Remy Hughes 2042 Aged 80 #2
She nodded. Not trusting herself to speak, as her emotions hovered very near the surface.
Cemeteries did that to her. Wandering as they did in this expansive wood, a garden of remembrance where all her loved ones had plaques, all reunited beneath a tree.
Their ashes interned under the spreading protection of the beautiful flowering red dogwood.
It was an odd thing that she’d not fully understood when she was younger, how the first death takes all of your thoughts, engrossing you with the novelty of loss, and the first painful realisation of infinite separation that is very hard to fathom.
Her lovely dad had been the first, of course.
I don’t like a fuss . . . this the phrase she still heard from his mouth as he smiled at her in her mind, and More money than sense . . . whenever she splashed out or left the lights on.
Her mum, the most marvellous, meddling matriarch, Ruthie Brett, had lasted another nine years without her beloved Dennis. She’d become quieter, as if without him to corral, the family no longer at home to fuss over, she had lost a lot of her purpose. This, too, Remy now better understood.
Hello, love, it’s me, it’s Mum . . . This her phrase, uttered every single time she called, no matter that Remy explained, each and every time, Yes, I know, Mum, your name comes up on the .
. . It used to irritate her, but my goodness how she would love to receive a call from her now.
The death of her mum had somehow diluted the grief of losing her dad, and so it went on, as if experience taught her how to cope, how to better handle the devastation. How to carry on.
Tony’s was a grave she had never and would never visit.
Too far away. His words in her head: Turn this one up!
Before they would sing along or dance or nod their heads to the glorious sounds of their youth.
And just to think of it meant she smelled the White Musk that had been their signature scent and heard ‘Geno’ chanted in the background.
Still she loved him, her wonderful, life-long friend who had succumbed to cancer aged sixty-eight. Too young.
Yet now, at this juncture in her life, when her bones creaked, her joints were inflamed, her skin too loose for her bones, her teeth weak, eyes myopic, feet sore, blood pressure high and her bladder no more than a slack and useless thing that contained nothing with great effect, it was somehow strangely fitting, for him, the beautiful boy, to be so preserved in his prime, in her thoughts, anyway. She knew he would have liked that.
Raul had remarried quickly, couldn’t bear to be alone, he said, and this too she understood.
He and Scott still sent her a beautiful Christmas card.
One of only a handful she received now, knowing it was very out of fashion, the waste of paper and the cost of postage, when a personalised digital card could be sent so easily.
Still she remembered the Christmases of the 1970s, when her mum would fasten sharp, garish tinsel in loops along the tops of the walls and hang card after card on them to create their festive bunting.
Remy could see her now, reaching up, as she stood on the sofa in her tights, with a paisley orange-and-yellow apron tied around her waist, The Harry Secombe Show on the telly.
They had looked wonderful, all those cards, and the walls seemed quite dull when she took them all down before Twelfth Night.
It was, however, Midge she missed the most.
Midge, her darling, her marine . . .
Just the thought of him was enough for her to feel the sharp needle of loss pierce her heart and for her tears to start falling.
The loss of him, her greatest love, her very best thing, the hardest thing she had ever faced.
Now living half a life without him, the man who had made her whole.
He who had given her absolutely everything.
Midge’s death, eight years ago, meant her parents, Tony, all of them, were relegated in the grief scale.
Eight years . . . it was a wonder to her that she had survived at all.
The ache to feel his presence, to stand inside the arc of his arms, to see his face smiling at her in the way that he used to, to hear his voice, my beautiful girl, to sit next to him on the sofa, to know the comfort of his warm skin in a cold bed, all of it.
Yes, she missed him the most.
See you in a bit . . .
His voice now clear and distinct in her mind, and her reply, encouraging the corners of her mouth to lift in a small smile.
Yep, see you in a bit . . .
A sharp wind flared, blowing on the embers of her aged bones. The thief of time no doubt watching, hovering in this place where death lurked, before the cold air retreated leaving the fabric of her ashy, brittle, and frail.
There was also something strangely comforting about being here among the trees and grass, where all life was represented, all ages, all fates, all people, knowing she would soon enough be among them. Her very own little plaque, nestling among those of her family.
Not that she minded, not at all. To have lived this long, to have known such love, was, she knew, the greatest privilege.
‘Here we are, Nan.’ Elio spoke softly, she suspected both in reverence and to give her a heads up, as if aware it was no small thing.
And there it was.
The new plaque.
Designed to match the others, yet standing out by the fact it wasn’t weathered.
No moss gathered on the stand that drove it into the ground; rain and snow were yet to give it the patina of age.
There was no trail from inquisitive creatures who had slithered or hovered on the words that meant little to them.
‘There she is.’
Remy felt the lump rise in her throat that duly pushed tears up and out of her eyes, which now trickled down her ruddy cheeks. The leaves rustled, trees danced, and the breeze, softer now, lifted her grey curls.
‘Could you give me a minute, darling.’
‘Sure.’
Shrugging free of Elio’s arm, she walked forward and bent low, slowly dropping to her knees in front of the plaque, as he walked on, giving her the privacy he understood she needed.
‘Well, my love, my sister, my Ashleigh. I shall come here and visit you. I’ll come and tell you what Evie and Kat are up to, and that darling grandson of yours.
I’ll tell you all about everything.’ She felt the breath catch in her throat as her sorrow made it tricky to get the words out.
They had seen each other with regularity over the last few years, although living in different cities made it difficult, but they had managed a reunion at least once a month.
Victor was always happy to drive her in his fancy car.
‘I’ve been thinking a lot, Ash, about when we fell out.
It bothers me still. I’m sorry for being stubborn, for not seeing more of you when I could, for not fully understanding that we were wasting precious time.
I’m sorry for telling Mum and Dad in the way I did.
You told me a while ago about what you wished to happen.
Well, I wish I’d done as you suggested and sat them down quietly, and explained what happened, instead of pulling the pin and lobbing my truth bomb. ’
With her hand at her throat, she took a moment to compose herself.
‘I hope you forgive me. I never stopped loving you, never, even when we were miles apart and not talking. How could I? We are one egg, split in two. One person, really, always connected, always.’ She took a breath and wiped her face.
‘You were the best – we were the best! And I shall miss you. Every day I shall miss you, more than my old tongue can say.’
It was as she spoke that sun broke through the clouds and she felt the warmth on her silvered scars, barely visible now among the lines and blemishes that covered her face.
A mask, behind which the girl she still sometimes felt herself to be hid.
A mask by which others judged her, quite unable to see themselves as an old lady like her.
This too she understood, because life happened in a blink.
It was just as Ruthie had always told her:
‘One minute you’re twenty, then forty, then sixty, then . . . and it goes fast, so fast.’
‘Doesn’t it just,’ she whispered, feeling a roar of regret and love surge in her chest.
A sound overhead caused her to shield her eyes and look skyward, and there it was, a single white bird, spiralling up and up into the bright blue winter sky.
‘Fly high, little dove.’ Remy smiled, closing her eyes as the sun kissed her skin. ‘Fly high!’