Page 29 of Secrets in the Snow
‘Losing your parents at that age is unbearably sad,’ I whisper, then realize that Ben is of course within earshot and that at his age, listening to adult conversation is one of his favourite pastimes, especially when he gets to stay up a little later on a school night. The last thing I want to do now is talk about death in front of him when we’re all having such a relaxed evening.
‘It was,’ agrees Aidan, shrugging it off and snapping out of his flashback as quickly as he zoned into it. ‘So, what are your plans for Christmas then? I know it’s going to be different this year for all of us, but you’ll do something nice, won’t you?’
The thought of Christmas without Mabel makes my stomach churn, but Ben lights up.
‘I’m getting a robot and a Nintendo and I’m not surewhat else yet, but I’m going to write my list soon, aren’t I Mum?’ he says, kneeling up on the floor with eyes wide as the moon.
‘And that answers my question,’ says Aidan. ‘I always thought that Christmas was only Christmas when there’s a kid in the house.’
‘It’s going to be different for all of us, that’s a given,’ I say, trying to keep things light. ‘As I’m sure this all is for you too.’
I’m already dreading waking up in the morning with that old familiar sensation of loss that will hit me all over again; the hollow feeling that sits deep inside which comes with such a devastating change. I dread looking out of the window and seeing the empty space where Aidan’s hired car has been, right in the place where Mabel’s funny little green VW Beetle used to sit before she sold it earlier on in her illness. Most of all I dread knowing that this house next door to me will be still and silent again, and that the path of grief and sadness will be walked on without anything to prop us up, for at least the foreseeable future.
16.
Icheck the time. It’s almost nine and as it’s a school night, I realize we’d really better get going.
Normally at this time, Ben would be tucked up in bed dreaming, and I’d be on the sofa in front of the TV, flicking through channels robotically, checking social media repeatedly, and wondering was it too early to go to bed. Jude and I used to watch TV together at night, but it normally ended in a row over something I’d said or done that day that had upset him, so the peace of switching off the telly, turning out the lights, locking the doors, and going to bed without an argument mid-week had become quite pleasant.
But being with Aidan is different. He can strike up a conversation about anything, from music of the nineties, to Italian cuisine, to the best video games on the market these days that Ben would enjoy. An evening in his company, even if it has broken our normally regimental bedtime routine, has been a much more positive and all-round wholesome experience than I could ever have expected.
‘I think it’s time for bed, buddy,’ I say to Ben, who dramatically lies on the sofa in protest.
‘But!’
‘No buts,’ I tell him in my best mummy voice. ‘Aidan has a long journey ahead of him tomorrow and we’ve had a great time, but you’re normally fast asleep by now. Aidan, I can’t believe you wouldn’t let me do the washing up. I wish you’d let me help before we go?’
Aidan shakes his head.
‘No way, and anyhow I need to keep my mind busy, believe me,’ he says emphatically. He yawns and I echo him, which makes us both smile.
‘You’re tired,’ I say, stating the obvious. ‘Dinner was delicious. Thanks again.’
‘I’m a little bit tired, yes,’ he admits. ‘But I’ve also a lot on my mind, so washing up a few plates and saucepans will help distract me from wandering around this house and feeling sorry for myself.’
I put on my coat as Ben pretends he isn’t going home and hugs his favourite cushion on Mabel’s settee, just the way he used to do when we’d have dinner here in days gone by. It’s a simple, round, pale-grey velvet cushion she bought in a high street store, but Ben always got great comfort from resting his head on it while he and Mabel would watch a movie or sort out the world’s problems with their many deep and meaningful conversations.
‘I know, how about you take that cushion home withyou tonight?’ Aidan asks Ben, and I swear I don’t think I’ve ever seen my son look so overwhelmed at a gesture before. ‘You can keep it. I think Mabel would like that.’
Ben opens his mouth to respond, but the words don’t come out and I recognize the way his lip quivers, just like any mother’s instinct would recognize, that he is going to cry.
‘That’s very kind of you, Aidan,’ I say, trying to give Ben some space to compose himself, but he’s way beyond that already.
His chin wobbles, his mouth twitches, and then he pulls the cushion up to his face, burying himself in it to disguise his feelings, which makes my heart break for him. I feel a wave of panic, just like I did when he was little and he fell, or when I had to tell him Mabel was leaving us, or when he told me he was once being picked on at school in days gone by. It’s an instinct mixed with fear and protection, but whereas I stand there frozen in those few seconds of realization, then rush to his side, Aidan is already there. He puts his hand on Ben’s back and comforts him instantly, just like he did with me a few nights before.
‘It’s OK to cry, little guy,’ he tells Ben to the back of his silky brown head. ‘You don’t ever have to hide it when you feel sad or a little bit overwhelmed. It’s better to let it all out. That’s it. Have a good old cry.’
I crouch down in front of Ben and put my hand on his little hand as it grasps the cushion.
‘I just want her to come home,’ sniffles Ben. ‘I just want Mabel to come home.’
His little voice pleads with us and I feel so helpless watching on. All I can do is be there for him through this, I know that, but a tinge of anger bubbles inside me at how there is absolutely nothing I can do to take his pain away.
Soon, I’m crying softly too. I glance up at Aidan, who reaches his other hand across to me and squeezes it tightly. I know Ben’s reaction is all very normal and natural, but I still can’t help the anxiety that eats at me inside. There’s nothing, simply nothing as frightening as seeing your child in pain and knowing there is nothing in the world you can do to take it away. All you can do is be there for them, listen to their fears, and allow them to express any emotion they feel necessary.
Despite knowing all this, when I look at my broken child, so affected by the weight of grief twice now at such a young age, it chills me to my very core and I want to scream out at how unfair it all is.
‘You were Mabel’s very, very, special friend,’ Aidan says, finding the words I can’t seem to. He softly rubs the back of Ben’s little yellow hoodie as he speaks in such warm, reassuring tones. ‘There’s nothing like a good cry. You’ll feel better after, I know I always do.’
