Chapter Four ~ Nathan
That persistent, gnawing ache is back in my gut as I climb the stairs with Fiona’s bags.
An unnamable tension has been building inside me for months as Murph’s health declined and it became apparent the end was likely closer than any of us wanted to believe.
Unnamable because it shifts and morphs constantly.
It’s anger and bitterness, love and gratitude, sadness and foreboding, and so many other things all wrapped into an ugly, heavy weight that settled over me like a leaden cloak.
The sensations are familiar in a way; I remember a similar heaviness nine years ago when my mom died.
That makes it easier to convince myself it’s simply grief.
There’s nothing simple about grief, but at least it’s something I can name.
Liam has always said I prefer things that are easy to identify and label, and leave little room for ambiguity.
I avoid looking directly at Fiona’s bags as I set them outside her closed bedroom door.
Thinking about our interaction just now brings up another emotion, one that’s annoyingly easy to identify: guilt.
There’s a mess of other stuff mixed in there too, but guilt takes the forefront.
I should have been nicer to her. Should have held my tongue.
I can imagine the look Murph would give me if he’d heard our brief interaction, and it makes the gnawing in my stomach intensify.
Not disappointment, not exactly. More like fatherly disapproval with a sense of understanding and love mixed in. Always love.
I knew Fiona was coming, but actually laying eyes on her was a gut punch, the way it always is.
Seeing her stirred up a fresh wave of resentment.
While most of that resentment is directed at her, part of it is reserved for the little voice in my head that says I’m relieved she’s home.
That voice refuses to be dismissed, no matter how many times I tell it that any relief I feel at Fiona’s presence is for Mae’s sake.
Real voices from downstairs signal that more visitors have arrived.
People mean well and they want to help Mae, but the constant stream of visitors, along with the phone calls and deliveries, are making her even more scattered.
Over the last three days, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve found her standing in a room, staring blankly at the wall or sitting at the kitchen table staring into her tea as it grew cold.
This morning, I found her in the kitchen clutching the receiver of the landline in one hand while the fingers of her other hand were wound in the cord so tightly it had cut off her circulation.
When I gently took the phone and untangled her, there was only a dial tone.
I never did find out who she’d been talking to, or if she’d picked up the phone intending to call someone and then spaced out.
Liam is at the bottom of the stairs when I come down.
He has the same vacant look Mae has had for days as he gazes at the chairlift.
He meets my eyes, and the slight twist of amusement on his lips makes me wonder if he’s picturing the same thing I am: Murph on the day we installed the lift.
We were worried he’d be embarrassed about needing it, but he had plopped himself down like a king on his throne, giving us his best royal wave and cheeky smile combo the whole way up the stairs.
In an act of lifelong best friend telepathy, Liam picks up my thoughts where I left off. “That was Murph. Always making the best of things.”
“He told me once that he knew it wasn’t possible to leave us with only good memories, but he’d try his hardest.”
Over the last few weeks, as Murph grew weaker, Liam and I made sure we were available around the clock.
Murph wanted to hire someone to help with what he jokingly called the ‘heavy lifting’—things like bathing him and getting him in and out of bed.
A personal support worker came every morning, but Liam and I offered to take turns coming each evening to help him get settled for the night.
Liam swallows audibly. “We…we made a difference, didn’t we? For him? For both of them?”
The gnawing in my stomach turns into a painful squeezing.
I’m not ashamed of the tears I’ve cried over the last few days, but I don’t want to cry right now.
As much as I try to deny it, seeing Fiona has heightened all my emotions, and I’m afraid if I open the floodgates, I’ll be welcoming in one hell of a breakdown.
I cross my arms tightly over my chest, hoping it’ll help to hold everything in.
“Absolutely,” I say. “Murph was always proud of us, no matter what, but I know for a fact he was proud of how we handled these last few months. How we did all we could for him, and took care of Mae. And we’ll keep doing that.”
“Yeah. Yeah, we will.” Liam crosses his arms, mirroring my posture.
I wonder if he’s trying to physically hold himself together too.
He sways slightly, and it hits me how exhausted he looks.
Neither of us has been sleeping much lately, and Liam had the added task of trekking all the way to Toronto and back today.
I’d tell him I’m worried about him, but I know he’d turn it back on me.
We’re both sleep-deprived and should probably think about having a proper meal.
Instead, I settle on safer ground: our common goal of taking care of Mae.
“I’m worried about her. I thought she’d keep it together, at least through the wake and funeral, and then it would all hit her, and… ”
“And then she’d fall apart? I thought that too. I don’t think she’s showered or changed her clothes since the night Murph died. And I’ve barely seen her eat, even though there’s enough food in the house to feed the entire town.”
“While you were gone today, I fixed a plate with a few of her favourite things and had her sit with me at the kitchen table. She picked at it, but mostly sat there, staring into space.”
“I did the same thing last night when you went out to check on the weird noise Mrs. Ansari heard in her backyard,” Liam says.
“Pretty sure she ate a total of three bites.” He peers around the corner and down the hall toward the kitchen, where there’s a low hum of voices.
“Hopefully having Fiona home will make her feel better. Where is she anyway?”
I shrug, dropping my arms and shoving my hands in my pockets. “Beats me.”
Liam gives me a sharp look.
“Save it,” I tell him before he can open his mouth. “I already know what you’re going to say.”
His eyebrows inch up. “Good, then I don’t need to say it.”
“And yet you’re going to anyway, aren’t you?” I ask with a sigh.
Liam studies my face with narrowed eyes. He’s quiet for so long, I think he might skip the lecture, but then he says, “It’s time to let it go and move on.”
Anger spikes inside me, hot and fast. “How many times do we have to go over this? I know you all think I’m still carrying a torch for her and that I’ve put my life on pause all these years to pine, but that’s not how it is. I have moved on.”
Liam holds up his hands in a placating gesture.
“Whoa, okay, that’s not what I meant when I said it’s time for you to move on.
I meant it’s time for you to forgive her for not being here when Murph was sick.
You seem to think she was being selfish and heartless, but Murph told her to keep living her life.
You know as well as I do that once his adventuring days were over, he got vicarious thrills through her travels. ”
“Can you honestly tell me you don’t think she should have been here?” I ask, my voice low and vibrating with pent-up emotion. “Watching Murph deteriorate was hell, but there were good moments too. So many good moments. Being here for him was an honour and a privilege.”
Liam steps forward and claps a hand on my shoulder.
“I feel the exact same way. But I also think what we had with Murph was different from what he had with Fiona. They figured out what was right for them, what worked for them, and we have to respect that. And whether Fiona has made peace with it or she feels guilty and has regrets, she’s the one who has to live with it. ”
When I don’t say anything, Liam’s grip tightens and then drops.
He ducks his head, and for one horrible moment, I think he’s crying.
Something in me wants to flee, unsure I can handle any more right now.
Relief surges through me, followed closely by a sense of wariness when he lifts his head, and I see the mirth dancing in his eyes.
“What’s so damn funny?”
“Nothing, nothing. It’s just…it’s interesting how you assumed I was talking about your supposedly non-existent feelings for Fiona. Funny how that’s where your mind immediately went.”
I want to be annoyed, but his half-smile is the closest thing I’ve seen to anything other than heartache for the last few days. I’ll let him have this win. Knowing he expects a reaction, I shove his shoulder without any real force. “Fuck you, Doherty.”
The sound of his chuckle eases some of the tightly-coiled tension inside me. “We’ll circle back to this some other time, yeah?” he asks, taking a few unhurried steps toward the front door.
“Sure. How ’bout two weeks from never?”
Another chuckle as he grabs his jacket. “We’ll see.” He twists to reach for the doorknob, but stops, the humour fading from his face. “Murph loved us like sons, right?”
I frown, unable to fathom where he’s going with this. Instead of answering, I simply nod.
“Right,” he says absently, rubbing the dark stubble on his chin.
“We were the sons he never had, you and me. Now consider this: as fiercely as he loved us, he loved Fiona even more. We respected him for wanting to protect us and shelter us from pain—and in turn, we did what we could to shelter Mae—so why is it so hard for you to accept that’s exactly what he tried to do with Fiona? ”