Scot and Bothered

43. Now

43

NOW

Jack walked into Mhairi’s house with a quiet emptiness unfurling inside him, a billowing need to lay his grief at her feet. But when he and Logan found her at her desk, the yellow lamp the only holdout against the night, all Jack could feel was despair. Her face was pale against the floral print of her blouse, her shoulders curled in a way that made her look frail. Like she’d somehow shrunk in the time he’d been away.

He found himself mimicking the stature, not strong enough to hold himself up to full size.

Mhairi looked up, took in his expression, and shook her head at him in warning. He could hear the unsaid words. No weeping.

“Logan, I need you to wash the dishes,” she said, her eyes on Jack.

“Abusing me all day ,” Logan complained, but headed for the kitchen, giving them privacy.

Mhairi stood, bracing her hands on the arms of her chair, and Jack crossed the room in two strides. He reached for her and ignored the way she waved him off, wrapping her in a hug that maybe she didn’t want but he needed.

Her head rested against his shoulder and she smelled the same, like dusty books and the promise of adventure. He closed his eyes to better soak it in, to file it away with his memories of exploring Calton Hill in the rain, the bread she made on particularly cold February days and the sound of her shouting at the TV when the Hibs played like rubbish. He wanted to squeeze her like he could keep her with him that way, but he forced himself to keep a loose hold.

“It’s not so bad as when you were fourteen,” she said, patting him on the back. “But you reek, dear.”

He huffed out a laugh, but he wasn’t ready to let go. He kept a hand on her arm while she settled back in her chair and gave him a disapproving look, but didn’t brush him off. Like she might need the support.

Christ, what she must be going through. Jack couldn’t even imagine having to stare a diagnosis like this in the face. To contend with the time you had left and how to spend it.

“How did the photos turn out?” she asked.

“Do you really want to talk about the memoir right now?”

“Yes.” Mhairi straightened some papers on her desk and Jack rubbed a hand over his chin.

“Alright. I took some of my favorite photos of my life. The lighting was terrible at the start, but then moody and foggy and we had a perfect day at the Storr. I took photos I thought you’d love and they ended up being better than ones I tried to take to be compositionally correct or some shite.”

Mhairi laughed and Jack latched onto it. Held it against his heart.

“And how is Brooke?”

“She struggled, and then I think she found what it was she was looking for. She’ll write an incredible story for you, I have no doubt.”

“I don’t, either. But I mean, how is she…knowing about me?”

Jack looked down at the ground. “Devastated. Hurt, I think, that you didn’t tell her.”

“I didn’t know how. This matters to her in a way that perhaps only you and I can understand.” Mhairi steepled her fingers together under her chin and looked past the darkened windows. Her eyes misted and so did Jack’s as he sank into a crouch before her. He took her hand and she patted the top of his.

“And the two of you?” she asked.

He stared at his boots, shook his head, tried to stop the panicked beat of his heart that he’d lost her again. “We can’t seem to get it right.”

Mhairi squeezed his hand, but he stood quickly, breathed in deeply. “How are you holding up?” he asked.

“Frankly, I’m disgruntled. Everyone stopping by and tiptoeing around me—” Her eyes cut across the room. “I can hear you, Logan.”

“I’m a rather poor tiptoe-er,” he said, popping his head into the doorway. “You’re going to need to accept some help, Auntie. It’s being offered genuinely.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” she said with a defiant air. “But I do know what I want—I sorted this out in the hospital while my roommates droned on about their wee bairns sixteen hours a day. I’d like a life celebration ceremony.”

“Veering into the morbid, I see,” Jack said, even though the time had come for that. To talk about after . He just wasn’t ready for it.

“No, I want it while I’m still here. Why have a celebration I can’t attend?”

Jack looked over to Logan and they shared a grin. She’d always been the life of the party—of course she wouldn’t want to miss one in her honor. It lit some spark of hope in Jack’s chest. He knew the ending, but he’d hold on to the chance of something to look forward to without dread. Something good in all this.

“It doesn’t have to be fancy,” she said. “But it does have to be big.”

Logan leaned against the doorframe, drying a cup with a hairy coo dish towel. “Whatever you want, Auntie.”

“I want it on Skye.”

The thought of going back there sent knives through Jack’s stomach. It was too fresh, too bloody devastating to return to a place that had always held so much peace for him and now felt like shattered glass in his heart. But he’d do anything for Mhairi—even this.