Lament

by Stewart, Lynsey M.

  ‘Early copies have gone out to your selected bookstores,’ Nadia replied. ‘Canterbary Books have started the display in their window.’

  ‘Already?’ I asked, my head snapping up.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, Alexander. The book releases next week.’

  ‘Jesus, I didn’t realise it would happen so quickly.’ I dug my fingers into my forehead and leant over the desk. The reality that the book would be hitting the shelves very soon started to crouch down on my shoulders. I hadn’t planned for this, pushed it to the side with force, but I knew I was running out of time.

  ‘I should have been more prepared. There are people who need to know.’

  ‘People?’ she asked, sitting on the edge of my desk. I noticed a shake through her fingers. ‘Who are you talking about specifically?’

  I flashed a look, unwilling to talk further because it fucking stung. ‘It’s…personal.’ I could have sworn I heard her sigh in frustration.

  ‘You don’t give me enough credit, Alexander. I know you better than anyone.’ That wasn’t fucking true, but I wasn’t in the mood for an argument. She slammed her hand down on my desk, forcing me to look at her before smiling. I cocked my head, unable to understand what mood she was settling on tonight. ‘I also know your secrets.’

  ‘Secrets?’

  ‘Nat knows.’

  I looked up in shock to find Nadia meeting my eyes with a steely glare, her arms folded in defense.

  I studied her for a second, unable to work out what she was saying. What did she know? Did Nadia know about Nat and me?

  ‘Nat knows what?’ I asked, taking the coward’s way out by pretending I didn’t have the first idea of what she was talking about.

  ‘She saw the display in Canterbary Books,’ she replied.

  Shit.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I know she’s been writing to…the Grief Fairy,’ she said, making air quotes. ‘It was only a matter of time before it all started to make sense to her.’

  ‘Does she know who it is?’

  I’m not ready for this.

  ‘I told her.’

  ‘What the fuck, Nadia? What is wrong with you?’

  ‘She’d already guessed,’ she replied. ‘And yes.’ She tipped her head. ‘It would have been nice to know from you that you’re in a relationship.’ I looked up at Nadia who was trying to hold my gaze, determined and sarcastic in her remarks. She failed and dropped her eyes to the floor.

  ‘We’re friends.’

  ‘No, you’re not. I know when you’re lying,’ she replied, narrowing her eyes. ‘Unlike Nat.’

  ‘What?’ I couldn’t make sense of why she was acting this way. ‘What have you said to her?’

  ‘Nothing she didn’t already know.’

  I got up from my desk and started patting my pockets for my car keys, lifting papers, opening drawers.

  Where are my keys?

  ‘Why didn’t you let me explain everything to her?’

  ‘The moment seemed right,’ she said coldly.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked, confused at her demeanor and at the words leaving her mouth. ‘I need to go and see her. Talk it out…explain.’

  Where the fuck are my keys?

  ‘Damage control? I wouldn’t bother if I were you,’ she replied, arms still crossed.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She said to tell you that whatever’s been going on between you is over.’

  ‘She wouldn’t say that,’ I said, stopping in my tracks.

  ‘She feels betrayed.’ She started shaking her head, a few tuts escaped her lips. ‘All those letters, Alex. She thought you knew her so well but all the time you were getting to know everything about her, all her deepest secrets – from her very own handwriting.’

  ‘Christ.’ I threaded my hands through my hair, knowing that Nadia was right and feeling sick that it was finally out in the open.

  ‘You’ve betrayed her. Like you’ve betrayed my sister.’ She came closer to me, put her hand on my chest. ‘Like you’ve betrayed me.’

  ‘What?’ I stepped back, needing to get further away from the hatred dripping across her face.

  ‘You don’t have a clue, do you?’ she mumbled. ‘All this time I’ve been waiting.’

  ‘What have you done, Nadia?’

  She laughed, barking a bitter noise.

  ‘Oh, so this is my fault?’

  ‘I don’t understand you!’

  ‘You will,’ she replied with a shrug. ‘Go to her and see.’ She pulled my car keys from her pocket. ‘Then, you’ll come running back to me.’

  ‘Running back to you? Jesus!’ I backed away from her, shaking my head. She was talking in riddles, not making sense. I didn’t have time to try to work out what the hell was going on.

  ‘Maggie?’ I shouted, taking my keys, walking past Nadia in a panic, my only focus on getting to Nat as quickly as possible. Maggie appeared from the kitchen, tentative and slow. ‘Can you stay with Eli? Nadia’s just leaving.’

  Maggie motioned with her hand to come closer. ‘Nat was here, Alex,’ she said, dropping her voice.

  ‘When?’

  ‘About an hour ago.’

  ‘Why didn’t you let me know?’

  ‘Nadia said she’d look after her.’ Maggie looked behind me, her eyes widening.

  ‘Learn to keep your nose out of our fucking business, Maggie,’ Nadia said as she stormed past.

  ‘She was upset, Alex.’

  ‘Maggie, isn’t there something you should be doing?’ Nadia shouted from the kitchen.

  ‘Go to her,’ Maggie whispered, stopping suddenly as Nadia reappeared. She motioned please with her mouth, took my hand in hers.

  ‘Nadia, I want you to leave,’ I said as I watched her fill a glass with water. Strangely calm. Eerily composed. She put the glass down and smiled.

  ‘I’ll be expecting your call later,’ she said, picking up her bag from the sofa before making her way down the stairs. I screwed up my eyes in confusion as I heard her slam the door behind her.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked Maggie. She nodded. ‘I’ll be back later. Make sure Eli’s settled for me.’

  I ran down the stairs and opened the front door. It was early evening and the summer light was full and vivacious. Nadia’s car skidded through the gravel and sped down the driveway. She pipped her horn twice and threw her hand out of the window in a nonchalant wave.

  What was wrong with her?

  I took my phone out of my pocket and called Nat’s number. Waited. Waited some more. When she didn’t answer I got in the car and drove to the bottom of the driveway, calling her number again. Still no answer. Shit. I continued the pattern, a constant stream of wishing she’d pick up and shouting out in frustration when she didn’t, until I pulled up outside her cottage.

  ‘Come on, Nat,’ I said through my teeth as I walked to the front door, my phone held under my chin. Just as I was about to knock, it swung open quickly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Alex, but Nat doesn’t want to see you right now.’ Nat’s grandmother leant against the doorframe with her hip, offering me a weak smile.

  ‘Is she here?’ She nodded as I shouted up the stairs, ‘Nat!’

  ‘It’s no good. She won’t come down.’

  ‘Nat! Please! Let me explain.’ Rex, Nat’s dog who I’d met at the Grieving Tree, snuck his nose from the side of the door and let out a bark. I bent down and scratched his neck. ‘Will you get her for me? Bark three times. Tell her I’m here to make things right,’ I said as Rex nudged his head against my knee.

  Nat’s grandmother sighed deeply. ‘Why didn’t you just tell her?’ Her face expressed all the hurt and disappointment that I’m sure mirrored Nat’s.

  ‘I need to explain that to her.’

  ‘Too late.’ She shrugged.

  I shouted up again as Nat’s grandmother went to close the door. ‘Nat! I’ll be at the Grieving Tree. Meet me there. I won’t leave until you come. I’ll be there all fucking n
ight if I have to!’

  ‘Don’t do anything silly,’ she said. ‘Don’t want you being eaten by foxes.’ She smiled softly and I took that as my cue. Putting my hand against the door to stop her closing it, sticking my foot out to stop the slam.

  ‘Will you talk to her? I just need one chance.’ She sighed. ‘Please. I’m happy to stay here and plead.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ she replied, looking behind her. ‘Leave it with me.’

  Walking back to my car I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. A message from Nat, my heart sped up.

  Nat: Leave me alone.

  And then it crashed back down again.

  29

  Alex

  I sat down on the steps of the Grieving Tree and checked my phone for the tenth time since leaving Nat’s cottage. I’d returned her devastating text message by asking her to meet me here, but I wasn’t holding out much hope. I looked around at the bright red postbox. The fox that Lisa had been inspired to write about in remembrance of a little girl called May, the daughter of a family friend who passed away far too young, a year before Lisa, and was obsessed with Fantastic Mr Fox by Roald Dahl.

  I studied the fairy door, the chimney that Lisa had described to me in detail. All the small elements she had stressed were important and should be part of the illustrations when we finally released the book after her death. I wondered what she would have thought about this elaborate way of promoting her words.

  When she was first given her bleak diagnosis, she started writing the book the same evening. There were times I would sit with her, bounce ideas and type for her as she spoke, her hands too numb from chemotherapy to touch the keys of her laptop. She didn’t finish it before she died, other writing commitments and a deep need to spend as much time with Eli took first place. Until her time ran out.

  I vowed that I would finish it, touched her face as she cried, telling me that this book was for Eli, to try to ease the pain of losing her mum at the age of two. I promised her, I swore.

  The night before she died, she handed me an envelope with instructions not to open it until we were ready to release the book. I kept it in her drawer, the one that held her most intimate items, lingerie, Eli’s first scribbles, her baby hospital bracelet and handwritten letters from her father after he returned home to Jamaica.

  Making the decision to publish the book hadn’t been easy. I held off for so long, unable to face it. Grief-stricken and angry, I decided the book should remain a secret. The whole purpose of the book was to help Eli and other children after the death of a parent. Why should I allow the luxury of helping others when I was drowning in loss, unable to reach the surface without being pulled down again? A single father unable to talk to his daughter about her mother because it was raw, and I was too selfish. The pain too much to bear. Had I destroyed Eli’s character? Would I contribute to screwing her up even more than the magnitude of her loss?

  Questions.

  Circling.

  Speeding through.

  Unable to stop.

  Until I couldn’t hold them back anymore.

  I failed to keep my promise that I wouldn’t open the envelope until we were ready to publish. Instead, I opened it the night Eli asked why the children in her nursery class all had mummies that collected them at the end of the day but hers didn’t. I told her that I didn’t know. I strapped her into her car seat and broke down silently as I climbed into the driver’s seat and drove us home. She sang Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star the whole way as I lost my breath and sank further into despair. I couldn’t talk. I was unable to explain it to her. The words didn’t form to make sense to me, let alone her. That night, I put her to bed, switched on her nightlight and crept out of the room like I always did. But instead of writing or playing music as a distraction to the loneliness when the house was finally still – I took out the envelope and read what Lisa had written to me before she died.

  Alex. My darling,

  I know you’re holding onto the book. I know you’re struggling. I understand the need to throw yourself into your work, but is that healthy? For you or Eli? This book is designed to help you talk openly about me. To keep my memory alive for a child whose memories will fade the more years that pass without me. Tell her the story. Don’t let another Eli lose her voice.

  You know my dedications were always left to the last minute. Well, this was definitely the last minute…

  Please include them in the book.

  ‘To my darling Eli, I hope you find your voice, sweet girl.’

  ‘AB. My love. I leave this life content in knowing that I was loved with every beat of your heart. Flourish, my darling. Love again with a passion.’

  Love always,

  Lisa

  I spent the rest of the night in a blurry mess of bourbon and tears. I read the book, finished it, remembering her words and the vision she had for her character, Eli. The little girl who lost her voice because the adults around her, her father, her grandparents, aunts and uncles were all too sad to talk to her about the loss of her mother. I found the folders on Lisa’s laptop that contained images and quotes that had inspired the Grieving Tree. The fairy door. The postbox. The notes that included Lisa’s wish for our Eli to be allowed to talk openly, the descriptions about Eli in the story who found the Grief Fairy in the woods and descriptions of how it helped her to make sense of her feelings of loss.

  I studied the images, memorised the book line for line. I wrote Lisa’s dedication to Eli in the notes app on my phone and read it every day for the next week. The idea of a real-life Grief Fairy to allow Eli to express herself became bigger. The blanket of a persona that could allow me to know her thoughts and respond to them as someone else – someone who was emotionally removed – was hugely appealing at a time when I was immersed in grief. I talked through my idea with Nadia, a woman dedicated to keeping her sister’s memory and work alive. She adored it. I pitched it as a promotional tool, the mystical Grieving Tree that suddenly appeared in the forest, its purpose only becoming clearer when the book was finally released.

  Little did Nadia or the publisher know that it was Lisa’s wish coming to life. A vessel for me to communicate openly with our daughter.

  The promo team at Lisa’s publishing house designed the tree based on her detailed descriptions. It was put together in the early hours one Sunday morning, way before dog walkers or ramblers would be navigating the paths of the forest for their first walk of the day. A mysterious fairy home appeared as if by magic. No explanation, no information. Just a piece of beauty and intrigue that became far bigger than I could have ever imagined.

  Eli was, of course, the first child to write a letter. I had been so focused on her that it didn’t occur to me that there would be other letters from children and adults who were experiencing loss. How naïve could I be? The days progressed and the more press the Grieving Tree received, the more the letters came. The numbers became unmanageable and the promo team employed bereavement counsellors to keep up with the demand.

  Eli’s letters were always given to me to respond to, along with a random handful of others. As the interest decreased, I decided to lead on the letters, collecting them every few days and writing the responses. I was daunted at first, the letters were heartbreaking, often from young children who expressed their loss in simple ways that never failed to floor me.

  Do you see my mummy?

  Can you give her a hug?

  Why did my daddy have to die?

  Will I see him again soon?

  Grandma said she was poorly and then she died. I have a cough; will I die too?

  As soon as I started to reply honestly – drawing on my own experiences – I started to find the process cathartic. The Grieving Tree gave me focus, helped me to channel my thoughts, and ultimately made me feel closer to Eli.

  Then, I received the first letter from Nat. She started sharing her story, wrote about the loss of her mother and sister, the guilt she felt at being the sole survivor of the crash that killed t
hem thirteen years ago. I couldn’t forget her words as I tried to imagine how hard living with that burden must be. The more letters she wrote, the more I realised that the lady Eli chattered nonstop about, the charismatic dance teacher with the love of expressing herself through dance, was behind the words. I was intrigued. Interested. Curious. The short, snap of conversations, mainly from my side, began to breed and build. I could link our discussions with details from her letters. I started to realise her sarcastic replies were her grief battle armour. I began to understand her rapid attachment to Eli was because my sweet, funny girl reminded her of her sister. I developed an intense respect for her, the way she’d steered herself through grief, not wanting to give in to the pull as it dragged her under, instead flourishing and gaining strength through the darkness, until a light appeared.

  Nat encouraged the tiny pinprick of light in the tunnel of darkness I had barricaded myself in. The glittering speck caught my attention immediately and the more I let Nat in, the more the speck increased in size, slowly at first, before doubling, tripling and then an illumination so clear it was like the power of a thousand fireworks in a clear night sky.

  I crouched down at the postbox and opened it. Three letters were inside. I’d neglected coming to collect them for the last few weeks. I was kidding myself that it was because of the demands of work and travelling to London to fulfil recording commitments and rehearsals with the London Symphony Orchestra for upcoming concerts. Really, I knew it was because my time was up. The release date of the book was looming. The Grieving Tree would be well documented as Lisa’s last book, the content being emotional and of interest as a good press story. The identity of the Grief Fairy may be kept hidden from the hundreds of children who wrote the letters, perhaps even from Eli. But one person would have questions. One person would feel betrayed.

  The Grieving Tree that had started as something indisputably positive was now a link in a chain of torment. Lies and deceit adding to it, making it stronger, holding it in place.

  I folded the letters over and went to push them in my pocket. One fell out of the stack and landed on the ground in front of me. It wasn’t addressed to the Grief Fairy as usual, it was addressed to me. I put my finger under the seal and tore it open with one quick slide of my finger, pulling the letter out with trembling hands.