If I Were You

Chapter 49 Amy

Ten Years Ago

‘You didn’t think of maybe skipping this the day of his funeral?’

‘It was important to Dad too. They’re going to send him home but this is his home. He has a wife and kids!’

Laura’s hands grip the wheel of the car as we make our way back out through Easton to the city centre, past smashed windows and debris in the road from the protest. She picked me up as the police started arresting people.

‘I brought you an outfit.’

A black dress is draped over the back seat and the sight makes me feel nauseous. A small part of me wishes I had been arrested, that I could skip today completely. Dad wouldn’t have minded. He still talks about being dragged off in the St Paul’s riot. Talked. He talked. I can’t think of Dad in the past tense.

Natural causes.

‘Mum didn’t need this today.’

I fold my arms and pout.

Laura glances over. ‘I’ve lost my dad too, Amy, for fuck’s sake.’

‘I know.’ I meant to spit the words but they come out in the smallest, saddest voice. I love Laura, I loved my dad. This is all so unfair.

The shame of that night has tortured me. As Mum and Laura have pulled together a funeral, I’ve just been a bitch, lashing out, storming off, unable to tell them what is eating me up from the inside. Dad’s slack face staring at me from a dusty pub floor wakes me in a sweat.

Laura was pale as she discussed catering, readings, burial arrangements with Mum. I only poked holes in the plan or criticized whatever they decided.

Mum made excuses for me.

Laura finally broke the night before the funeral. ‘You’re not the only one whose lost your dad, you know?’

It was true, but the pain and guilt of knowing it had been my fault simply made me spit back a swear word and storm off.

It had been my fault, I was sure. If I hadn’t told him my plans the night before, if I hadn’t been so mean to him before he’d gone up on stage, if I hadn’t broken his bloody heart. Natural causes. Bullshit.

I’d lied to Mum; I’d lied to Laura. I hadn’t told them the things I’d said before he went up there. Now all I can do is lash out at anyone who wants to be kind to me. I don’t deserve kind.

I want someone to tell me what to do, how to be now that he’s gone. He was always giving me direction, his reassuring voice brushing away worries. That night had been one of the few times where I was breaking out of his plans for me. He wanted me to be a singer, but he’d wanted me to stay in Bristol with him. He wanted us to do it together. And I’d broken that dream. And I’d broken him.

The funeral is full of familiar people filled with soft words and sad looks and I move through it on automatic. Everyone telling me he loved me, telling me I looked like him, had his talent, had his fire. Claps on the back from the guys from karaoke nights, the football, our street, his work. Laura nodding on the other side of the room, our eyes meeting. For a second she gives me the smallest smile and blows me a kiss. I want to run over and hold her so damn tight, beg her to stay with me.

She is still leaving for London. She is still going to uni, like Dad hasn’t just died. She is leaving us too. My head spins with it. How can she? How can she leave me behind?

‘Come,’ she’d urged.

That idea had scared me more. Uproot it all and leave Bristol – the only city I’d ever known.

‘I can’t leave Mum.’

‘Mum has her friends, has school, we’ll come back loads and visit. Amy, come!’

‘My job.’

‘London has estate agents, Amy.’

‘My friends.’

‘You’ll make other friends, and we’ll be back, it’s only a couple of hours on the coach.’

‘I can’t afford it.’

‘You can stay with me until you can.’

My breathing quickened. It was so tempting. Laura could make my decisions for me. Laura could tell me what to do. Like Dad had. For a second I wanted to nod, to trust that it would turn out like she said it would. But I couldn’t. I was scared. And instead of saying that, instead of admitting I was frightened I wasn’t as brave as her, wasn’t as clever, I wouldn’t know where to begin, afraid to tell her I was writing songs, I did what I often did when I felt uncomfortable and became a bitch.

‘You don’t get it. I can’t leave. How can I leave? Someone has to stay. Someone has to pretend to give a shit.’

She’d stepped backwards, hurt flooding her face, and hadn’t asked me again. Despite me willing her to inside. Ask me, ask me again. I’ll come, I’ll be as brave as you.

We get through the day. Laura does a eulogy that makes Mum cry but I can’t find the tears. I just keep staring at the coffin, frightened of the moment they’re going to take it away, that he is finally gone. All I can see is that last look on the floor of the pub, the last person to meet his eye, his daughter who totally disappointed him.

As a tear forms I feel Mum’s hand on mine, feel her squeeze, but can’t squeeze back. I know how much she loved him; they’d been together for twenty-four years, married for twenty-two of them. Dad had always joked that Mum getting pregnant had forced them to, but anyone could see how much he adored Mum. I want a man like that, a relationship like that. I want a best friend.

The moment comes and we watch the coffin disappear behind the small curtains. Dad’s gone. My knees tremble and I sit down abruptly in the pew and stare at my hands. He’s really gone. I’m meant to just go on living without him. I’ve never felt smaller and less sure of myself. I watch as Laura and Mum move past, then sit and stare at the curtains until the officiant taps me gently on the shoulder and tells me I have to leave.

I need someone to tell me what to do next, which foot to put forward. All the certainty I had, the path I thought I could pursue seems to crumble away. I started all this with my stupid big dreams. I hurt the one person who loved me unconditionally. I’ll never forgive myself.