CHAPTER 12
12
O N A SMALL ISLAND like this, so isolated from the world, it surprises me that the priest who conducts the funeral service is not Irish. In fact, as I come to learn, he’s Nigerian but has spent much of his life far removed from his native soil. The church, however, is almost empty. Ron, Rebecca and Furia sit in the front pew on the right-hand side of the aisle, while Emmet and I take our places on the left. Perhaps a couple of dozen islanders are scattered in the benches behind us, but I suspect most are here simply for the Mass itself or to get out of the house. Two, however, catch my eye. The neighbour who waved to me from the farm next to the cottage earlier, who’s dressed in a formal black suit and sits upright in his seat, occasionally brushing his blond hair out of his eyes. And a woman sitting in the very back row, who looks careworn, as if she is struggling with the very business of existence.
In his eulogy, the priest tells us that he remembers Vanessa from the time she spent here all those years ago.
‘She called herself Willow Hale back then,’ he says. ‘And I was fortunate at the time to get to know her and to learn a little about her life. My feeling was that she was a woman both running away from and towards something. She was looking for healing and I hope that, during her exile on our island community, she found some. As many of us later discovered, she had experienced a troubled period prior to coming here but, when she left, I think her soul had been restored, at least a little. Her time in America subsequent to this was filled with joy, not least because of the happiness she found with her husband, Ron.’ He offers a small nod in the direction of the man, who acknowledges it. ‘But when I learned that Vanessa wanted to be buried here,’ he continues, ‘I will confess that the request moved me tremendously. We did not stay in touch after she left, but I can only assume that something of the serenity of this place remained with her for ever.’
He hesitates for a moment, as if he’s uncertain whether he should say what he plans on saying next, glancing briefly towards the woman in the back row, as if to seek her approval. Or at least her understanding.
‘Many years ago,’ he continues at last, ‘I found myself in London in the company of a young man who had grown up in this place and, while we had a drink together, I remarked to him that eventually, I would be buried in the earth of Nigeria, alongside my people. It was something I believed at the time, but I’m certain now that this will not come to pass. For, like Vanessa, I intend to make my final resting place here, in this peaceful paradise. Vanessa made many choices in her life, as we all do, some of which she may have regretted, but this, perhaps, was among her best.’
Afterwards, making his way around the congregation, he shakes my hand, introducing himself as Fr Ifechi Onkin.
‘And you?’ he asks.
‘Aaron Umber,’ I tell him.
‘You’re Australian?’
‘Sort of.’
‘And may I ask how you knew Vanessa?’
‘Her daughter Rebecca and I were once married,’ I explain. ‘That boy over there, holding her hand, that’s Emmet, our son.’
He looks over and takes in the scene, nodding his head.
‘And were you close with your mother-in law?’ he asks.
‘Former mother-in-law,’ I say, correcting him. ‘And no. Not at all. In fact, I only met her a couple of times.’
‘Well, I’m sure she appreciated your presence here.’
‘No offence, Father,’ I reply. ‘But I’m not a religious man. I don’t really believe in the afterlife. I think we get one shot at all of this, and we do our best, but when it’s over, that’s that. So I don’t think she’ll have any feelings about it one way or the other. She’s gone.’
‘No, you misunderstand me,’ he says, reaching across, placing a hand on my arm and smiling widely. ‘I wasn’t referring to Vanessa. I was talking about Rebecca. It’s she who will have been grateful that you travelled so far. Your marriage might not have been a success but I daresay you’ve cheered her immensely by choosing to be part of today, and by ensuring that your son is present. I can see the gratitude on her face. It offers a fine counterbalance to the grief.’
Our son.
Last night, when we returned to the cottage, I felt relieved at how well the evening had gone. Emmet had put aside all his resentment, remaining next to his mother throughout, even chatting amiably with Furia, who, later, stood at the bar and had a drink with me, where I congratulated her on the success of her novel.
‘It’s doing so well,’ I told her. ‘I see it everywhere.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s taken me a little by surprise, if I’m honest.’
‘A good surprise, though.’
‘Of course.’
We stood there, rather self-consciously and, finally, to break the silence, I nodded across the room towards the woman who had once been married to me and was now married to her.
‘So how’s our girl doing?’ I asked tentatively, hoping she wouldn’t be offended by my choice of pronoun, but, if anything, she seemed pleased by it, touching my arm for a moment and squeezing it affectionately.
‘All right, so far,’ she said. ‘You know just as well as I do how things were between them. I don’t think the mourning period will be a lengthy one, but there are issues that remain that she still has to work through. She’ll spend years doing that, I imagine.’
‘Well, she has you to help her with that. And Emmet.’
‘It was so good of you to bring him.’
‘It seemed like the right thing to do.’
‘I told her to invite him, but she was terrified that he’d say no.’
This takes me by surprise.
‘There’s something I should probably let her know,’ I say, pulling her away from the bar a little to a quieter spot. ‘On the way here, I told him about the past. About Rebecca’s father, I mean. And Emma. All of it.’
Furia breathes in deeply and considers this.
‘OK,’ she says.
‘I don’t know if it was my place or not, but in the moment it seemed right.’
We both glance over to where Rebecca and Emmet are huddled together, and it looks as if he’s scrolling through photos on his phone – probably pictures of his surfing activities and his friends – and her face is bright with joy, as is his. He says something and she bursts out laughing before putting an arm around his shoulder and, for a moment, he lays his head there. Furia turns back to me.
‘It was right,’ she says.
Later, before going to bed, Emmet and I sat at the kitchen table together, drinking tea, and he asked a few more questions related to the revelations of earlier. It was a conversation he would have with Rebecca at some point in the future, he told me.
‘You didn’t say anything about it tonight, did you?’ I asked, and he shook his head.
‘Oh God, no. Totally not the right time.’
‘It looked like you were having fun together.’
‘As much as you can at a wake,’ he said with a shrug. ‘But I’m glad we came. And I’m glad you told me what you told me. It explains a lot of things. I mean, there’s still a lot I need to understand about it, about her, about both of you, but—’
‘Then there’s something else,’ I said.
‘What? About Mum?’
‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘About me.’ We’d come this far, after all. If there was ever a time to unearth all the secrets that had caused so much trauma in our lives, then this was it. And so I told him of the things that had happened to me when I was fourteen and how badly they had affected me over the years that followed. I hoped it would go some way to explaining why I could be so overprotective at times.
He listened carefully, never interrupting, and showed no sign of embarrassment throughout what was a lengthy and difficult conversation, centred around such an intimate topic. When I reached the conclusion of my tale, he looked down at the table for a long time, his brow furrowed, and neither of us spoke for quite some time. I guessed that he needed to think this through, to reframe me in his mind as someone who had gone through a childhood trauma and spent twenty-six years trying to come to terms with it. I could tell that he found nothing salacious about it but recognized what had happened for what it was. A crime.
‘There’s something I need to ask you,’ I said finally before we said goodnight. ‘I saw something, a few weeks ago, on your phone. I wasn’t prying. Well, I suppose I was. But I didn’t mean to. It was a stupid, thoughtless act on my part. I shouldn’t have looked. But I did.’
He frowned and sat back in his chair, looking slightly alarmed.
‘Some photos,’ I said. ‘Some photos of you.’
‘My phone is full of photos of me.’
‘More … intimate photos. Of your body.’
‘Oh fuck,’ he replied, putting a hand to his mouth, blushing from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears.
‘I shouldn’t have looked,’ I repeated. ‘I’m sorry. But since I did, I need to know why they were there. Who were you sending them to?’
His eyes opened wide now. ‘Sending them to?’ he asked. ‘No one! Jesus! As if!’
‘Then why did you take them?’
‘Because I’m so skinny, Dad. I’ve been trying to build muscle. I want to keep track of my development.’
‘And you needed to be naked for that?’
‘It’s not as if you could see my … anything.’
‘They weren’t far off.’
‘But far enough!’
‘You’re not talking to anyone online, are you? Someone who asked for them?’
‘Oh my God,’ he said, burying his head in his hands. ‘You are the weirdest man alive.’
‘That might be true. I just don’t want anyone taking advantage of you.’
‘No one is. I promise.’
‘You can understand why, though, right? After what I’ve told you about what happened to me?’
‘I can,’ he said. ‘But still. This is really embarrassing.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Can we just never talk about it again?’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘But you promise that you’re telling me the truth?’
‘I promise,’ he confirmed. ‘I’m a skinny fucker, that’s all. And I want to bulk up. You’ve seen the protein shakes. And the weights. I want to build some strength, that’s all.’ He smiled and looked a little bashful. ‘Like, I wouldn’t mind, you know, having a—’
‘Having a what?’
‘Like, you know. A girlfriend.’
‘Oh. Right,’ I said. ‘Of course. And you need muscles for that?’
‘Well, they don’t hurt. We live in Bondi, for God’s sake. You’ve seen what the guys there are like.’
‘So when I asked you on the plane about whether there was anyone you’re interested in?’
‘Let’s just say I have a few options,’ he told me, and I burst out laughing at the cheeky expression on his face.
‘Lucky you.’
‘I mean, if you need any tips …’
‘Yeah, thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll know who to call on.’
We finished our tea and finally he yawned, saying that he was tired and should go to bed.
‘But when we get back to Sydney,’ he added tentatively, ‘maybe we could all spend some time together. Me, you and Mum. When she’s travelling through, I mean. Would that be OK?’
‘Of course. I think it would be a really good idea.’
‘And Furia too?’
I nodded. ‘Of course. She’s part of our family.’
He stood up, came around the table and leaned over, hugging me, something he hadn’t done in more than a year, before walking away and closing the door to his room quietly behind him.
After the burial, when everyone else has made their way to the new pub for drinks and sandwiches, I find myself wandering around the graveyard, reading the names on the headstones and studying the dates. Some go back a hundred years or more while others are more recent.
It’s a fine day, the sky is cloudless, and I feel a welcome sense of calm. The woman I’d noticed earlier in the back row is standing before one of the plots, laying flowers, and she turns to me as I approach her.
‘A sad day,’ she says, the standard greeting on such an occasion. ‘He gave a lovely service though. Ifechi, I mean. We were lucky to get him. Lucky to keep him for so long too. He’s been a good friend to me.’
I glance towards the grave that she’s tending.
‘My son,’ she says before I can ask. ‘Evan.’
‘He died young,’ I add, noticing that the poor boy passed away before the age of twenty-five.
‘He did.’
‘You must miss him.’
She nods, as if she hardly needs to express how much.
‘I met Vanessa, you know,’ she says. ‘A long time ago now, of course. And I won’t pretend that I knew her well. But I always remembered her.’
‘You were on the island back then?’ I ask.
‘Oh, I’ve been stuck on this island since I was first brought here as a bride. I thought of moving away after my husband died, but I couldn’t leave Evan on his own.’
I glance at the stone again and am surprised that his is the only name inscribed on the granite. Evan Keogh . It rings a bell somewhere in the far corners of my memory but, for now, I can’t place it.
‘I didn’t let them put his father in here with him,’ she says, guessing the question that’s running through my mind. ‘He’s somewhere over there, in the far corner.’
She nods towards an area where the graves are far less well tended. I can’t help but wonder what led her to separating the pair.
‘He died young too,’ she adds. ‘Well, for these times, anyway. In his early sixties. Only a few weeks after Evan, as it happens.’
‘What happened to him?’ I asked. ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘To Charlie? Someone hit him with an axe.’
I blink, uncertain that I’ve heard her right.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said, someone hit him with an axe,’ she repeats. ‘It was quite the story at the time, although it probably wouldn’t have travelled to as far away as wherever your accent is from. He had the head nearly separated from his body, would you believe. No one ever found out who did it. It was during the tourist season, so it was probably some ne’er-do-well from the mainland. Someone with a grudge against him. He’d made a few enemies in his time, had my husband.’
‘So he wasn’t caught?’
‘You’re assuming it was a man.’
‘Well …’ I begin.
‘But no, whoever did it covered up their tracks very well. In the end, the Gardaí had no choice but to leave the case unsolved. It’s one of life’s little mysteries.’
She smiles, as if she’s explaining the conclusion of a crime novel she enjoyed.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘That must have been very upsetting for you.’
‘They tried to pin it on me,’ she continues. ‘On account of it being our axe. But sure the only fingerprints on it were Charlie’s, and he was a big man. I said it to the Gardaí at the time, I said do you think a fragile thing like me could lay a fella like him low? I wouldn’t have the strength for it.’
‘No,’ I say, wondering whether I’ve run into the local lunatic. ‘I imagine not.’
She takes my hand and speaks quietly. ‘I’d have had to have a fierce hatred in me to build the strength for such a deed.’
I stare at her and, at last, she releases me, and her tone changes, as if none of this conversation has even taken place.
‘She was kind,’ she tells me then. ‘Vanessa, I mean. There was a day, oh, a long time ago now, when poor Evan went missing. He was only a boy at the time, around sixteen, and the whole island thought he had drowned. She brought me a cup of tea when I was standing in the dunes, my heart sinking in fear, and, unlike all the rest of my neighbours, she wasn’t being ghoulish about it.’
‘She lost a daughter to drowning herself,’ I tell her.
‘Yes, I heard that after she left, when we all found out who she really was. I expect that’s what made her so considerate towards me. Mothers recognize each other’s pain.’
‘And your son?’ I ask. ‘Was that how he—’
‘Oh no. He returned safely that day, although maybe he’d have been better off lost to the water, considering how his life played out for him afterwards. There are times I think it was a miracle that I held on to him for as long as I did. Sometimes I feel as if God has been punishing me my entire adult life, but, no matter how hard I try, I can’t understand what I ever did to offend Him. It’s not fair, is it? Life. You’d wonder whether it’s all worth the bother.’
She shakes her head sadly, then places a hand atop her son’s gravestone, before walking on with a sigh, her head bowed as she makes her way towards the gate that opens on to the laneway and that, in turn, I assume, leads to her lonely home.
The sun is setting.
I make my way down to the beach and watch the waves as they lap towards the shore. Before me is the Atlantic Ocean, sweeping south-east in the direction of Tierra del Fuego, where it will make the bend for the Pacific and travel onwards towards Sydney, Bondi and home.
A sound from behind makes me turn and I watch as Rebecca makes her way towards me. She’s barefoot in the sand and I’m glad that she’s come alone. Taking her place next to me, we both remain silent for a few moments, staring out towards the horizon.
‘I remember when my mother told me she was coming here,’ she says eventually without any preamble. ‘And how angry I felt. The trial had just ended, of course, and we’d had such a terrible year. I felt she was abandoning me when I needed her most. It’s why I punished her. Blocking her number and unblocking it repeatedly. And then, one day, I just showed up out of the blue. She was so surprised to see me.’
‘She talked about that,’ I reply. ‘The night we met for dinner before our wedding.’
‘Did she? I don’t remember.’
‘Yes.’
She turns to me now.
‘Thank you,’ she says.
‘For what?’
‘For coming here. For bringing Emmet. It never even crossed my mind that you would do such a thing. When I saw you in the doorway of the pub, I couldn’t believe it.’
She reaches out and we take each other’s hands, recalling the good times we shared over the years, the laughs, the nights out, the jokes, the hangovers, the work conversations, the tears, the confessions, the traumas, the love.
‘I don’t want to have the same distance with him as I had with her,’ she says, sighing deeply as she turns back towards the waves. ‘I need to spend more time with him.’
‘You do.’
‘I’ve told myself that I wanted to protect him. From me. From all the anger inside me. But last night, the way he took care of me … Furia told me that you told him.’
‘You’re not angry?’
She shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Not at all. If anything, I’m glad you did.’
‘I told him about me too.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was the right time. He’ll go back to Australia changed, I suppose, but perhaps in a good way. You’ve done a good job, Aaron. Better than I ever did. He’s lucky to have you. I’m lucky that you’re our son’s father.’
I feel tears form behind my eyes. It is so peaceful here, just the two of us. It occurs to me that, after Emmet, Rebecca remains the most important person in my life. Someone who I would – quite literally – travel halfway across the world to support.
‘I noticed you chatting with Furia,’ she says after a moment, smiling.
‘Yes, I made a pass, but she was having none of it.’
She laughs.
‘You’re happy together?’
‘We are.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘Thank you.’
‘She gave you what I never could.’
She doesn’t reply, but I can tell from her expression that she knows I’m right. I’ve spent so long lying to myself about what went wrong between us that it’s time for me to face the truth.
‘All those years we spent together,’ I say, ‘you needed more than my words. More than my endless romantic gestures. You needed someone who would touch you. God, it’s not like you didn’t tell me often enough.’ I take a deep breath and just say what needs saying. ‘You needed sex. You needed to feel loved in that way.’
She nods.
‘I did, Aaron.’
‘I’ve spent years telling myself that it was the other way around. That it was you who didn’t want to touch me. I’ve lied to myself, to my therapist. Because I couldn’t face it. I’m that thing that Emmet talks about.’
She frowns. ‘What thing?’
‘The unreliable narrator.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Aaron,’ she tells me. ‘It was hers. I won’t even say her name.’
‘I know. You begged me to seek therapy, and I refused. I should have listened. I’ve never allowed myself to truly believe that I didn’t have a part in all of that. To accept that I was the victim. I’ve never given myself a chance to heal. And that wasn’t fair on you. Or Emmet. Or our family.’
‘It’s not too late,’ she tells me, putting an arm around my shoulder and pulling me close. ‘That woman destroyed a piece of you, and you can’t allow her to keep doing so. She’s in prison for the rest of her life, and you’re only forty. You have more than half your life ahead of you, all going well. Emmet told me that you’re still single.’
‘I am.’
‘That there hasn’t been anyone since I left.’
‘There hasn’t.’
She steps away now and looks me directly in the eye, placing her hands on my arms.
‘I’m going to tell you something now, Aaron,’ she says. ‘And I want you to listen. Because I mean it. Because you’re my friend.’
I nod.
‘You deserve to be loved.’
When night falls, I find myself back on the beach, alone on the sand. It’s dark now. The moon is out. Stars stud the sky. I close my eyes and take a deep breath of the cleanest air that has ever filled my lungs.
Slowly, I take off my clothes and walk naked towards the water, wanting to plunge deep down into the waves. I stay beneath the surface for as long as I can before bursting through the surface, gasping for air. I brush the hair out of my eyes and look back towards the island. I’ve swum a little further out than I expected but, while I may be a terrible surfer, one of the benefits of living in Sydney all these years is that I’ve become a strong swimmer. The water is calm too, so I know I’m in no danger. In the distance, smoke is rising from the chimneys of the cottages where fires have been lit.
But I’m not ready to return just yet, so float on my back, looking up at the blackness above me. I think about my conversation with Rebecca from earlier and know how right she was. Freya Petrus stole so much of my life, and I simply can’t allow her to lay claim to another minute. I refuse to be her victim any longer; I want to be her survivor. But how?
It’s then, out of the night sky, that a voice seems to whisper in my ear. The voice of a woman I met only a few times and whose body is now settling into its eternal coffin, deep in the earth of a church graveyard no more than a couple of miles from here.
Don’t go home , Aaron , she tells me.
Not yet, anyway.
Stay here. Stay on the island.
For a few months. Perhaps even a year.
Move into the cottage.
Heal.
Grow strong.
Allow Rebecca and Emmet the space to find each other again while you’re away.
And when you’re ready, when the time comes, go back to Australia and start over.
And yes, I tell myself. This is exactly what I will do. I’ll tell them both in the morning and hope that they’ll be happy for me. A year at most. Rebecca can base herself out of Sydney during that time and, when she’s away for work, Emmet can stay with Damian’s family. They’ll be happy to have him.
I must remain on this unlikely rock, this final outpost of human life before the Atlantic Ocean stretches towards America, and prepare for my second life, one that I will embrace when I feel the strength and confidence to do so.
I plunge back down now, blocking out all the noise of the world around me, but keep my eyes open, staring into the dark black depths of the water, feeling the tug of the earth, the fire within me and the air that remains in my lungs.
I’m not there yet, but one day I will be. At one with myself, at one with the universe, and – finally – at one with the elements.