Page 34 of The Last Night in London
I started to say no but stopped, my hesitation surprising me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go. But there were some things in life too painful to contemplate and therefore easier to avoid.
Instead I said, “I don’t like the winter. It might snow.”
“It snows a lot in Georgia in the winter?” An almost-smile appeared on Colin’s lips as he glanced at me. George spotted a squirrel and barked, pulling Colin forward in an attempt to reach it.
I shook my head. “No. Not really.” I watched the squirrel scamper toward a playground. A lone child sat on a swing, spinning it, twisting the chains tightly before lifting his feet so that it spun wildly as he threw his head back in joy. I remembered that feeling from my own childhood, the time before I’d had to grow up. Maybe that was why I opened my mouth and said, “Mama loved the snow but had never seen more than a few snowflakes. She died the night of one of the rare big snowstorms in Georgia. It was like she waited to check that off her bucket list so she could die.”
I wasn’t sure why I’d told Colin that. I never shared details about my mother. But there’d been something freeing about it, the way telling someone about a nightmare made it suddenly less scary. And because he’d said he was sorry when I’d told him she’d died when I was fourteen. Because he hadn’t tried to make it better. Because he’dknown; he’d understood that nothing could ever do that.
“You should go,” he said.
I looked at him in surprise. “Why do you say that?”
He kept his eyes on the path ahead when he spoke. “Because life is short.”
For the second time that day, I felt the old bruise throb, pressing on my heart, stealing my breath. “Yes,” I said. “It is.” Surprised to find my palms damp, I rubbed them against my thighs. “I miss my family. But there are other things waiting at home that are hard to face.”
“You should go,” he said again.
“You don’t understand....” My words drifted away. I didn’t know how to complete the sentence. Or maybe I wanted Colin to finish it for me.
“Did you have the chance to say good-bye to your mother?”
I swallowed, remembering. “Yes. I would never want anyone I love to go through that. It’s too hard.”
He looked at me sharply. “Are you dying?”
I shook my head. “No.”Not yet.I glanced away toward a grassy area, not seeing anything except flashes of life. Just like we’d been led to believe our last moments on earth would be. Without looking at him, I said, “We’re all dying, aren’t we?”
He was silent for a moment. “Yes, presumably. But today you’re living, and you have a family who loves you, inexplicably perhaps. Nevertheless they wish you to spend Christmas and attend a wedding with them. It’s a week or so out of your life, and then you can return to your work or what have you and resume living each day as if you were dying if that’s what makes you happy.”
“I didn’t say it makes me happy.”
“Then why do you do it?” His voice was quiet, his question not meant to be antagonistic or even answered. Yet it made me angry.
“You know nothing about me.”
“Correct. You make a point of not sharing very much about yourself.”
I shook with anger at his audacity and presumption: that he could calmly interpret what would make me happy. I turned on him, my hands clenched into fists, the need to lash out too strong to hold back. “My grandmother and my mother died of breast cancer. They passed on the gene to me, which pretty much guarantees I’ll get it, too, eventually. When I’m home, all I see is the pity in the eyes of my sisters, who were lucky enough to bypass that genetic lottery. And I remember what my mother’s death did to all of us. I don’t want to witness them going through it again.”
He silently regarded me for a moment, his blue eyes showing no shock or pity. Only understanding. I wondered again about his ownpast, how he knew the way to react in the face of grief. “I think it’s rather simple, really. Your family loves you, Madison. And you love them. As an ignorant outsider, I can say that it seems you should go home.”
The word conjured up the smells of frying bacon and Aunt Lucinda’s biscuits baking in the oven, loud voices talking over one another interlaced with shouts and laughter. My anger dissipated, leaving behind a glowing river of memories and faces. Of running barefoot through warm summer grass. Of the buoyant feeling of being loved.
My phone buzzed again, and I stared down at the screen. “You make it seem so easy.”
“Perhaps because it is.”
My phone stopped buzzing for a brief period before it started again.Perhaps because it is.Before I could change my mind, I texted my answer and hit “send.” “I’ll call her later, so you don’t have to hear the whole conversation.”
“Are you afraid she’s going to start talking about menstrual cycles again?”
The unexpectedness of his words made me bark with laughter, and I turned to him, surprised. “I don’t remember you ever having a sense of humor.”
Colin gave me a lopsided grin before returning his focus to the path ahead. “And I didn’t think you’d noticed anything about me at all.”
I sobered quickly. “I know that you expect people to say good-bye when they leave.”
