Chapter 39
Amy: It’s No Good
I know someone – Aristotle, I think – said that nature abhors a vacuum, so in theory there is no such thing as nothing, no such thing as absolute emptiness.
But my heart would beg to differ. I feel like my life has become one big vacuum, like all the matter, all the meaning has been sucked out of it, and I’m just left with this huge void which can never be filled.
And out of the blue today it feels a whole lot worse.
Today even my doubtless imaginary remote connection with James has been broken.
And I feel like I’m slipping down into a pit of despair.
Nothing matters any more. I’ve spent so long trying to have some crazy link with James.
I’ve tried so much – meditating, crystals and I don’t know how many books on connecting with spirits.
I’ve even tried praying, despite not being part of any church.
But I’m guessing God’s too busy to listen.
Because he’s certainly never got back to me.
And now it all just seems so ridiculous.
I’m fairly convinced Mark managed to connect with him, but that doesn’t help much.
What am I meant to do? Move in with Mark, just to keep in contact with James?
And I think Mark’s wife might have something to say about that.
No, I have to face up to the fact that I can’t connect with him by myself, I can’t keep him in my life. It’s over, and that’s that.
I know I’m not going to move on to any kind of new life with another man, but I do need to stop driving myself mad with imaginary hope. He’s gone. There is no more for me in this life. No hope. Nothing.
I know the theory. I know that life has more to offer, that there’s joy and happiness and love out there in the world. But somehow I can’t access it. It’s like I’ve forgotten my password and there’s no option to reset.
So now, after all, I’ve decided it’s time to let go.
Let go of his stuff, let go of my foolish dreams. And maybe then he’ll only be on my mind 22/7 or 23/7 instead of 24/7.
I’m finally admitting defeat. At least Carol will be pleased.
She’s been nagging me for months now to clear out the cupboards and get rid of James’ clothes, and his other things.
I’ve kept putting it off. Getting rid of anything of his is painful.
But the clothes are especially hard. Maybe because they were physically so close to him.
And I remember buying some of them, and helping him choose others.
But I’ve decided to part with them finally.
Well, most of them. I’ve packed them into bags, and I’ve put them in the hall, ready to put in the car, so they’re almost out of the house.
There are a couple of jumpers I just can’t bear to get rid of.
But I won’t wear them any more. And other than that, they’re all going this afternoon.
And then there are the bikes. He had three really expensive bikes; two were shipped over from the US, the other one’s from Italy.
There were some other older, not quite so expensive bikes too, mainly kept for parts, some for nostalgia.
And there was the enormous stash of parts – loads and loads of them.
Taking bikes apart and rebuilding them was one of his favourite things.
He used to repair and restore bikes for a kids’ charity in his spare time.
It was such an important thing for him to give something back.
Although his mum’s an odd character, and not the most affectionate person on the planet, she and his dad did give him and his sister a secure childhood, and he wanted to do his bit for kids who didn’t have such a good start in life.
I have already given all the spare parts and the cheaper bikes to the kids’ charity.
But his favourite bikes, the ones he used regularly, well, I just couldn’t bear to part with them.
There are only two left, of course. The other was the one he was using the day of the accident.
And it didn’t fare any better than he did.
I’ll get in touch with the cycling club he used to be in.
Someone there will have James’ bikes. It’s not like I’m asking for any money for them, but I will ask for them to be passed on to some talented young cyclist who wouldn’t be able to afford expensive bikes like these.
That would make most sense, so at least some good comes out of it.
Either that, or they could auction them to raise some extra money for the club.
The club can have his cycling books and magazine collection too.
And that takes care of most of the stuff that I won’t use.
It’s breaking my heart clearing out all this stuff.
I’ve never lived with anyone else, so I haven’t experienced clearing out after a break-up, but having seen a bit of how it was for Elle and her ex, it seems pretty awful, with anger and resentment and the almost inevitable petty squabbles over things which were bought together in happier times.
I don’t have that problem, I don’t have anyone to argue with over anything, I just need to make so many decisions all by myself – which things matter, which things are just making me wallow in grief.
Which things I can’t bear to part with, and which things I can’t bear to keep.
But going through this clearance process has been tortuous.
It’s like I’ve gone completely numb. Getting rid of his things was meant to help.
That’s what everyone said. But in the end, it’s making me feel a hundred times worse.
I haven’t got rid of everything. There are a few things I just had to keep.
His watches and his sunglasses. Maybe I’ll give them away to someone one day.
Someone I know, who’ll look after them. But I didn’t have the heart to give them to a charity shop and have them be worn by strangers.
James wasn’t materialistic, but he did love watches and sunglasses – those and bikes were the main things he’d spend money on.
And me – he was always so generous with gifts for me.
And they were always thoughtful gifts too, not just something expensive grabbed at the last minute for the sake of it.
Anyway, I’ve bought a lovely wooden box to store his sunglasses and watches in.
It’s really beautiful, lined with felt, and I’ve laid them out nicely so when the lid is lifted it’s like a display case.
His Ray-Bans were his favourites because that’s where his collection started.
Although these ones aren’t the original ones he had.
There is a bit of a story with the first pair.
He’d bought them when he got his first month’s pay from the army.
And he’d really looked after them, apparently.
But then one day he got out of the car in a rush and didn’t check where he’d left his sunglasses.
Later on that day he offered Andy a lift home for the weekend.
And when Andy got in the car and sat down on the passenger seat there was a little crunching sound.
And that was the demise of the first set of Ray-Bans.
It really put James’ self-restraint to the test. He loved those shades.
But he didn’t shout at Andy. He was so good for controlling his temper.
He knew the value of friendship, and he wasn’t going to let one go to waste, no matter how much he loved those sunglasses.
Besides, it was really his own fault for leaving them there.
Anyway, his patience was rewarded because, bright and early on the Monday morning, Andy knocked on the door of our house:
‘Any chance of a lift to work, mate?’ he asked.
‘I’ll pay you,’ he added cheekily, holding up a Ray-Ban case with a brand new pair inside.
And after that, there was nothing Andy wouldn’t have done for James, and vice versa.
And James learnt his lesson – he never left his sunglasses on the front seat again.
So, the sunglasses and watches are all laid out in the box, but I’ve put the box away in the cupboard. Out of sight, out of mind – or that’s the theory anyway.
I’m not going to get rid of any of the photos of him, but I have packed them all away. I’ve even gone one better than Carol – not a single photo of James on display in this house.
So, I’ve just left the British Heart Foundation, where I took his clothes.
The ladies in the shop were very grateful for them.
They’ll probably make a fair bit from them – James bought good quality clothes.
I’m feeling a whole mix of emotions right now.
I’m trying to feel proud of myself for getting rid of them, but there’s a part of me wondering if I’ve just made a huge mistake.
Would it have been better to have kept them?
Was I really ready? I’ve nipped into Waitrose to pick up a bottle of raspberry gin.
I’ve kept avoiding alcohol as much as possible recently, kept being good, but tonight the willpower has run dry.
And now I’m going home and I’m going to make a serious dent in this gin.
But on my way back to the car, I get distracted. It’s the sign that winds me up. In huge writing outside the church on the high street:
‘Heavenly Father hears and answers our prayers.’
Well, I can say, categorically, it’s just not true.
It’s one big lie – and I hate lies. And as the cocktail of grief, despair and a burning sense of injustice swirls inside, I find myself walking up to the church, pushing on the huge wooden door, and stepping inside.
Not a soul there. Not a sound, just my footsteps on the stone floor.
I slip into a pew near the back. But I’m not here to worship.
I’m here to give him a piece of my mind, and I stand back up and walk slowly towards the front of the church, my eyes fixed on the beautiful stained-glass windows.
They certainly made a glorious building for him.