Ashleigh Brett and Remy Hughes 2022 Aged 60 #4
It would forever be a great sadness to her that in his final years, he hadn’t looked at her with the same beam of delight, the instant bright-eyed wonder whenever he saw her, his golden girl.
It had dulled, as if she had let him down, badly.
This coupled with the fact that as she did her best to avoid running into her sister, went home less, engaged less; she had missed so many opportunities to see him, to be with him, believing she had more time.
And all because she wanted to avoid seeing Remy.
Remy, who lived close by and got to pop in whenever she liked.
She hadn’t been lying. It was rather complicated.
Reaching into her bag for a tissue, she did her best to blot under her mascara, not wanting it to smudge. A little embarrassed, a little awkward, as Victor was not yet someone she knew well enough to sob in front of.
Not at all.
Sensing her discomfort, he pressed a button on the steering wheel and the sound of Chris Martin singing ‘Fix You’ filled the car.
It was kind of him, but only made her cry harder.
Remy
Remy took a seat on the sofa, finding it very odd, being in her mum and dad’s house, without her dad in it.
Sorrow hovered in the air like a fine mist. Two weeks after his passing, there was no wailing, no tears, no chest beating in a rage of grief, nothing like that.
It was more a sneaky, silent anguish that left a cold residue on every surface, inhaled with every breath.
The lamps were on, yet each room was in shadow.
When she was in the cottage or helping Midge at work, she could kid herself that her dad was pottering in the garden, rattling tins, looking in jars, as he hunted for something in his shed, or oiling wheels and widgets, as he was wont to do, but there somewhere, mumbling about the recycling or the weather, in the place he had been since she was born.
To be here, to see his shoes paired up by the radiator, his favourite mug in the cupboard, his pyjamas in the laundry hamper in the bathroom, his wristwatch on the nest of tables by his chair, the chair with the slight dent in the cushion, where he rested his head every day at approximately 3 p.m. for his afternoon nap, all of it left her feeling empty, bereft, and unbelievably sad.
The sight of these redundant items helped her understand the finality of his passing, knowing he would never have need of them again.
To throw them away felt rude – his things!
She wondered how long it was prudent to hold on to them, knowing it could do her mother no good to stare at them day after day, yet the thought of seeing them discarded was just as hard.
‘Are you okay, Mum?’
‘I’m about as okay as I was when you asked me less than five minutes ago.’ Ruthie took a slow breath, her gnarled fingers running back and forth over the lace edge of the handkerchief that was scrunched in her palm.
Remy felt flustered, aware of the repetition, the banal question that felt like a safe and necessary thing to ask. Constantly checking, still looking for the opportunity to fix something, to make it better. How she wished for a different answer from her mum.
How am I?
. . . Well, I’d like a cup of tea.
. . . I could really do with a hug.
. . . I’m a bit chilly. Is there a blanket?
Practical requests to which she could provide a practical solution. Something, anything, to make it all a little bit better. If only.
‘Your hair looks nice.’ She tried again.
This one of many small phrases designed to break the silence, lobbing a verbal pebble, hoping to provide a moment of distraction, of joy.
Joy maybe too much of an ask. But wanting more than anything for the time to pass, so she could do as Midge had said, gather around the kitchen table with a cup of tea and talk about how it had all gone.
‘Janet did it.’ Ruthie didn’t look up from her handkerchief.
The hairdresser had indeed done a good enough job in styling her mum’s sparse grey locks.
Old-lady hair. Remy patted her own mop, almost entirely grey and still as wiry and unruly.
Her curls, her trademark. She had in recent years chopped it, so it sat below her chin, far easier to manage now that practicality took precedence over trend and beauty.
‘Sophie and the boys have gone for a walk. God only knows why, it’s bloody freezing.’ Ruthie tutted.
Remy’s shoulder ached on cold days such as this.
She now rolled it, making a face as the muscles pulled and twinged in a way that was so familiar she could almost count, one .
. . two . . . three . . . knowing that until it had popped and caused a needle of sharp pain to fire right through it would remain a dull, pulsing throb of discomfort.
Far better the ritual and routine of the predictable hurt that eased after she encouraged it with this movement.
Having spoken to Tony last week, he had commented something similar about the cold exacerbating his old bones, now held together with pins and wire.
Not that he had much cold to contend with, living just outside of Sydney.
The lucky thing. He and Raul were still toned and handsome and looked a good ten years younger than their ages.
He’d explained how tweakments were the key, not that she liked the sound of it. Needles, urgh!
‘We must suffer for beauty. You know this!’ Still his go-to phrase, that had made her laugh out loud.
Remy envied their sunshine life, not that she’d willingly swap her cottage for the surf at Bondi; she’d never been too good in the water. It thrilled her that her darling friend had found such love, such happiness. It was no less than he deserved.
FaceTime was a godsend, to see his lovely face at the press of a button.
He had called last week to say how sorry he was about her dad, how Dennis had never judged, and only ever shown him kindness, and how much it had meant to a teenage boy doing his best to navigate a less than conventional life in a small suburban place.
‘He loved you,’ she had told him in earnest.
‘Not all dads would have been so good to me. Your whole family . . .’ He paused, and they shared a knowing smile. ‘Particularly you and Ash.’ As was his habit, he took the opportunity to try and bring her and her sister closer, to restore harmony.
‘Your sister’s not here yet then?’ Ruthie called across the lounge and pulled her from her thoughts.
Yes, she is, but I’ve gaffer-taped her mouth, shoved her in a cupboard and not told you.
Actually that didn’t sound like a bad idea.
‘No, not yet, Mum. Shouldn’t be too long.’ Her pulse jumped at the thought.
‘You did tell her two, didn’t you? She knows to be here by two?’
‘I did, and she does.’
‘Maybe someone should give her a shout and make sure she’s on her way. No hold-ups.’
‘She’ll be fine, Mum.’
It wasn’t easy, the awkwardness between them. Not easy on her, not easy on her mum, and she knew it hadn’t been easy on her dad, a fact that filled her with regret. Her lovely dad.
‘You spoken to your sister?’ he’d ask softly with a crinkled smile of hope around his eyes. She couldn’t stand to think of it now.
Midge walked in, her handsome marine. There was a split second when, admiring him, she forgot why he was wearing his dark suit, white shirt, black tie, and the moment she remembered, a rush of sorrow caused her throat to almost close. She had to gasp to take a breath.
‘You okay, Ruthie?’ He walked over and quietly yet confidently placed his palm briefly on his mother-in-law’s shoulder.
‘For the love of God! Don’t you start!’ Her mum closed her eyes, as if exasperated, as she folded her hands into her lap.
Her thin legs clad in black tights dangling in her wheelchair.
It had felt practical to get her into it to save having to shift her from the sofa into her chair, then from her chair into the car.
This, she figured, was one less move, like a game of chess for their queen.
‘And how’s my girl?’ Midge sat on the arm of the chair and ran his hand over her back.
‘Don’t know really. Bit wobbly.’ She smoothed invisible creases from her black shift dress.
‘It’s ridiculous.’ Ruthie shook her head, as she unfurled her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. ‘Do you know what he said to me?’
‘What, Mum?’ She had no need to ask to whom her mother referred.
‘He said he hoped that, this year, we could all spend Christmas together as a family; none of this you here Christmas Day, your sister coming the day after and you staying away. Years of it! That’s what we’ve had – how ridiculous!
And what a waste! Selfish!’ Ruthie breathed in juddery bursts.
‘That was all he wanted, to have his girls here together, for Christmas. It wasn’t much to ask, was it? ’
Remy wanted to respond, but hearing that this was her dad’s wish and that he had not lived to see it was a knife to her breast, the blade tipped with guilt.
‘There’s a bit more to it, Ruthie.’ Midge did his best to pour oil on to the troubled waters.
‘There’s always more to it, Midge! Always.’ Her mum raised her voice. ‘But life is too short. That much I do know!’
Ruthie sat forward in her chair, her voice as strong as she could make it, but with the wobble of age and distress.
‘Today should be about Dennis, my husband, who is not yet cold in his grave, but all people will want to talk about is the girls! Why are they not speaking? Why don’t they get along?
Right here in the house he worked so hard to make nice for them, to give them everything they ever needed, so they could lead good lives! Selfish is what they are!’
‘All right, Ruthie.’ Midge stepped up. ‘I don’t think this is the time or the place. And all families have hiccups, all siblings spar with each other – it’s the nature of it! Doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.’
‘Well, they’ve got a very funny way of showing it!’