Page 110 of The Truth About You and Me
There is another rush, feet running along a pavement, her hand banging on a door, Art’s face as he opens it, beard, clothing crumpled, glasses askew, a breathless feeling tight in her chest.
I love you.
Took you long enough.
The memories speed up, image after image after image: laughter; friends filling her house; the sounds of a saxophone playing; dancing with Art in her arms; snaps of scenes behind a camera; the sounds of gunshots; panic and adrenaline; mountains from outside a tent; the cool morning mist on her shoulders; more laughter, time slipping by in photo-snapped shots.
Art gets older, and life takes on a slower pace. But there is still laughter, still an all-consuming love. Art is hunched over papers, with a cigarette in his mouth, then I hear doors slamming, arguments, tangled sheets, thinning hair, aches and pains, laughter, contentment.
The images are starting to lose their colour, and the sounds and smells are more diluted. I see a door opening, a policeman, a coffin, a walk home alone, the fear of life without him.
The images are getting smaller, more distant: fading.
‘Riz?’
There is a blinding flash of light, and an overwhelming feeling of freedom. I see two solid doors opening; there is a swish of fabric. I look down and there is a clutch of flowers in my –her– hand. ‘Moon River’ is playing and I realise we’re in a church. Rows and rows of guests stand and turn. But they’re like smudges in the periphery because all we can see is the man at the end of the aisle: glasses, a smart suit and obliterating love as we begin walking towards him.
The images around us fade, and the final image, as the lights burn brighter, is Art, his hand outstretched taking her hand in his.
Silence.
The room I’m in comes back into focus, Riz’s hand limp in my own. A sob escapes my mouth as I lean in and kiss her forehead. Still warm, still her.
I glance to her photos by her bedside with a smile, taking in the time: ten past ten – happy time. I reach over and press the buzzer and wait. I cast a glance around the room, a flash of light in the distance. I get up, open the windows to let her spirit soar. The white light winks in the far distance.
‘Say hi to Art for me.’
51
FRIDAY 21ST FEBRUARY
Maggie
I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I don’t work.
I don’t know how a week has passed since I said goodbye to Riz. I pull the duvet tightly around me, as I shift into the corner of the sofa where I had leant against Jack. I try to capture his smell, the feeling of his arms around me, to gather some comfort from my time with him, but I can’t stop Riz’s life passing behind my eyes. It’s like I’ve lived her life right alongside her. It was a privilege, but the aftershocks have left me with a life that feels empty, a scrappy home video with dodgy sound and pixilated images.
The letterbox snaps open and closed, post sinking on top of the rest of my bills for the last week that are piling up on the floor along with flyers for takeaway pizza that I have no appetite for. I bury myself deeper into the warmth of the duvet.
I close my eyes, but the terror Riz felt when Art proposed, the fear of not being good enough churns my stomach. I knew she had turned down Art when he first proposed, but it was like a sidenote to her story, always told with a laugh and a shake of her head, but that’s not what it was. Not anywhere close. The roll of loss and regret keeps sucking me under, and I know it’s not just Riz’s emotions I’m feeling.
For the last few months, I have forced my own emotions beneath the conviction that I made the right choice, for me, for Jack. But then the image of Art at the door and her reasons for turning him down fell away, and instead, she stood before him, exposing her heart, giving him the most vulnerable part of herself.
The happiness of her life that followed that decision keeps playing on repeat.
I try to shake the gnawing feeling of regret. I have managed to create a life where I’m happy and safe. Being alone has never been something to be afraid of; it’s my sanctuary, a place where I can’t be harmed and can’t harm others.
My phone vibrates again. I send another message to Tess to tell her I’m fine. She’s in Amsterdam where an agent is going to see her gig. I hope this is the turning point of her career. An unknown number flashes up on the screen. It’s been trying to contact me all morning. I suck in the stale air simmering around me and accept the call.
* * *
Outside Riz’s house, life is carrying on without her. Her door is still bright red like her lips and the windows glint in the sun. I take slow steps and rap on the door. It swings open, a man – suited and booted – greets me. ‘Margaret Wright?’ he asks. Kind brown eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses, a gentle lapping Jamaican accent. I nod but don’t step inside. ‘Kingston Green,’ he puts out his hand.
‘Maggie.’ I gesture to his hand with a nod. ‘I have a…’
What? What do I have? The ability to hear thoughts, to hurt the people closest to me? To push people away?
‘Condition. I can’t touch people. No offence,’ I add at the quizzical look.
