she could see you now?’

  He laughed lightly like he’d lost himself for a moment, forgetting that she wouldn’t be there to tell him the words herself when he returned home. ‘She’d say don’t die before you’re dead.’

  ‘My mum would say death is destiny.’

  ‘At the right time,’ he replied, glancing towards me. ‘How old was your sister when she died?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘How was that her destiny?’ he asked, holding out his hands. ‘How was it my wife’s destiny to die from cancer at twenty-nine, two years after becoming a mother?’

  ‘I have no answers,’ I replied, biting my lip to stop the shake. His eyes followed my mouth before he closed them tightly. ‘Grief can bury you and burn you. Suddenly it’s like you’re looking at the world through dark glasses. It pulls you down with the tide. That feeling. I’m sure it’s why so many choose to walk into the water to end the pain.’

  ‘Did you think about it?’ he asked. ‘Ending it all?’

  ‘At the time. I don’t like to admit it now.’ I glanced at him. ‘Did you?’

  ‘No. I have plenty to live for. My daughter. My music.’ He cleared his throat. ‘There were times I didn’t want to live.’ My heart twisted. He put his hand over mine briefly, the one that had been curled over the hard lines of the pew, like he was trying to shield me from the shocking nature of his words. ‘Wanting to and having no other option are two different things,’ he said.

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘You have a peace about you,’ he said. ‘A serenity that makes you appear older than your years.’

  ‘It comes from pain. Trauma.’

  ‘Isn’t it terrible that the parts considered good come from something that’s hideous?’ he replied, pushing up his glasses.

  ‘What is it that people say? Time is a great healer,’ I said, arching my brow.

  ‘Don’t let anyone tell you that. It doesn’t heal. It just makes it more tolerable to live with.’

  ‘There’s another one. What is it?’ I put my finger to my lip, focused my eyes on the bronze cross. ‘Grief is the final act of love.’

  ‘That’s utter bullshit.’ He looked at me like I was a disease. The worst form. The one that killed his wife.

  ‘Grief isn’t the final act of love. Love is.’ I tilted my head in thought and he took the cue to explain further. ‘Do you still love your mum and sister?’

  ‘Always,’ I whispered.

  ‘Then isn’t your love more final than grief?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, letting his words sink in.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I don’t even know if I believe it myself,’ he said. ‘What does death really mean? Shall we break it down? It strikes fear in people’s hearts. Terror into souls. Understanding death means understanding life and do you know anyone who boasts of doing that?’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘Why do we question what death is? It means a loved one leaves you. Simple. Death for that person is a release. For the person left, it’s a life sentence. Living but not existing. Transcending into something that’s shallow, hollow. Life goes on.’ He turned to me fully, holding onto the pew. Anchoring him. ‘That’s the worst thing. Knowing the world carries on and she won’t touch lives like she touched mine. Death invades. Death is the end of a journey you didn’t choose to go on in the first place. Death is vacuous. Death is fear. Death has tainted my daughter’s life. I fear death. I fear leaving her. I’m all she has left, so I come here to pray to a God out of fear, but the grim truth is that the God I pray to is the God that took my wife away. That robbed my daughter of her mother. That stripped her of normality. But here I sit. Praying that death is the journey to the afterlife and I’ll be with her again. How fucking ridiculous is that?’

  I placed my hand on his shoulder on pure instinct. Alexander was shaking. He leant into me, our foreheads touching, his body radiating anger. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, pulling back before pushing his glasses to the top of his head and wiping his tears with his fingers. ‘We creatives can be beautifully intense.’

  I laughed at that, closing my eyes as I took a deep breath. ‘Don’t apologise to me. Never apologise. I understand more than you’ll ever know.’

  ‘You always seem so calm and balanced.’

  ‘I don’t sit on my anger.’ I smiled. ‘I let it out through dance.’

  His eyes widened but still they didn’t find mine. I knew he wanted to speak but there was reservation there, probably because of his heated speech that finally let his true feelings filter through the words.

  ‘What brought you to the Barbican that night?’ he asked.

  ‘Music,’ I replied with an arched brow. He looked offended that I’d tried to make a joke, using sarcasm to hide behind my truth. ‘I know Jackson Rayne, the violinist.’

  ‘He’s a great player,’ he replied, glancing up. His eyes were the deepest chocolate. Raw and dark. ‘How do you…know him?’

  ‘He’s a friend. He played in the orchestra for a musical I was in a few years ago.’

  He let out a breath that sounded like relief before returning his gaze. ‘The critics said my playing was too raw that night.’

  ‘That’s what I loved about it,’ I gasped. After hearing Alexander play, I looked up clips of his performances on the internet. There was no doubt that he was a great cellist before his loss, but now? His playing was raw and real and haunted. ‘You played out your pain. It was so meaningful.’ It was like he was bleeding through the strings. ‘I’ve heard you from years ago, and there’s a difference. A definite difference.’

  ‘It wasn’t a conscious decision to change how I played,’ he replied. ‘Grief isn’t a conscious decision. I planned on being Lisa’s husband for the rest of my life.’

  ‘And I always thought I’d die before my younger sister. That was my plan. The right order. But life doesn’t always work out that way. It’s lopsided and wonky. Cruel and beautiful.’ I took a breath, suddenly dazed and exhausted from our conversation.

  ‘Miss Bevan, we’ve set the world to rights this afternoon,’ he said, a smile tugging at his lips. Finally. A smile that I’d prompted, that I’d influenced, and it felt wonderful.

  ‘Stop calling me Miss Bevan.’ I shook my head as I laughed. ‘I’m Nat,’ I said, holding out my hand like it was the first time we’d met. And it was. The first time we’d truly met.

  ‘You have a really beautiful name,’ he replied, his hand blanketing mine, a snap of electricity ran through us, but not harsh enough to make us break away. ‘Who named you?’ he asked, looking at our joined hands. ‘Your mother or father?’

  ‘As my father couldn’t get away fast enough, it was Mum.’

  ‘He left?’

  I nodded, adding a shrug. ‘He was sixteen. His parents moved out of the village when they found out. Didn’t want me to be a noose around his neck.’ />
  ‘What about your sister’s father?’

  ‘He was a friend of my mother’s. They weren’t really in a relationship. She wanted another child and he was happy to oblige.’ I shrugged.

  ‘Do you keep in touch?’

  ‘Occasionally. Christmas. Birthdays.’

  ‘I couldn’t imagine leaving Elise,’ he replied. A soft stroke of his thumb across my hand created a deep shiver down my spine.

  ‘That’s the way a father should feel.’

  ‘Some people go through their whole lives waiting to meet their hero. I was part of creating mine. She’s coped so well,’ he replied, eyes cast down almost like he didn’t want me to catch his softness, but I’d already melted into the pew. ‘Do you know why I brought her to On Pointe?’

  ‘The stellar reputation of the dance teachers?’

  He flicked his eyes to mine but let my sarcasm pass. ‘She said I was the meanest daddy in the world, and quite frankly, I couldn’t cope with that.’

  ‘You’re soft underneath it all.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ he replied, looking around dramatically before his mouth fell into a small smirk.

  ‘I need to give you something,’ I said, reaching into the pocket of my coat where I’d pushed the twenty-pound note he’d given me after he was late collecting Eli the other evening. I handed it to him. ‘I can’t keep this. You pay for classes, not my time.’

  ‘Keep it,’ he protested.

  ‘Stop being offensive,’ I laughed, pushing it back to him. ‘I don’t want your money.’

  Alexander walked over to the altar, his trench coat stretched across the expanse of his shoulders. Years of playing the cello had created unmistakable definition to his physique. He left the note underneath the bronze cross, tapping it once before he walked back to me. ‘That way, both our consciences are clear.’

  I smiled warmly. ‘There is one thing I will gladly let you do to make up for all the times you’ve been late.’

  He narrowed his mouth but nodded at the same time. ‘Anything for you, Miss Bevan.’

  ‘Nat. Please.’ I ignored the fluttering in my stomach – averted my eyes from his, which had only started the flutter – and carried on. ‘I’d like to involve Elise in the dance competition. I think it would be good for her.’

  ‘Is she ready?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you if she isn’t.’ The truth was, I had no idea. Eli had only just started classes, but there was something there. Something that held your interest and made you want to watch her.

  ‘I trust you,’ he said. ‘I know you’ll protect her. Care for her.’

  I smiled, knowing exactly what he meant.

  I understood him more after today.

  He’d shut off the more difficult emotions, creating the hard wall around himself to protect everything that was important to him.

  His daughter.

  His wife’s memory.

  His music.

  His heart.

  12

  Nat

  On Pointe had completely taken over my life, but in a good way. Yes, I was tired and achy, my feet were bandaged and blistered but my soul was the healthiest it had ever been. I woke up with a purpose. A new-found appreciation for the hours of the day and how I could fill them. The pressure of auditions, late working hours, empty days and eating the right amount of protein had faded away. It wasn’t until I was able to look back that I finally understood how miserable it had been making me.

  Classes were busier than ever. We were staying behind late into the evening to choreograph routines for the dance competition. During quieter times of the day we were dropping leaflets into letterboxes, detailing the new dance classes available. I was even debating taking on more staff to accommodate the demand.

  I hadn’t had time to think straight. I hadn’t had time to return to the Grieving Tree.

  In all honesty, I’d forgotten about the letter I posted to the Grief Fairy. But as I stretched out my body and opened my bedroom curtains it was as if I was taken away by the light of the sweet summer morning. My eyes followed the bright strips pushing themselves through the trees, directing me there, telling me to go.

  I dressed quickly, pulling on some yoga trousers and a slouchy T-shirt that said not today on the front. I’d worn it to rehearsals the day after an audition to give colleagues and friends a clue not to ask me how it had gone.

  ‘Grandma, I’m taking Rex for a walk,’ I said as I poked my head round the door to find her watching an old black-and-white movie. Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire were dancing cheek to cheek.

  ‘Righto,’ she replied, not removing her gaze from the screen.

  ‘Good morning, Rexy. Walk?’ I asked, holding up his lead and expecting him to give me a take pity on me look. To my surprise he stood up, walked over to me and allowed me to slip his lead over his head. ‘That’s the spirit.’

  The sky was bright blue, clouds for days, but the good kind. The big, bold and fluffy kind. The ones Bec would lie back and stare at, declaring that she could see the shapes of dogs and lions. I could picture her, see her smiling face as I nodded in sarcasm and we broke out into tickle fights. And I smiled at the memory. I didn’t break. I didn’t push it aside. I welcomed it and it felt good.

  Tree branches snapped underneath my feet. I pushed branches out of our way and listened to the sounds of the wood pigeons echoing around the forest. The sounds soon brought me to the Grieving Tree. I took the steps a jump at a time, wrapped my arms around myself and stared as I saw a red piece of ribbon tied to the handle on the fairy door.

  My letter.

  Climbing the steps, I stood back, allowing the door to open fully. Four letters were pinned to the inside of the tree trunk, each with a name.

  Sarah. Craig. Poppy. Nat.

  I touched each one, pulled out the pin from my letter and held the envelope in my hands. I felt oddly nervous. But why? Was it the nerves of not knowing who was behind the letters? That a stranger had read my words? Or was I anxious that I wouldn’t receive an answer to my questions about who was behind the Grieving Tree?

  I sat down on the steps and slipped my finger under the envelope to open it. The paper was lined, a picture of the Grieving Tree was faded into the background. A little red fox was poking out from the side of the paper. The writing was bold and cursive, a black pen had been used to write the reply I was too nervous to read. Rex rested his head on my lap, nudging the envelope to the ground.

  Dear Nat,

  I’m so sorry that you lost your mum and sister. That must have been hard for you. You’ve had to cope with the loss of two people so very close to you. It’s wonderful to know that writing to me would have been something that would have helped you. That’s why I’m here. You asked what my motivation is and the only answer I have is to help the children who grieve. It can be easier for them to write down their feelings rather than talk to loved ones who are grieving too. Grief is complicated and messy. It touches the lives of so many in hundreds of different ways. We need to help children make sense of it. Adults aren’t always good at knowing the right things to say. As the Grief Fairy, I like to think I can simplify things. Writing something like this:

  Grief is like trying to paint a sunset when all you have is black paint.

  It creates an image. A way for children to instantly relate.

  I cannot answer all of your questions, but I hope you understand that I’m only here to help.

  From

  The Grief Fairy

  ‘Mummy, she’s been!’ I looked up to find a little boy running towards me, sheer elation on his face. I folded the letter over and pushed it into my pocket. I barely had time to get up from the steps when the boy pushed past me and pulled his letter from the pin with a rip. Craig.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ his mummy said. ‘Craig, you mustn’t push past this lady.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said, waving my hand. ‘I felt the same way when I saw the fairy had been.’

  ‘Did you write to her t
oo?’ Craig asked.

  ‘Yes. I got my reply,’ I said, patting my pocket as I smiled. He ran over to a tree stump and perched himself there, tearing it open and devouring the contents.

  ‘He lost his hamster a few weeks ago,’ his mum said. ‘I was a bit dubious about allowing him to do this at first. A hamster is hardly a huge loss.’

  ‘Not to him,’ I replied.

  She glanced at me. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Has writing to the fairy helped?’

  ‘You can see for yourself.’ She turned to him and Craig responded with a wave and a big smile.

  ‘I’m glad it’s helping.’ I took Rex’s lead. ‘Nice to meet you, Craig.’ He didn’t answer, still lost in the words.

  The Grief Fairy hadn’t answered my questions, but rather than feeling frustrated that I still didn’t know who was behind the Grieving Tree, it left me instead with a huge sense of peace. Whoever was behind this was doing it because they had a good heart. It came from a place of care and love, whether they’d experienced the pain of grief themselves or because they genuinely wanted to help others find their way through it.

  Grief is like trying to paint a sunset when all you have is black paint.

  How stunningly simple. Beautifully uncomplicated. Just enough for a child to understand so perfectly.

  Taking my notepad out of my bag, I started writing a letter. I told the Grief Fairy more of my story. The night of the accident, how life changed in an instant. The power of loss and how it burrowed into my skin. I bled out my guilt onto the paper, the insecurities, the potent need to leave the village with all its ghosts and familiarities that threatened to choke me.

  All it takes is one thing to trigger a memory. A sound. A smell. I’ve learnt to cope with it, now. The night of the accident, my sister still had a faint pulse. I followed behind the ambulance in a police car. A voice came through the radio: She’s gone. I’d driven with Mum on that road a million times before. It was just a road. Obsolete. I’d never thought about it before. Now, it pains me to drive past the spot where it was confirmed that she was dead. It’s tainted. My mind will always return to that moment. Like a photograph. An imprint. But I’ve reached the stage where I don’t cry now. Does that mean I’ve fought and conquered grief?