Page 11 of How Much Wine Will Fix My Broken Heart?
I did hate him after that letter. I thought he was selfish and reckless, not to mention he’d be adding to his student debt. It was a Dear John letter laced with romanticism but it also mocked my sensibility. There is nothing wrong with investing in property with good travel links. Have you seen house prices? Did you want to live with your mother forever?
I also remember being very angry that he thought everywhere had a different sky too. It’s the same bloody sky, you idiot. It surrounds the whole planet. And I hoped he’d fall off that horse and get the shit kicked out of him by angry Mongolians. Back then we were twenty-one and we were G&T. It was such a good joke and it meant we always got a lot of decent bottles of gin for Christmas presents, back when gin wasn’t even in fashion. But he left. After university, he made me feel that I wasn’t enough, that my plans for the world weren’t big enough. He broke my heart.
I never told him of course, my ego wouldn’t let me, but it meant for three or four years we ended up toing and froing. Some days, he’d call me from a karaoke lounge and tell me in drunk tones how he’d sung Elvis. He’d croon it for me and inform me he was standing outside a 7-Eleven with his heart bleeding into the pavement because he loved me so much. I say heart bleeding. It’d be a massive outpouring of emotion followed by him chucking up his guts and then me worrying he was going to die in Japan, alone, not knowing the language or having the appropriate medical insurance.
Other times, he’d have been pickpocketed in Kuala Lumpur and he’d ring me in a panic asking me to send him money and a screen grab of his bank details. Then I’d spot a picture of him on social media, on a beach with a girl draped over him wearing a string bikini. I’d usually see this while I was on my period or revising for an exam in trackies, with chronic acne, and my heart would fracture. Then we’d have these long, drawn-out, accusatory conversations where we’d break up all over again. He wouldn’t message for weeks sometimes. He’d post things on Facebook and my fingers would hover over the keyboard in the comments.Are you coming back? I miss you. Are you OK?I felt he was living his best life jetting everywhere and I was the one at home building the nest egg.Come out and see me, he’d say.The sea is so warm. The people are so friendly. The food tastes different.I never did.But you haven’t had the right vaccinations for that part of the world. Be careful with your roaming charges. Hot dogs pretty much taste the same everywhere you go.
I scan over the letter now. I kept all of them, plus the postcards, the novelty fridge magnets he sent me. He once wrote me a love letter on a beer mat. I keep that in a Ziploc bag because it went a bit mouldy. I have it all in a box under my bed and, on particularly bad days, I get the box out and I lie here in my bed with a glass of wine as big as my head and I cry about how this box is all I have. Right now though, I’m not crying for once. I have the contents out on my bed like I’m undergoing some criminal investigation. Do people want to read about these things? It would make for a very sad love story, the moral being travel is wildly overrated and people in their twenties have pretty messed-up life goals.
I can put all these letters and souvenirs in a line and retrace the steps of our whole journey right here on my bed. I did retrace them after he died. I went to some of the places he went, the hostels, apartments and schools he called home. I met all those friendly people and I swam in those seas. They are warmer but that’s because of currents and tidal movements. Like the lost widow I was, I went to search out the missing parts of him to keep him with me. Was it healing? It was something. It moved me out of my grief and to somewhere else. All the anger I felt at him passing was muted by sunsets and standing on foreign train concourses trying to work out where the hell I was going.
‘What are you doing, Mummy?’ Cleo asks, her head craned around the door.
She sees my computer open, my notebook full of lists and the stack of invitations on my nightstand.
‘Are you planning a party?’ she asks. She sees Tom’s face on the invite. Her mind whirrs, trying to work out what this is about. To the girls, he was never their father but he’s Uncle Tom. He’s like some mythical creature. He was married to their mother and without him I wouldn’t have met these girls so they understand his magic.
‘Kinda. It’s called a memorial, to celebrate Uncle Tom’s life because Aunty Joyce gave some money to his school so they want to throw a party.’
‘Will there be cake?’ she asks.
‘I will make sure of it. I just need to work out who to send invites to. I thought I put you to bed?’
‘You did. I just couldn’t sleep.’
I beckon her over and get her to sit on my lap as I stroke her hair. It’s always had a gorgeous sheen to it. A month ago, she took to parts of it with scissors so there are strands of fringe that don’t quite line up. She puts her head against my chest and I cradle her for a moment.
‘Tell me what happened again,’ Cleo says.
‘When?’
‘After Uncle Tom died. You went on a big holiday.’
‘Of sorts. I didn’t do half the travelling Uncle Tom did but I went to New York, Australia, Japan, Amsterdam and, of course, I went to Vietnam.’
‘That’s where you picked us up.’
I laugh; she makes it sound like they were hitchhikers. ‘Yes, that was where I found you.’
‘I’m glad you did,’ she says, stroking my hand. It is true. People come back from travels with all sorts: new language skills, a transformed sense of the world we live in, herpes. I came back a mother.
‘All your aunties are going to be online soon… do you want to say hello?’
Cleo looks up animatedly at me and jumps off my lap to dance on the spot as I fire up the computer. You see, it’s Thursday night so that means it’s also time for the sister chat: a ritual we set up once we all moved away from each other. Meg is up North in Kendal, Emma, Beth and Lucy are in London. The chats started during that horrible 2020 when lockdown meant we couldn’t see each other but they continue to be a weekly event. Sometimes us five sisters talk, sometimes we fight, sometimes we watch Lucy fall over drunk while we try and have a quiz where Emma makes the questions too hard.I don’t know what that chamber of the brain is called, stop showing off, Ems.I log in and see faces pop up in little squares like we’re about to enter into some sort of game show. Whatever the weather and despite the distances that separate us, I always feel peace to see them. I think that comes from being #4 of five; you’re weaved so tightly into the fabric that you don’t know how to exist in any other way.
‘Greetings all,’ Meg (our fearless leader) says from her kitchen. In the background, I see her husband, boiling the kettle for tea, and a moody teenage daughter on her phone. ‘Piss off, both of you, it’s a sister chat.’ Her eldest, Tess, is now thirteen and seems to be reliving Meg’s goth phase. I hope they can keep her in eyeliner.
Emma (the doctor and second in command) signs in from a pristine living room, the decor of which she’s not changed for years. Beth (middle sister syndrome) is in maternity dungarees cradling a mug of tea, and Lucy (the wastrel youngest) checks in from her bed. I hope she’s wearing clothes. I can see the shape of another arm in that bed that might not be hers. I hope that person is wearing clothes too.
I see Emma squinting at the scene in judgement. ‘Lucy, it’s a sister chat. No extras.’
‘There’s no one here.’
I wink at Cleo as she stays out of shot, ready to surprise them.
‘Did you grow a third arm when we weren’t looking?’ Emma replies.
‘I just bloody hope that’s an arm,’ mutters Beth.
