Pieces of Us

Day One

Sara

I can’t get out of bed. This is due to both emotional and physical reasons. Emotionally, I’m too hollow and empty inside to move, like a deflated balloon left on the floor after a party. Just the idea of moving causes a wave of exhaustion to roll over me. Physically, my body is pinned down by the heavy presence of Goose, who has decided to plant herself right on top of my breasts, her fat tail curled across my neck like a fluffy scarf and her paws kneading urgently at my stomach like it’s a heavy lump of dough that she desperately needs to make smooth again.

I peer down at myself. In fairness, dough is a pretty good description.

I touch my stomach gently, setting off the anxious butterfly flutters that seem to be constantly bubbling under my skin. How have I put on so much weight? I can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten properly, let alone binged on chocolate or cake. Is my body trying to wind me up, too?

Carefully, I ease myself up a little, ignoring the angry mew from Goose as she swishes off me in protest and makes herself comfortable by my feet instead. I reach across for my phone and tug it free from the charger, perhaps a little too forcefully as the cable snaps back hard against the table. I stare at the too-bright screen and the time blinks back at me in an annoyingly cheerful manner: six a.m. Really? How can I be this wide awake already? When the hell did I become such an early riser?

And then the cold hard truth slams into me.

Today is the day. It’s finally here. And you have to face it.

A sob bubbles in my throat but I force it back. All I can think of is Lottie. If she was here, she would laugh in my face.

‘ Early riser! You? My God, usually I’d be lucky to see you before eleven in the morning. I swear you’re half-vampire. I mean, I wouldn’t even expect you up early today, really. I’m flattered… honestly I am. ’

Despite myself, a tiny smile forms. ‘Well, I’m awake, Lots,’ I whisper. ‘Although I’m not bloody ready for this.’ Not one bit.

My eyes settle on the date and my head throbs, heavy and thick, like my brain had been replaced with wet cotton wool. I shake it carefully.

Twenty-two days. How can it be that long already? The heaviness inside of me seems to shift to the pit of my stomach. With a shiver, I throw the phone back down onto the bedside table. There is nothing more to see, nothing that I want to read. My notifications and messages have been left unread for days now. Everything feels so flat and pointless.

Twenty-two days have drifted by so aimlessly, and the sad fact is Lottie is still dead.

Lottie is dead.

Will I ever get used to those words?

She is never coming back. This isn’t some awful dream or some daft thing I’ve made up in my head out of anger.

Lottie is dead.

Every bloody morning for twenty-two days that same realisation has come back to me over and over again like some sort of sick showreel being played on repeat. And every morning, the truth hits me like a knife slicing through my chest, allowing icy air to seep through.

This isn’t getting any easier.

And today is the day when I have to say goodbye to her forever.

My flat is squashed on top of a row of local shops that sit in one of the rougher neighbourhoods at the edges of Brighton. I am unlucky enough to live above a fish and chip shop and, most days, the smell of cheap fat and cod permeates through the walls like a stale air freshener. It’s particularly bad on days like today, when I feel sick, hungover and sad – and really don’t need sudden fishy wafts catching me unawares.

I stand in the tiny kitchen, static for a moment, waiting for the kettle to boil and wondering grimly if my queasy stomach can manage a single slice of toast. I peer into the bread bin and discover that the half loaf that is sitting there is far more green than white. I think I’ll give it a miss. My shrivelled stomach doesn’t seem to be putting up much of a complaint.

Coffee – that’s what I need. And lots of it.

I need to drown this hangover out of my body and trick it into behaving properly again. I can’t get through the day like this, I have to force myself to function like a proper human being.

If only I could remember what one was.

I didn’t want to go out last night. Jess had practically dragged me along, making out it was some kind of crime not to celebrate our boss Sharon’s fiftieth birthday. Besides, as Jess hissed while we’d scrubbed our hands after another long shift, we needed cheering up and apparently getting very drunk on cheap wine and listening to your work colleagues talk rubbish about their crappy lives was the perfect way to do that.

I hadn’t been feeling very cheery. Sharon was a pretty obnoxious boss at the best of times, but she was even worse with four J?germeisters inside of her. She seemed to think it was fun to tell the entire bar how ‘proud’ she was of her fledgling care home and how she was so thankful for her ‘hard-working and compassionate staff’. Jess and I ending up glaring at each other over our drinks. This was something Sharon would never say to our faces. It certainly hadn’t been an easy twelve months. I was about to tell Sharon this myself (fuelled by an additional vodka shot), but she was already too busy snogging the barman. He could have only been twenty and didn’t seem particularly keen. Sharon was definitely getting worse in her old age.

To be fair, Jess was no better, having begged me to come, saying she needed my company, then spending most of the night texting her boyfriend and giggling about the amazing sex she was about to have when she got home. I’d been quite glad to slink off early, my head woozy and already throbbing, and my mind swirling with dark, intrusive thoughts about the day I knew lay ahead of me.

Drinking obviously wasn’t a solution. It hadn’t made me feel any better. If anything, it had made things so much worse. Drinking was the thing I did with Lottie. And long before that, with Lottie and Jay – the three of us together – merry, talking nonsense and putting the world to rights. It had never been a lonely event. It had been inclusive, fun and silly, our time to relax and be daft.

I could’ve called Tyler of course. He might have taken my mind off things for twenty minutes. Perhaps twenty-five if I was lucky, but in all honesty, I hadn’t felt that desperate. Not yet, anyway.

Peeling back the greying net curtains that Lottie used to tease me for, I stare out the window. ‘ What are you, some kind of nosy old lady, peering behind them, looking for trouble? ’ she’d say . I never got rid of them to spite her – they’re cosy and old-looking, and they make me feel safe. I don’t think that was something Lottie could ever really understand – her life had always been draped in privilege and security.

Down on the street I can see early signs of life, of another morning starting. A man is jogging at pace, a couple of people are already gathered at the bus stop, and an old lady is moving tentatively towards the newsagents, dragging a battered shopping trolley behind her, the wheels zigzagging haphazardly on the path.

At my feet, Goose purrs loudly. She likes constant attention; she’s always been a bit of a prima donna. Her large, slightly overweight body slips between my bare feet, her tail gently slapping my legs.

‘I know…’ I whisper to her. ‘I know I need to sort myself out. I need to get ready. Surely it won’t be as bad as I think.’

But I know the answer to that before I even say it. It’s there in the heaviness of my bones and the burn in my stomach.

This is going to be the worst day of my life.

And I’m going to have to face him.

Goose yowls again and somehow manages to persuade me to move. I quickly feed her, ignoring my own raw and now growling stomach, before slinking into the bathroom for a much-needed shower. The hot water helps to clear my head a little. Then, as I step back into the bedroom, I see that my phone is glowing with a new notification and reach for it tentatively, my heart seeming to skip a beat for a second.

So silly. Even though I know it can’t be Lottie, I still expect it. In the last year, we used to message each other every day without fail. How could a habit like that be easily forgotten? I swipe at the screen.

His message waits, unopened. I hover over the notification for a moment, debating whether or not to open it. Something shifts and stirs and within me. Memories rattle like old marbles in my mind.

I turn the phone off.

I’m not ready for this.

I’m not ready for any of it.

Outside the old bleak church, I clutch my bag to my chest like a lifeline and wonder why my legs have suddenly forgotten how to work. I’m wearing Lottie’s favourite dress of mine, which clings to my body, far too tight, far too short, far too bright and, despite the heat of the day, I’m still shivering. I wish I’d worn something simple, a black suit or something shapeless. I just want to hide in the shadows and not be noticed by anyone. My face feels tight and stiff and my lips are sealed shut, desperately trying to suppress the sobs. My eyes are already sore and red, blurring the world. I can barely make out what’s going on around me. It feels surreal – sick and horrible.

For a start, this funeral is in the wrong place. St Andrew’s Church is a small, stuffy building that always smells faintly of cabbages. I used to go to Brownies here and I always hated it. I can almost feel Lottie’s disgust as I step over the grey threshold. ‘ Sara – good God, why here? It’s so drab – so grey! This isn’t me! Get me the fuck out! ’

At the front of the church, I can make out Lottie’s mum, Erica, stiff and proper as always. Her dad is slightly removed from the action, watching everyone with a grave expression. They don’t acknowledge me, but I have never been their favourite person. I was too rough, too loud, too dangerous for their precious daughter. Even now, as I creep in, I wonder if they are judging my cheap haircut and market-bought handbag.

‘ Ignore them. ’ Lottie laughs. ‘ Why do you care what they think? ’

Erica never liked me. I swear she blamed me for all of Lottie’s fuck-ups. She probably blamed me for the pissing cancer too. I suppose my council estate germs were always a worry. There was always a concern that I would contaminate their girl in some way.

I sit at the back, away from everyone else. I don’t want to share sad stories or pretend to care how anyone else is feeling. Half these people barely knew Lottie. I recognise a few of her relatives sitting behind her parents but, in the main, the congregation is small and threadbare. Numbers have been restricted due to Erica’s controlling and paranoid ways. Plus, Lottie wasn’t in touch with many people at the end; she pushed people away, not wanting them to see her when she was weak and sickly and losing her hair.

A woman sits beside me and nods politely. I recognise her as the nice nurse who cared for her at the end. Sally, I think her name is. I watch as she picks up an order of service. Lottie’s face is plastered on the front and it’s not the most flattering photo. She is mid-giggle, and although her eyes are sparkling, her chin has doubled and her teeth are exposed. I know Lottie would’ve hated it.

‘ Too right. ’ I hear Lottie say with a laugh.

I look through the service myself. Erica has picked some awful hymns to be played on the organ and has requested that Lottie is played out to a bloody ABBA song. I slam the thing down on the bench so hard, it makes Sally jump up and I have to mutter ‘Sorry’. I glare at the back of Erica’s head. Did she really not know her daughter at all? Lottie hated ABBA.

I want to shout. This isn’t right. Lottie loved to sing, she had such a beautiful voice. This wouldn’t be what she wanted. She would want her favourite Beatles song played at max volume. She would want us all singing along – loudly and proudly, filling this grey space with happiness and light. She would want songs that mean something to her.

I twist and wiggle in my seat, hot and uncomfortable and just wanting to get out of here. I twist my head towards the door, longing to get a glimpse of sunlight, and then I see him.

Jay.

My stomach sinks at the sight of him. I have to turn quickly away before he notices me looking. I will him not to sit near me, and luckily he drifts past our pew and sits on the other side, a row or two up. I’m not sure if he even noticed me. I find myself breathing out heavily, my body is shaking a little and I have to clutch my hands on my lap.

I knew he’d come even though he lives in Newcastle now, but it’s still a shock seeing him. He still looks the same, the short curly dark hair, those startling blue eyes. Nothing has changed and yet everything has.

The coffin sits at the front of the church, flowers heaped on top of it. It looks lost. A photo of Lottie is propped on top – not her worst, but not her best – probably picked in haste by Erica. She could’ve come to me. I have beautiful photos of Lottie. In this one she is squinting slightly in the sun and her hair is sun-frazzled, not straight and glossy as she loved to wear it.

I half expect Lottie to jump out from the coffin itself. To yell ‘Surprise! I didn’t really die! This is just a big sick joke!’ But the coffin doesn’t move. It seems far too small and constricting. I can’t imagine how she would even fit in there. Is she comfortable? Is her hair combed as she liked it? Did anyone properly check on these things?

I glance over at Jay, noting the slump of his shoulders, the curl of his dark hair on his neckline. He seems smaller somehow, more vulnerable. I wonder if he’s trapped in his own tumbling thoughts and regrets. He has enough of them.

There is part of me that longs to get up and move next to him. To take his hand in mine. If anyone knows how much I’m hurting today, it’s Jay. I think of the years we’ve known each other, our history that has knotted us together like the roots of an old tree. He loved Lottie just as fiercely as I did. Or at least he used to. Together, the three of us used to be so strong. So happy.

My hands curl on the wooden seat in front of me.

As much as I want to, I can’t talk to him today. Not after what he did to her. What he did to us.

I don’t think I could ever talk to him again.