Chapter 19
NINETEEN
They sit on the swings before the rain comes in.
It is forecast for later that evening, but for now it is fresh and bright, their shoes scuffing on the asphalt.
Nora in sandals, Bren in the only shoes that aren’t his hiking boots: approach shoes, he’d called them.
And this, she thinks, is what they’ve been approaching this whole time.
I don’t want to do it, Bren says.
She stays quiet, at first, a swallow flying over their heads. Then she tells him he doesn’t have to. But you think I should? he asks her.
I think it should have been talked about, first, rather than thrust upon you like that, she says. I also think that conversation should stay private, between you and your mum. Or a therapist, even. When you’re ready.
She thinks of Freya, muscling in on this whole thing. The shame of it, the gall. And she thinks of herself, too, resenting Jon. Half hating him. Unable to lay him to rest, properly, because he is not the man she had known.
Well I’m not ready, Bren says. And it’s pathetic.
It’s not, Nora says.
He leans back on the swing like he used to, so far his head nearly touches the ground.
You can really see the world is a sphere, Nora, he told her once, if you do this, tip way back until you can’t see anything else, no houses or pylons or pavements, just the sky, do you see?
And Nora had thought, not for the first time, that he was a poet, inside; or at least might be, one day.
If he could only understand what he felt, and not just say what he saw.
I can’t believe he died, he says, and his voice is so hoarse, so barely there, it could be the wind.
I know, she says, and he rights himself again and says he knows she knows, that she was there, that she went to the funeral, helped with the aftermath he couldn’t face and still doesn’t want to because it fucking hurts, still, after all this time, nothing helps; why does it still fucking hurt.
Nora just looks at him, his hoop earring catching the light.
How do you know, though, she asks. That nothing helps? That talking to someone, maybe, won’t help?
I just know, he says. It won’t work.
I think you’re just afraid that it won’t, she says, and Bren says obviously, Nora!
It completely terrifies me, that this is it, for me!
That I’ll be running towards just wanting to feel better, all the time, and not crazy – I feel crazy, when I think for a single second, so it’s better not to!
It’s better to try and find some goddamn relief that isn’t a pill or a psychiatrist, for fuck’s sake!
I choose living. I don’t want to waste my life here, I don’t want to die in a driveway, or cooped up in a cottage because I can’t go out –
You are not your mother, Nora cuts in, and Bren hits his forehead, repeatedly, with one fist. Hey, she says, and she gets off the swing, takes his hand in her left; lifts his chin with her right.
You told me that most people overthink things, she says. When it’s better to just jump.
That’s different, he says, and when she asks why, he says because that’s about something that is going to happen. But this has happened, already. It’s done.
But everything is always happening, Nora says. How you feel is happening. How you want to be, in this life that you’re so desperate to live, Bren, that’s happening.
That’s just art school talk, he says, but he doesn’t pull away. Keeps his chin in her hand, regret, she thinks, in his eyes; an apology, even. Love. As real as his jaw in her palm, which she feels for him, too, and which no longer frightens her.
The past matters, she says, thinking back to Robin’s notebook.
The things he’d paid attention to that she’d lost sight of, when things got hazy.
And she’s going to go on to say that you can’t deal with the present – or the future – unless you let the past in, but Bren speaks first, says he knows she loved him too. His dad.
And at this, Nora takes her hands back. She’d not been thinking of Jon.
I know he was a … great dad, to you, she says, all the same. Looking up at the swallows on the telegraph wire. Three of them, preening, with their long-split tails.
But he wasn’t a hero, she goes on. He was just human. You don’t need him, Bren, for the world to keep turning. And you’re just human, too. You couldn’t have done anything to help him.
You don’t know that, Bren says.
Well, either way, you can’t change it, Nora says, or how you feel about it. And you can’t just force it away, either. You can try and avoid it for another twelve years, if you want. But I’m not sure that ever works out.
Bren pushes the air out of his nose, like he still doesn’t agree.
You said you choose living, she says, and he looks away from her now, towards the farmers’ fields. But being afraid is a part of being alive, Bren.
She waits for him to say that she’s right. To stand and hug her, the way she’d hugged him, not half an hour ago, to be the person she knows is inside, the one she’s always defended and cared about in spite of his sporadic contact and questionable decisions.
Baby steps, she says. Talk to someone. Or just talk about him. Use his name.
I can’t, is all he says.
And Nora nods. All the windows and trapdoors of her flung wide open, letting something in, while something else rushes out.
_
Josie is waiting for her when she crunches up the driveway. Is he all right, she asks, shivering, the light lost now, blue shadows spread on the lawn. Her anorak is wrapped around her like a dressing gown, her face drawn with worry.
He’s … emotional, Nora says. He’s gone for a walk.
Josie nods, and Nora stands with her, not knowing what to say.
Why spring it on him, like that. Surely you could see he’s not ready.
But she doesn’t want to make Josie feel worse than she already does, so she pulls out her phone to text Robin, as a reflex, only to find – strange – three missed calls from his brother.
He’s going to leave again, isn’t he, Josie says, and Nora looks up at her. She’s staring at the green, at the swing set standing empty.
I think so, Nora nods. I’m sorry.
Don’t be, Josie says. I knew he would. Once you were married, or we’d … done what I’d planned.
You’d really planned it, all this time?
Well, yes. As soon as I realised how resistant he was, still. I thought it might help … dislodge some things, for him. For all of us.
Josie takes her eyes from the green and instead rests them on Nora.
Clearly Bren isn’t ready for that, she says. But you are, I think.
Except Nora cannot bear the thought of scattering Jon’s ashes, now, after everything, and she has her phone in her hand with the missed calls from Goose, so she says I actually need to get back to Robin, now, Jose.
I was just going to call him, and as she says it, her phone actually rings, and it is Goose again, so she turns her back on Josie to answer.
Nora? he says, and his voice crackles with the sparse signal. Yes, she says, and he asks her, straight out, what the hell is wrong with my brother?
Panic, again, just like when Robin left. Heart jacked up, nausea. She wants to go and lie down, or run a mile. Either, she thinks, would be better than feeling so jammed.
He’s a wreck, Goose is saying, without waiting for her answer. He turned up at my flat an hour ago and shut himself in the guest room.
Can I speak to him?
He’s out cold, Nora! Like he’s sleeping off a hangover! What the hell happened at that lunch? Where are you?
At Freya’s, still, she says, fraught. He said he was going home.
Well, he came here, instead.
I’ll get on the next bus over.
I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Goose says. He clearly wants some space.
Then how do I fix it, Nora cries, desperate now, and she can feel through the phone that Goose can’t deal with this; his distress softens, at the sound of her own.
Look, he says. Let him sleep on it. I’m sure it’s recoverable.
Nora clutches the phone to her ear, hoping he’s right.
Will you tell him I love him, please? That this was all just a – really big – misunderstanding?
Goose is quiet, then. Bad line, bad feeling.
Was it, though, he asks. He told me about the venue.
I know, but –
I think he’s sick with stress, Nora. I’ve never seen him like this.
Then let me talk to him!
I’ll keep him here overnight, he says, but send him home for breakfast. If he’ll listen to me. I hate saying this, man, he says, and Nora is crying now, silently, as he says but if you love him like you say you do? I think you need to do some serious damage control, here.
I know that, Nora thinks. That’s the plan. But she can’t explain it to Goose, first, before she can explain it to Robin himself.
Just tell him I’ll be waiting, Nora says. First thing, at our flat?
But the line is crackling again, and he’s saying more things when the call cuts out and Josie is left saying her name.
Is everything all right, she asks, tentative, and then it is Nora’s turn to break in this driveway, with Josie’s twig-like arms around her as she rocks her back and forth before ushering her inside, saying what a day, Nora, good grief. What a day.
_
She checks her phone while Josie makes tea.
Sends a text to Robin, tries to call him, leaves a voicemail.
I love you, I’m sorry, I’ll set everything straight, I promise.
The rain has started to fall now, taps on the window while Josie slices cake, carries it to the dining room on two patterned plates.
It’s not the roast lamb we were hoping for, I’m afraid, she says, still in her anorak. She leaves the room to hang it up, comes back again. Nora sits, watching it all, her world spinning slowly. Her phone, blank. Cake forks, two teacups. The black urn of Jon on the bookshelf, watching her back.
I texted your mother, Josie says, as she pours the tea, but she wanted to be with her tomatoes.
Her hands are shaking, slightly, as she says it.