Page 96 of The Art of Loving You

‘Her mood swings are terrible.’ Mum patted my arm. ‘She lost her temper with her sister.’

‘Unpredictable moods will likely carry on for quite some time I’m afraid. Libby, have you talked to anyone about how you feel?’

‘My friend Noah. He’s a decorator and he’s been helping me with the house. He lost his sister, Bethany, a few years ago so he understands.’

‘That’s great you’ve got some support. Look, my receptionist will text you an appointment with the nurse for your blood test. It’ll be in the next few days. I’m also going to give you the number of a grief counsellor. You can say I sent you.’ She scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to me. I took it between my thumb and index finger but she didn’t let go. Reluctantly I met her eyes.

‘Before you go, I need to ask you whether you’ve thought about hurting yourself, Libby?’

I pictured those tablets snug in the bathroom cabinet. The bottle of vodka in the cupboard under the sink. But that was ages ago. Things were different now.

‘No.’ And I meant it. I felt more stable now than I had all those weeks ago.

But that was before I made a shocking discovery and everything changed once more.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The questions the doctor had asked me bounced around my mind.

‘Have you ever experienced any hallucinations? Auditory or visual?’

Is that what Jack was? A hallucination? Before Jack passed I had never thought about the afterlife, I hadn’t experienced the painful loss that forced me to confront my own mortality and everything that came after. Would a grief counsellor help me unpick my feelings? Sift through what was real and what wasn’t?

Instead of going home, suddenly I was desperate to talk about it all, but not with a stranger. Someone who was my age, who knew what it was like to lose somebody young.

Noah.

‘Hello, it’s Libby isn’t it?’ Noah’s mum asked when she answered the door.

‘Yes.’ I smiled.

‘Noah isn’t here. He’s taken young Liam for a burger. Do you want to come in and wait? He shouldn’t be long now.’

I hesitated, remembering Noah telling me his mum wasn’t good with people, preferred to be alone and yet she was opening the door a little wider. I stepped inside.

It was hot inside the house, the type of stifling day you get after a period of heavy rain.I shrugged off my denim jacket as I followed her down the hall, past those photos on the wall in dust-free frames and polished glass. Bethany as a baby, a toddler, a grinning schoolgirl, hair in bunches. Bethany leaning on the bonnet of a small white car, joyfully dangling keys in front of the camera. Bethany and Noah licking dripping ice cream cones on the beach, cross-legged under a blazing sun. She would always remain suspended in time.

‘Tea?’

‘Yes thank you, Mrs—’

‘Call me Sandra.’

‘Sandra.’ I loitered in the doorway as she moved around the tiny room, measuring out tea leaves into a floral pot, fishing a strainer out of the drawer.

‘So …’ She handed me a cup and saucer. I balanced it precariously in one hand as I spooned sugar from the small silver dish she held. ‘How are you?’

‘You know …’ I shrugged. ‘Up and down.’

‘I can’t imagine.’

But she could and I needed to know. ‘Do you … I don’t want to upset you but can I please ask a question? I know you’ll understand. It’s about Bethany.’

‘What do you want to know?’ she asked.

‘Does it get any easier? Losing someone young … How can you stop picturing them moving through their life? Thinking about all the things they are missing?’

She didn’t speak at first. My questions were intrusive, should probably have remained unasked. ‘She doesn’t like to talk about Bethany,’ Noah had said. Understandably so.

---