Chapter Twenty-Five #2
There’s so much I haven’t seen, not only of then, but of Iris’s years with Clara after the war.
And perhaps Tim’s right.
Perhaps my lanterns really are protecting me from those things that are not mine to recall.
Or perhaps my role in my great-grandmother’s life finished the moment I saved it, stopping her from catching that bus.
Or maybe I’m simply no longer searching for what’s passed because I’m ready at last to be here again, moving into my own unknown tomorrows – which, unlike all of them, I have the privilege of being able to count on stretching ahead of me, hopefully for decades yet to come.
But, before I go to those tomorrows, I return, one last time, to the attic.
I haven’t been up this week. I haven’t been able to bring myself to return. And I’ve been angry at myself for never bringing Nick.
Iris would have brought Robbie, I’m sure.
She wouldn’t have hesitated.
Wouldn’t have wasted their time.
Stepping over her and Clare’s creaking threshold, I go to their bureau, and, putting Iris’s hairgrip back where I found it, feel my body loosen in release.
I’m done with it all, at last.
I lay my palm on Clare’s nail polish stain, and look into the mirror, deep into my own hazel eyes staring back at me.
Then, in the enveloping silence, I head to the window, my focus settling on the damp expanse of trodden grass where the base and planes have all stood.
I see nothing else.
This is your existence, Ellen told me. You belong on this stage. Nowhere else.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, the thought doesn’t intimidate me.
I really have needed Iris. Ellen’s been right about that too. I was numb when I arrived here, afraid to let myself feel anything, but in Iris, I’ve felt – fear, grief, happiness, desire, love, so much love – and it’s opened me back up, crumbled my walls.
Silently, I thank her.
I thank all of them: these ghosts who will never be ghosts, all of them living their own eternity of lifetimes.
Closing my eyes, I place my fingers to the cold window, picturing a dark head, a polka-dot sleeve, and feel a brush of warmth encircling me.
And, in the distance, over above the woods, I hear that hawk, calling.
One final time.
I hadn’t intended to come to the cottage again.
Just as with the attic, it’s felt too hard.
It’s been more than a week since I last sat by this gatepost I crouch beside now.
Then, I was still frantically grappling for a way to change the unchangeable, and I had no suspicion when I got up to go that I might be doing it for the last time.
I thought I preferred to leave it that way: to have farewelled this place as I found it, without plan, or ceremony.
But I’m happy, now I’m here again, that I gave in to my instinct to come. I’ve grown to love this beautiful, wild, ageless place.
I love it most this morning.
I saw this piece of paper by the gatepost, weighted by a rock, the moment I entered the clearing, and knew instantly who it was from.
I trembled as I bent to pick it up.
I’m trembling now as I read it.
I’ve known about this place for a while, Nick’s written.
I came looking for you when you were out walking, a couple of days after everything broke about our son – who, by the way, will always be Louis to me, just like we said we’d call him if he was a boy.
I’ve wanted to tell you that, but I’ve been afraid it would make you sad.
When I saw you here, crying, all I wanted was to comfort you, but I was afraid then of making you sadder too.
I’ve come here a lot now myself. Done a lot of thinking.
I think you’ll come back here today, and if I’m wrong, then you’ll be upset that I left like this, so I’ll call later to explain.
But I don’t think I’m wrong. And I didn’t want to talk this morning.
We’ve tried talking, and it keeps not working, so I thought it would be easier to write.
Look where that got you with Tim.
I’m not walking away from us. All this week, we’ve been giving Iris and Robbie a second chance, and I’m not about to give up on the possibility of ours.
It’s like I keep saying, I’m not interested in easy.
Just because something’s hard, it doesn’t mean it’s wrong.
But you need a rest. We both do. So, can we please take one, pause to breathe, and see where it takes us?
We’ve got time. As much as we want.
Let’s use it.
Shakily, I reach for my phone, and really do need to get back to the house for Phil, but I want to do this first.
I want to do it here.
I don’t call Nick.
Like him, I write.
I’m not giving up either, I tell him, just as I intended to when I raced down from our room to catch him earlier. And I want to be able to breathe again. I want to breathe with you. Let’s take ourselves somewhere good.
It’s a minute before he replies.
I watch my phone, imagining him pulling over, looking down at his screen, not frowning, like I’ve seen him frown at his phone so often lately, but smiling: a slow, warm smile that lifts his face that I love, more than any other.
I see dots, and smile too, knowing he’s typing.
We’ll go somewhere good, he says. A new beginning.
No, I tell him, we’ve had our beginning. This can be our middle.
A long middle, he replies.
Yes, I say. A very long middle.
I like the sound of that.