Chapter 37
Amy: How Am I Supposed To Live Without You?
It’s all very well dreaming of James, but I so wish that I could have him here with me, that I could hold him, that things could go back to how they were before.
The truth is, James was like a drug to me.
And I am desperate for a fix of him. But I know that’s not possible.
A friend lent me a book called Loving What Is.
I haven’t managed to wade through all of it, but the gist of it seems to be that you shouldn’t fight reality – instead you should embrace it.
But honestly, how am I meant to embrace the fact that my favourite person in the whole world is dead?
I could read every single self-help book ever written and nothing would change.
It’s not just the fact that he’s gone. It’s also the whole pointlessness of it.
For a long time I believed he was more likely to die young than most people, because of his job – although statistically, apparently that’s not actually true.
I read a report on it online once. It’s because the military are so fit and active, so they don’t die of other illnesses so much as the general population.
They call it the ‘healthy worker effect’, or something like that.
But deaths in the military are usually more dramatic and newsworthy, so it’s easy to think they’re more likely.
And it’s not like he didn’t have brushes with death.
He came close in the bombing that got Luke.
James wasn’t hit by the explosion, he wasn’t even in the building, but while it was burning he ran inside what was left of it to try to save Luke.
He was awarded a medal for that. But he always said he didn’t deserve it. Because Luke was dead.
But, of course, it wasn’t a work incident that got James in the end. At least if it had been, it might have felt like there was some kind of point to it. But no. Just a bloody lorry going off course. Just a blown tyre. No point to it at all.
I’ve not been up to the crem for a while.
The last time I was there I had the feeling that the FFC were maybe being a bit strange with me.
I walked into the café where they were huddled round a table with mugs of hot drinks.
It wasn’t the usual eleven o’clock coffee meet – and yet almost all of them were there.
They were in the far corner, engrossed in conversation and they didn’t look up while I was at the counter getting my usual latte.
As I made my way carefully through a little throng of people who had just arrived from a funeral, I started to pick up snippets from the FFC conversation.
‘…worried about her’, ‘…should we say something?’, ‘…time to find someone’ all reached my ears as I approached. Then Frank looked up and saw me, and he coughed and cleared his throat, before greeting me with a kind smile.
‘Hello Amy, how are you?’ he said brightly, as the others turned round and looked up. The conversation stopped abruptly.
‘Morning Frank. Is there a problem? Are you looking for someone?’ I asked.
‘No, no problem at all. Have a seat, love,’ and he quickly pulled up a chair for me, and I sat down.
But even though I normally feel so comfortable with the FFC, this time I felt there was something not quite right, like I was intruding – the conversation just felt stilted.
And I didn’t have the energy to ask what was up, so I just drank my latte as quickly as possible, made my excuses and left.
Perhaps I was just being paranoid – or maybe this grief is just driving me crazy. Who knows? Anyway, I’d already been struggling with feeling extra fragile every time I went to the crem, so the strange thing in the café just decided me that I should avoid going for a while.
Things were quiet for a couple of weeks, but then I started to get lots of calls and messages from my FFC friends, with a variety of reasons for getting in touch.
Even Tom, who hardly ever does anything that’s not face-to-face, had obviously got some help from someone and had sent me a text saying he could do with some help with a giant crossword in his weekend supplement, and could I possibly pop round with my wordsmith hat on.
And, of course, Olive always calls regularly anyway.
It’s just I’ve been a bit slow getting round to returning her calls and messages recently.
Then the other night everyone from the FFC turned up en masse to check I was okay.
I’d not been up to the crem since the awkward afternoon, and they said they were getting worried about me.
I did feel guilty about that. I really didn’t mean to worry them.
Anyway, they’d brought round a Blu-ray of Guardians of the Galaxy Volume Three to cheer me up.
They knew I loved the franchise – all because of James.
When I met him I’d watched most of the MCU movies, but not Guardians.
I’d just never been that into the idea of a talking raccoon as a superhero.
But James talked me into watching the first one, and, of course, I loved it.
Normally I’d have seen every MCU release, but I’ve just not felt like watching much for a while.
So we squeezed up on the sofas and they’d brought popcorn and fizzy drinks with paper cups and straws, so it was like a real proper cinema night.
The only problem was, none of us had read reviews of the movie, and no one had any idea how much of a tear-jerker it was going to be.
Poor Janice, who’d apparently been the one who had the idea in the first place, was absolutely mortified. The idea had been to cheer me up.
‘I’m so sorry, Amy,’ she said, passing me the box of tissues again, as I started sniffing.
‘I am enjoying it, really I am,’ I reassured her, dabbing at my eyes and blowing my nose as quietly as possible.
Of course there are funny parts in it too – lots, as you’d expect from Guardians – but the tearful stuff is really, really sad.
There’s one scene in particular which keeps going round in my head and makes me start crying.
(Big spoiler alert btw!) It’s when Rocket Raccoon is dying and he goes to heaven and his dear otter friend, Lylla, walks out of a beautiful white light to greet him, and he is so, so happy to be reunited with her.
He asks her if he can go with her, and they kind of kiss, and…
well, I won’t say any more because that really would be a terrible spoiler if you haven’t seen the movie (and if you haven’t you really, really must).
But it’s the most gorgeous, most emotional moment you could possibly imagine, between anyone, never mind a talking otter and a talking raccoon.
And the music is absolutely beautiful. And it just makes me so sure that I need James to be my Lylla.
I need James to be the one who walks out of the light to greet me when I get to the next place – and if it isn’t James, I’ll know for sure I didn’t make it to heaven.
If I’d been brought up in the church, perhaps I’d now choose to be a nun.
I know I don’t want another man, so perhaps it would be easier just to live in a man-free world.
Does all the spiritualist stuff I’ve been doing this last year count as some kind of religion?
I used to see myself as an atheist, but now I don’t know what I am.
Despite not officially belonging to a religion, I now have to cling onto the belief, or just some kind of hope on steroids, that there’s something more, that there is a god and an afterlife, that heaven exists, and that James is there.
And if that’s where James is, that’s where I need to get to, one day, when I can no longer bear this life without him.