Page 77 of One More Day
I go into a folder of unread messages from Sarah on my phone, and my breath catches in my throat when I read them.
We miss you, Aunty Rose. See you after your holiday. Hugs to George. From Jack and Ada.
And then from Sarah:
Rose, somewhere up there, Michael is shining down on us all. Yes, shining. He would want you to smile and be happy. I just know he would. But do what you have to do to get through, always.
And finally:
Don’t ever feel you’ve left it too late to change your mind and come home. Mum has enough food ordered in to feed the five thousand as usual. So even if you want to rock up Rose-style on Christmas morning with a bashed-out supermarket pavlova in a plastic bag, know that we’ll welcome you with open arms xx
I put my hand to my mouth and let the tears flow. I cry out loud in a way I haven’t done since Michael’s funeral, but I’m laughing somewhere in there too. My sister never forgets. She knows me better than anyone else. She knows my whimsical ways and spontaneous flaws. Like the time I decided to go to America for Christmas when I was nineteen, only to change my mind and arrive home at the eleventh hour with a battered, soggy pavlova I’d scavenged from the corner shop discount aisle on Christmas Eve.
I plonk down on the sofa with George by my side.
Charlie’s jumper from the night before lies uncharacteristically over the back of the sofa behind me. I close my eyes, inhaling his scent, and a strange sensation claws at my gut. It feels empty here without him.
Am Imissinghim?
I jump when my phone vibrates. It’s him. Just when I was thinking of him, he has messaged me.
Shopping today. Saw this and thought of you.
I almost choke on my own breath. It’s a photo of a rather fetching 1950s-inspired blue and white polka dot skirt with a matching belt. It’s so me. I love it.
I can’t resist a message back. I take a snap of his jumper, strewn over the back of the sofa which is so unlike him.
Saw this and thought of you.
He replies immediately.
Ha! What can I say? I’m finally making myself at home. Hope you are too.
I lean my head back on his jumper behind me and close my eyes. I hug my phone to my chest.
Who am I and what’s going on? Where am I? I’m so in limbo right now. I’m so confused with how I’m feeling his absence this morning. I don’t know where I belong.
And although a huge part of my heart still yearns for Michael, I fear that I’m falling for a stranger I’ve barely conversed with. But I can’t be. It’s too soon, surely.
I feel like I’m in some sort of empty waiting room, waiting to be called. Waiting to be told, ‘Yes, Rose. You can live again now. You can try to laugh again. It’s allowed. You can pass go, you’ve proved your sadness. Go and enjoy Christmas. Go and enjoy life like you used to.’
But there’s no such instruction from anywhere when it comes to grief. It’s like waiting on a train that never comes. It’s like walking in fog. And maybe it’s going to always be like this.
But Charlie … something about him has shown me different. Something about him has given me some glimmer of hope, like he’s helping me to smooth over some of the tiny cracks in my heart.
The way he so tenderly bandaged up my battered knees. The way he offered to walk me home that first night from the pub, pointing out the stars and lights in the distance. The time he cooked me delicious food when I was feeling low and sore. How his eyes lit up when he saw me at the Christmas Fayre. Most of all, the way I couldn’t concentrate on anyone else in the pub last night as soon as I saw him, and how he left his company to walk with me again.
And now he’s thinking of me when he’s shopping, when I know he’s trying harder than ever to keep a healthy distance after last night.
Neither of us is ready to get close again.
So why am I thinking of him from the moment I wake up most mornings now? Even when he’s not here, I feel his presence everywhere. I look around the cottage, I see him in every room. I go to the shower and I hear him singing to himself as he washes. I try not to think of him lathering up the soap, his tanned physique which I caught a glimpse of unexpectedly the other day now etched in my mind. I go to the bedroom to get dressed and see his clothes hanging in the wardrobe beside mine. I can’t help but run my fingers along his shirts, touching the soft cotton that will hug his chest when he wears them. I see his book on the bedside locker. A glass of water he’s been drinking from. Ifeel his eyes on me, heavy and longing, like when he came outside to the hot tub that night. In the kitchen he is everywhere, from his adopted favourite mug in the cupboard to his yogurt, cheese and cold meats with cute Post-it notes saying ‘help yourself Rose’ in the fridge.
And now that I’m here in the morning silence, I realise so is my Granny Molly. The memory of her wraps around me like a warm hug on a cold day.
I’m in a daze, staring out the kitchen window onto the back garden thinking of her, when I’m drawn to some blackbirds helping themselves to some seed from a net on the bird table in the garden. I’m transported instantly to a time when I wasn’t tall enough to see out this window. She’d pick me up and point out the blackbirds, singing soft lullabies as she gently swayed with me on her hip.
In later years, when I’d catch her leaning on the worktop by the sink, lost in thought as she watched the blackbirds, she’d say to me:
