Chapter 12
NOW
Dear Lexie,
I’ve become used to you and Ollie leading your own lives.
But Christmas is a time that’s always drawn you back.
It isn’t going to be the same this year!
Funny, given the thought I put into it, that for all kinds of reasons, as you grew older, you weren’t a fan of Christmas.
But while I was focused on everything I loved about it, for you, it shone the spotlight on your troubled brother and drunk father; the mother who did her best that was never enough.
I can’t see what the fuss is about, Mum. It’s just one day.
I tried to explain to you that it was a time of bringing family together.
I know. But Dad gets plastered and has a go at Ollie. I just get mad at him. You try and keep everyone happy – but you always know, whatever you do, you can’t.
You’d summed us up perfectly; I didn’t know what to say to you.
* * *
Christmas is always one of the busiest times of year for a florist and as another one approaches, Petals’ workshop is crammed with the seasonal amaryllis and narcissi I’ve grown; with newly cut stems of holly, the scents of eucalyptus and blue spruce, as Lucy and I work around the clock.
It’s also the time of year we get our most off-the-street customers, wanting a few stems to decorate a table or a fireplace.
Despite the seasonally inflated prices of what we buy in, Lucy and I have a core principle – no order is too small; there are times a single flower can make a difference. So, too, can a little kindness.
A week before Christmas, a girl comes in. She picks up one of our ready-made table decorations and brings it over to pay.
‘Twenty pounds please.’ I wrap it in crunchy paper and tie a ribbon around it.
There’s something familiar about her as she gets out her purse, her face turning red when she sees it’s empty. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she falters. ‘I don’t know where my money is.’
Then I realise there’s something about her that reminds me of you.
Her eyes are haunted, a hundred thoughts filling my mind that someone has stolen her money, an alcoholic parent coming to mind.
She doesn’t look like a chancer. Or maybe she’s just an ordinary girl who’s down on her luck for some reason.
Once, I wouldn’t have done this. But I know what you would have done. I pass the flower arrangement to her. ‘It’s on the house,’ I say quietly.
‘I can’t.’ She looks taken aback.
‘Please.’ I smile at her. ‘Take it. Happy Christmas.’
‘Nice one,’ Lucy says quietly after the girl has gone. She frowns at me. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine.’ But something about the girl has got to me; left me with the strangest feeling.
It comes to me that maybe it’s shades of how you used to feel.
Your recognition that we never know what’s going on in someone’s life; that in the same way, there are things going on in this world that we are powerless to change.
‘Are you seeing Ollie over Christmas?’ Lucy asks.
‘Yes. I’m going over on Christmas Day.’
‘And Ryan?’
‘I’m not sure if he’s doing anything. I’ll probably drop some food in to him at some point.’ I am still in the middle of the drunk ex-husband and a son who refuses to have anything to do with him.
‘This is Ryan’s doing,’ Lucy reminds me. ‘If he even tried to deal with his issues, I know you’d be the first to support him.’
‘I know.’ I try to smile. ‘It’s just that with it being Christmas…’
‘It’s an emotive time.’ Lucy sounds sympathetic.
‘But Lexie wasn’t ever sentimental about it. Always the opposite,’ I say. ‘She said it’s just one day.’ It was what you would say about New Year’s Day, too.
‘Too right,’ Lucy says. ‘Crazy, isn’t it, the lengths we all go to.
I mean, look at us – working our fingers to the bone on all these floral displays that will be gone in a couple of weeks.
’ She pauses briefly. ‘And please, don’t dwell on Ryan.
It’s no secret how he’s going to spend the next few days.
You should let yourself enjoy your time with Ollie. ’
She’s right. But I don’t know how to explain to Lucy that when Christmas morning comes, I’ll be back standing on a cliff edge.
Knowing that in turning my back on Ryan, I’m forced to acknowledge what’s too painful to face.
That my marriage was meaningless, that the suffering you and Ollie went through was all for nothing.
That the past you were forced to endure was a charade I tried to perpetuate.
I’m grateful when Lucy changes the subject. ‘The baby’s due soon, isn’t it?’ she says.
I smile. ‘In a couple of weeks.’
‘A January baby.’ Lucy smiles.
You were a January baby too, born while the elements raged outside before the temperature dropped to sub-zero. I brought you home to snow. Have joyously celebrated all your birthdays, every year since. Until this one.
* * *
This year, I don’t decorate our house. You’re not here, Ollie will stay away. Ryan won’t be invited. Far from united, there’s a jagged, irreparable split in our family. We are broken. But we have been for years, the house scattered with little pieces of us.
But still, there are moments of joy: our delighted customers, our last day in the workshop, when Lucy and I divvy up the few remaining flowers and take them home. On Christmas Eve, when I take them with the presents I’ve wrapped and give them to Jenna.
‘Thank you. They’re beautiful.’ In spite of her recent scare, Jenna is radiant. ‘Would you like to put the presents under the tree? And I’ll pour you a glass of wine?’
‘Thanks.’ It’s so rare I ever have a drink these days. I glance around the house she’s so lovingly decorated. ‘It looks so pretty in here.’
‘Thank you.’ Her eyes are shining. ‘I can’t believe this time next year, we’ll be a family!’ Her face drops. ‘I’m sorry, Edie. It seems so tactless to say that – when I know how much you’re missing Lexie.’
‘Please,’ I reassure her. ‘It really isn’t. It’s the biggest privilege to be sharing in what you and Ollie have. I will love her, so much.’ My voice is suddenly husky as, getting up, I hug her.
I arrange my gifts under their pretty tree, then stay for a wonderful, peaceful Christmas Eve dinner with her and Ollie. We talk about the baby, the future, with love, kindness; it’s exactly how family should be.
‘Thank you.’ When I leave, I hug them both, my precious, closest family.
‘Come any time tomorrow, Mum.’ Ollie stands in the doorway as I step out into the cold.
‘Thank you. Go inside! It’s chilly out here!’ I hesitate. ‘In any case, I should get back. I want to finish my letter to Lexie.’
‘Your letter?’ Ollie sounds shocked.
As the two of us stand there, time seems to freeze, my words hanging in the air as I take in the look on Ollie’s face – of love, anxiety. Sadness.
‘Mum, it’s been nearly a year,’ he says gently. ‘Lexie’s gone.’ His voice breaks.
I stare at him, tears filling my eyes as desperation washes over me, then a feeling of the most intense sadness that cracks my heart open. ‘I know she’s gone.’ It’s like I’m talking to myself. ‘I’ve been writing to her though. I think she must be getting my letters.’
Ollie looks frightened. ‘Mum! You’re scaring me! Why are you talking about her like this?’ He takes a step towards me and puts his arms around me, his voice muffled as he goes on. ‘Lexie died, Mum. She isn’t coming back. Not ever.’
I feel his body shake as he holds me. And in that moment, I crumple. Because I miss you – I’ll never stop missing you. Because Ollie misses you. Because I love you, Lexie. Because I think about seeing you again, every day of my life. But also, because he’s right.
* * *
So many days are seared into my memory, for all kinds of reasons. Birthdays and holidays. When your schooldays ended. Ollie meeting Jenna; you finding your job at the animal sanctuary. That terrible day you were in a car crash.
I was at work when my mobile buzzed – an unknown number I nearly ignored but mercifully answered, listening as a police officer told me what had happened. I remember the wave of shock that hit me; standing there, utterly frozen, your life flashing before my eyes as I became aware of Lucy’s voice.
‘Edie? What’s happened?’
For a moment, I didn’t speak. Then I was galvanised into action. ‘It’s Lexie. She was in a car crash. She’s been taken to hospital. I have to be there.’
‘God. Is she OK?’ Lucy sounded anxious.
I shook my head. ‘She’s unconscious.’
‘Fuck.’ Lucy looked shocked. ‘Go. Don’t worry about anything here.’
‘Thanks.’ I was already pulling on my jacket, hunting around for my bag. ‘I’ll call you when I know more.’
Going outside, I ran towards my car. Getting in, I was shaking as I started the engine, a million worst-case scenarios filling my mind. You had to be OK. You had to be…
I don’t remember the drive there. When I reached the hospital, I sprinted to A no fridge stuffed with festive food.
But the way I see it, when I’m the only person here, there is no point.
* * *
The strangest, quietest Christmas Day arrives.
As the sun rises, I walk to the churchyard where your grave is, lay a small posy of winter fir and berries.
As I gaze at your headstone, my denial fades, waves of grief coming at me, hitting me head on.
You are not in some far-off country where my letters will reach you. Wherever you are is much further away.
Standing there, I miss you with all my heart. As I walk home, I pass a man walking his dog. He wishes me a happy Christmas and I imagine him going home to a wife who loves him, to a house full of life, of family.
Our house used to be like that. I think of you as a child, your excitement unbridled as Christmas came closer. Holding my hand, skipping beside me. I will never forget, Lexie.
Your voice startles me. Those rose-tinted glasses, Mum. They’re not doing you any favours. Christmas with you and Ollie was nice. But not when Dad was around.
It’s as though you’re with me, but when I look around, there’s no sign of you, just rays of sunlight through winter trees, fallen leaves that are sodden underfoot, hedgerows still laden with overripe sloes.
I remember picking them with you once, the two of us making sloe gin.
Unbottling it at Christmas when you took a sip that triggered a coughing fit.
Mum! That’s really strong!
I used to be grateful that neither you nor Ollie had much of a taste for alcohol. Growing up with Ryan, you had been subjected to the worst kind of aversion therapy. Not realising until much later that for you, it had the opposite effect.
This is where I am, Lexie. Caught up in grief; unable to see beyond it.
I miss you, every day. It’s too much to imagine I’ll never see you again.
It’s why I write you letters. Will keep writing.
Whether it’s through the ether, or through the connection there’s always been between us, I still hope in some way they will reach you.
Christmas is a funny time. As Lucy said, emotive. Weighted with expectations that sometimes, though not always, can’t be met. There are only so many times you can field the disappointment. And when it came to Ryan, I reached my limit.
Then I’m thinking back to the Christmas everything changed between us.
It was Boxing Day and I’d gone for a walk – felt the wind blowing in my hair, the freedom that came from being alone, outside in the elements. When I got back, Ryan announced he was going to the pub.
I looked at him, knowing he was already drunk, that the moment had come that should have happened a long time ago. Momentous, yet I was oddly calm. ‘Do what you like, Ryan. But when you come back, we need to talk.’
He frowned, as if he didn’t understand. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It isn’t complicated. I can’t go on living like this.’
I waited for him to argue. But he didn’t – and I felt nothing as he went out. In reality, he probably thought everything would carry on just the same. But in my head, I was fast realising. I was reaching the point I couldn’t.
Then you’re back in my mind.
I don’t know why it hurts so much. But it does, Mum. I wish I had a dad who cared. But he’s never going to change, is he?
Hindsight, when it comes to you, casts the past in brilliant, clear light; illuminates events that at the time were blurred in fog.
It’s how I’ve spent too many years: fogbound, my life observed through the blurred lens of a busy life.
Life-blindness… I wonder if that’s a thing; if it’s something we’re all guilty of at some point in our lives.
Getting in my car, I push thoughts of Ryan out of my head as I set off for Ollie’s, a new determination filling me to appreciate what I do have, even if just for today – and it will be a good day.
As I turn onto the main road, I take a fleeting glance at the houses I pass – the wreaths decorating front doors, the windows decked with fairy lights; imagine the family gatherings inside, each with their own traditions.
Then I think of Ollie, Jenna, the baby who’s yet to arrive, my thoughts intertwined with memories of you, savouring the burst of love I feel.
Holding on to it tightly; along with you, they are the heart of what to me, my family is about.