The Mission

by Naomi Kryske

  “Does grief end? I asked Dr. Knowles, and he didn’t think so.”

  “I don’t believe grief ends, but it can turn into ‘soft grief,’ the residue of what we feel at first.”

  She thought about the concept, hard and soft, like the difference between torrential rains and drizzles.

  “Soft grief has the elements of acceptance and peace built into the sadness. Acceptance is a sort of letting go. It’s not the same as starting over, because it precedes starting over.”

  How complex and tenacious grief was. “What did God expect me to do after Colin was killed?”

  “To grieve deeply and to hold onto Him tightly,” Goodwyn answered gently.

  “Like falling into the deep end of a swimming pool and having to hold onto the side,” she said slowly.

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “I didn’t do that. I sank.”

  “And God sent a lifeguard,” smiled Goodwyn, remembering her description of Nick Howard’s actions.

  “And a life preserver,” she said, thinking of Bear. “What does God expect me to do now?”

  “To use what you learnt. Nothing is wasted in God’s kingdom.”

  “But all I know about are grief, fear, and isolation,” she objected. “That’s not good news. And I don’t see how they lead to a career of any kind.”

  “Don’t forget hope and healing and victory,” Goodwyn countered. “I am confident that you will find a way to communicate those.”

  Jenny wasn’t so sure. She didn’t feel healed, much less victorious, and hope was a dangerous thing. Even a thin flicker of hope hurt terribly when it was snuffed out. She didn’t know what she dared to hope for now, and hope was just the first stage of the process, leading to – what? It was all a conundrum with no clues.

  CHAPTER 20

  “Do you have a support system?” Dr. Knowles asked at Jenny’s next appointment.

  “Yes, and I’ve neglected most of them,” she confessed. “I withdrew over the winter. All I wanted was to sleep and dream about Colin. I took sleeping pills to sleep more. I slept through meals. I didn’t break down; I eroded. Somehow the sorrow wore me down.”

  “And it was at that stage that Nick Howard intervened?”

  “Yes. He’s not very talkative, but even a short conversation with him wore me out. I fell asleep before he left, and he must have searched the flat, because he found my sleeping pills and took most of them away.” Like a detective, she thought, remembering her husband and feeling a tightness in her throat.

  “Did you want to die, Jenny? When you stopped eating and took drugs to sleep?”

  She didn’t reply right away, realizing that Nick Howard had protected her from herself. “I didn’t think about it in those terms. I just wanted to dream of Colin. That was the only way I could be with him. I didn’t stop eating entirely; I just wasn’t hungry. And I didn’t care whether I lived or not.”

  “And now?”

  “I have Bear. I know it sounds silly, but it helps to be responsible for someone, even if it’s a dog.”

  Knowles nodded. “He forces you to stay in the present. I would encourage you to do that also.”

  “But I don’t want to, because Colin isn’t in the present. I was planning to take some pictures with his camera – I thought I might feel closer to him if I adopted some of his interests – but there was still film in it. And when I had it developed, I saw a picture of the two of us, which made me miss him all over again. He was wearing slacks with a shirt and pullover sweater instead of his usual three-piece suit. He had his arm around me. I had on jeans, as usual, and a sloppy sweater, and I was leaning against him. I depended on him in so many ways. We looked so happy, and we were. We had no clue to what lay ahead. It’s the last picture that was taken of him.”

  “When was that?”

  “Christmas in Kent, 2001. My family was there, and my brother, Matt, took the shot.”

  “Photography could be a rewarding avenue for you to pursue.”

  Jenny shook her head. “It would take more concentration than I have right now, and staying busy isn’t much help. I went to the Tate Britain, but I didn’t have any insights. I liked Constable’s paintings of the Heath, and Whistler was very particular about the frames which supported his paintings. I read all the commentaries and still felt like I was just spinning my wheels, because none of it made me less sad. Turner’s paintings reflect his belief that we have no power over the things that happen to us. That’s not encouraging. And I don’t see how any of these activities help me to move forward.”

  “Recognising what you can control helps. For example, what you eat and drink, what you wear, when you sleep. Be proactive. When you walk, decide at the outset how far. Then consider your feelings. When sadness occurs, tell yourself that you’ve accepted it as a part of your life, but only a part. Limit your grief. Some persons allow themselves to experience their sorrow only for ten minutes in the morning and ten minutes in the evening.”

  He wanted her to be disciplined. Colin had wanted that for her, too. He had thought that she’d be less impatient with his long hours if she occupied her time more productively, but when she did and he couldn’t reach her during the day, he was frustrated: a real catch-22. There had been times when he’d been bothered with her complaints about the weather and once because she had taken too long to get dressed for a social event. She had discovered the hard way that he didn’t think sandwiches were appropriate for dinner, although she had made them to avoid having to reheat meals he had been too late to eat on time. They had both raised their voices, and she had yelled, “Why did you marry me if you felt this way?”

  His face had softened, and he had replied, the edge gone from his tone, “Because I loved you. And I still do. Sandwiches notwithstanding.”

  Her anger had evaporated, and she had embraced him, promising to reheat every meal with a smile. She heard Dr. Knowles’ voice.

  “Jenny, where are you?”

  “Remembering,” she sighed. “Colin’s impatience. His moods. At the time I considered them flaws, but I would welcome them now. Why wasn’t I more understanding? More patient? None of our disagreements seem important anymore.”

  “Jenny, every couple has misunderstandings. They’re a normal part of dynamic human relationships. But I don’t recommend dwelling on regrets. If you must, restrict the amount of time you spend thinking on them. However, in spite of these techniques, some days may still be more difficult than others. Psychological healing’s not linear.”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “That’s a nice way to put it. I think it’s all capricious, like turning over your cards to see what you were dealt. One good day doesn’t necessarily lead to another.”

  “Nor does a bad day lead to another,” he said with a smile. “You are capable of dealing even with the bad days, Jenny.”

  “Maybe so, but I still wish you’d prescribe something to make it easier.”

  “Have you had any recurrence of your previous trauma?”

  “No, my grief over Colin has forced everything else out, like a mutant alien fully occupying its host.”

  “You have, however, retained your sense of humour,” he commented. “In view of the fact that you’ve come through a difficult time and seem to be functioning, I’d recommend against antidepressants at this time.”

  “So I have to tough it out.”

  “At this stage, that’s best, I think. Change has to begin in the mind, and I think you’ve already taken the first steps.”

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  On the tube ride back to Hampstead, Jenny decided it was time to reconnect with family and friends. She resolved to invite Joanne to Hampstead for lunch and a day of shopping. She would phone her family and ask if they could come to London for Easter. The next time Jillian, Colin’s sister, called, she would accept her party invitation. And Beth – she needed to see Beth and share her joy in her pregnancy. Just because Colin was dead didn’t mean that she should
treat everyone else as if they were. Filling her time like this wasn’t very meaningful – it didn’t address the long-term issues – but maybe it was a step.

  Bear was happy to see her and even happier when she donned her coat and attached his leash to his collar. Lost in thought, she let him lead the way, and when she found herself panting at the top of Parliament Hill, she was a little annoyed with him. On their first walk in the Heath and many times since, Colin had taken her to Parliament Hill because on clear days it gave a spectacular view of London. She had purposely avoided it since his death. She found a bench near the summit and took a minute to catch her breath, closing her eyes against the sights they had seen together. Bear lay quietly at her feet.

  A wisp of breeze caressed her face, and she suddenly became aware that the air around her was warm. Then she felt the scar on her cheek tingle slightly. Colin knew that the scar on her cheek bothered her. During lovemaking he had always caressed her cheek, either with his lips or the tips of his fingers, to let her know that it did not detract from her appearance. She sat very still, not wanting to break the spell of whatever was happening. Could Colin’s spirit be alive, as Neil Goodwyn believed and Sullivan Ballou had hoped? Gradually, gently, the warmth receded. She clasped her coat around her, barely breathing, and waited. Bear nudged her foot with his nose. He was hungry. She was, too, and cold, but she didn’t move. Darkness came, but the warmth did not return. With slow steps, she led Bear back to the flat.

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  After dinner she plopped down on the sofa and picked up the C.S. Lewis book. A Grief Observed, he had titled it. He had monitored his feelings of grief as Dr. Knowles had suggested to her. Reading his bio, she felt an immediate connection with him. He had been seventeen years older than his wife. Colin had been thirteen years older than she was. Lewis’ wife, Joy, had died of cancer after only four years of marriage. Not a sudden death, but a short marriage, like hers, with many wishes and expectations unfulfilled.

  As she digested the pages, she remembered feeling the way Lewis had, the sudden tears, exhaustion so extreme that even the smallest chore seemed too hard. He, too, had wrestled with the platitudes of friends who intended comfort but missed the mark. He claimed that grief felt like fear. Was it grief, then, and not fear that made her nervous when she went out?

  He referred to his relationship with his wife as a house of cards, because it had fallen so easily with her death. Colin had made her stronger; had her strength died with him? Was Lewis right? Was it all a house of cards? No, Nick Howard had proved to her that it was not.

  She read on. “Passionate grief does not link us with the dead but cuts us off from them,” Lewis wrote. That was true. When she’d felt Colin’s caress on her cheek – if it had been Colin – she had been resting, not experiencing desperate sorrow. And in his own way, Lewis had felt the assurance of Joy’s presence. Maybe her experience had been real.

  He called his writing about grief, his “jottings.” She had made lists to try to order her thoughts and feelings, to find clarity in the fog. Every time he described grief, it changed, he wrote. They had both recorded a series of still pictures.

  Lewis’ grief hadn’t ended; he had just stopped writing about it, claiming that it was time for a “spring cleaning” of the mind. Was grief clutter? As spring approached, should she clear her mind? Not of Colin. Lewis had returned to teaching at Cambridge, but illness had intervened, and a short three years later, he had died. His book gave no clues about what she should do with the rest of her life.

  On her Heath walks, she saw piles of debris beside many of the paths, evidence of forest control, and smelled the damp peaty aroma of decaying wood. If even the wild areas of the Heath needed clearing, possibly her mind did too. In several areas London plane trees had been uprooted in the hurricane of October, 1987. A year later new trees had been planted which were already tall. It wouldn’t be sufficient then simply to remove deadwood from her life; she had to replace it with something.

  Lewis had decided to focus on the two great commandments, love God and love your neighbor. If that meant setting aside his record of grief, had his book been nothing more than a crutch? Was she supposed to stop looking inside and direct her attention outward? If so, to what?

  CHAPTER 21

  Alcina pored over the directions that came with the camera. According to the tips for better pictures, photographing moving subjects was more difficult than recording still ones. She wasn’t concerned about the quality or composition of her shots, however. Just the target. Bad shots of the target would mar her attractiveness, a welcome side effect and a prediction of what was to come. The camera as an instrument of prophecy. Excellent. She had not anticipated that.

  First she would snap shots from a distance. Then, as she became more confident, she would move closer. The target focussed on the dog while she walked, paying no attention to her surroundings. She would not notice Alcina.

  Her physical attacks would follow the same pattern: threats from a distance or while her target was not in the vicinity, then becoming more direct and immediate.

  A festive season was approaching. Just the sort of thing that would be satisfying to disrupt. She would leave evidence of her presence. Then she would photograph it to savour later while she imagined her target’s reaction. The camera: a more useful tool in her arsenal than she had expected. Well worth what she had spent.

  The dog. She had still not decided how to deal with it, but she felt certain an idea would present itself.

  CHAPTER 22

  “Shock and awe” – what Jenny thought of as the American response to 9/11 but what was really the beginning of the invasion of Iraq – came and went. Prime Minister Tony Blair’s speeches and the Queen’s message to the troops, however, reminded her that it was a coalition effort, with the UK, Australia, and other countries participating.

  She felt no awe at her country’s display of military strength, only shock at the images on the news. Seeing her country assert itself should have made her feel powerful, but instead she feared what lay next. These bombings were only the beginning of the conflict. Lives would be lost on all sides.

  In London, the police were on the alert for reprisals. Spokesmen insisted there was no specific threat, but the Commissioner brought in additional officers to patrol the city. That should have made her feel safer, but instead the news reports increased her anxiety. Ridiculous! she told herself. Terrorists wouldn’t strike in Hampstead.

  In contrast, she supported Red Nose Day for the first time. To raise money for Comic Relief, which used comedy to let people know about poverty in the UK and Africa, plastic or foam red noses were sold at Sainsbury’s and other places. She purchased one but then wasn’t brave enough to wear it. Her only comic relief came when she tried to imagine Simon with a red nose.

  She was still preoccupied with her private battles, as she told Simon on one of their Heath walks. “I’ve been working with Dr. Knowles to cope better with my grief. I don’t cry as much as I used to – most days I’m more like a drizzle than a downpour – but I’m still sad and lost. And I need to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.” She smiled. “Besides walking with you and Bear. And taking pictures with Colin’s camera. My camera now, I guess.”

  “What do you take snaps of?”

  “Things that don’t move!” she laughed. “And even then, my pictures are spectacularly dull. The camera and I don’t agree on what will make an interesting shot. And I have less focus than it does. I’m still in kindergarten when it comes to photography.”

  “When I was a lad, I had a small camera,” he said, feeling a bit wistful. “Photography’s more technical and the equipment more advanced now. Keep at it.”

  She shortened the leash to keep Bear from bounding into the bathing ponds on their way back. Everywhere she looked, she saw new growth, which reassured her. “I love the Heath,” she added. “No matter what the season, something is green, like fresh starts and new
beginnings. And the daffodils are resplendent this year.” She handed Bear’s leash to Simon. “Winning over Bear was my mission for a while, but I think that mission is accomplished. You’ve won him over, too. He likes you.”

  When they passed the ponds near Highgate, Jenny saw the little boy with the blue eyes she’d seen in the fall. Even in his coat, he looked hunched over, and his face was thinner. She introduced herself and Simon to the child’s grandmother, a Mrs. Dunaway fortunately not as thin as her grandson, and then talked to the child. “Do you like animals? Would you like to pat my dog?”

  “He doesn’t talk,” Mrs. Dunaway said. “Hasn’t since his mum was killed. He was in the house, but we don’t know if he saw it happen or found her after. The police sent a special officer, someone trained to speak with children. She was ever so patient and nice, but she couldn’t get him to say anything. He hasn’t said a word since, not one. He eats what’s put in front of him – well, some – he lets himself be dressed and bathed – but not one word. And not a tear. Not even at the funeral when the rest of us were beside ourselves. He just sat.”

  “Do they know who did it? Did they catch him?”

  “No, their physical evidence didn’t lead to anyone, and since Jack didn’t speak…”

  “Was he always quiet?” Jenny asked, feeling a little uncomfortable talking about the boy in the third person when he was there.

  “No, the opposite. Playful, wasn’t he just!”

  He shut down, Jenny thought. She understood.

  “His dad’s in sales,” Mrs. Dunaway continued. “He took some time off after, but now he’s on the road again. Jack’s an only child. He lives with us, with my husband and me.”

  Simon stood by her side, observing. Jenny liked children. She had wanted Sinclair’s. “How old is he?” he asked.