‘Don’t,’ Surtsey said.
She reached out to touch her sister’s hand but Iona misinterpreted and handed her the bottle.
‘Why not?’ Iona said. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’
Silence for a while between them before Iona spoke again.
‘Nothing matters now.’
31
When they got home, Iona phoned the Espy to say she was sick. They didn’t believe her, not least because she’d been in earlier to liberate the tequila, but she hung up before she could get a bollocking. She drank a pint of water then took the dregs of the tequila to bed. Surtsey watched her slouch up the stairs and wondered if she would sleep, if either of them would ever sleep again.
Halima wasn’t around, Surtsey presumed she’d gone into the office. Surtsey would have to tell her about Louise, and she suddenly felt the burden of that. Halima had felt awkward about moving in when Louise moved out; imagine taking your best friend’s mum’s bedroom in a shared house.
Surtsey took her mum’s rucksack to the living room, opened it and began lifting things out. Some nightclothes at the top, cleaned and neatly folded. Then a toilet bag full of nondescript items – toothbrush, sponge, moisturisers and the like. Louise had never been fussy about her appearance – no strict regimen of creams or make-up, just throw together whatever felt right and get out the door. That had continued in the hospice, even less reason to care when you weren’t going to be around forever.
Underneath the toilet bag were some books on volcanology and copies of New Scientist. Before the diagnosis Louise read a lot of fiction, mostly detective stories, but she reverted to non-fiction once she had cancer, said she didn’t want to waste time in made-up worlds. She kept up on developments in geophysics, interested in new analysis techniques and theories about seismic disturbance.
Near the bottom of the rucksack Surtsey pulled out some photographs, a Boots packet stuffed with fading images of the three of them through the years. Surtsey felt sick as she flicked through them, a lifetime in thirty-seven photos. Nothing amazing, just snaps on birthdays, Iona blowing out six candles, a beach shot with a picnic of sandwiches and lemon drizzle cake. It was the only thing Louise could bake from scratch and Surtsey craved it now.
She felt something under her feet, another tremor. Christ, they were happening all the time now. This was a light one, more a shimmer of the air than anything substantial, but still tangible in her body. She gripped a photograph, smudging the edge. It was over in a few seconds, a change in air pressure from the windows moving in their frames, then that was it. She looked up at the ceiling and wondered if Iona was awake to feel it.
She remembered something she’d read about how early humans had prayed to forces of nature – earthquakes, volcanoes, lightning storms – any displays of power inducing awe in primitive minds. That power highlighted our own insignificance, made us humble. And it went further back to apes, she’d seen a documentary about bonobos in Africa demonstrating similar behaviour. The presenter said it was because social groups got bigger and needed something to replace the conventional alpha animal. What better replacement than God in the shape of the trembling earth, a tidal wave, molten rock spewing from the ground? It was the need to impose order on chaos, the urge for a higher power to blame, a god to appease. But what happened when you did everything in your power to appease them, then they still destroyed you? What happened when your god deserted you? Your mum can die of cancer days after your lover is murdered, why not? There’s no reason to any of it.
Surtsey held a pair of red heels that she’d pulled from the bag. She couldn’t remember Louise wearing them since she went to St Columba’s, though she’d loved them and worn them often beforehand. Her life had become reduced, that was the truth. Why add more discomfort in the form of heels when you were fighting against the pain of your body destroying itself?
Louise had raged about the language of cancer, the combative imagery of ‘fighting’ and ‘beating’ it. Cancer was part of you, it was you, so fighting cancer meant fighting yourself. How could you win that battle? It was too simplistic and the way cancer charities exploited it left a bad taste. Surtsey had never considered it until her mum was diagnosed. Louise ranted to the consultant when he wheeled out the tired old lines. There had to be a better metaphor, or maybe metaphors weren’t the answer. You just had to live with it until you couldn’t any more.
There was a tiny ripple under Surtsey’s feet, a short aftershock, as if the house was breathing. Then just the clock on the mantelpiece with its thin tick, the burr of bike wheels as a cyclist passed outside.
The rucksack was almost empty now. Surtsey stuck her hand in and pulled out the last item, an envelope. Louise’s elegant writing on the front: To My Girls. She weighed it in her hand for a moment, listened to the clock ticking, then opened it.
Surtsey & Iona,
I’m sorry I can’t be with you any more, but my time was up. At least I got to see you both grow into beautiful, smart, independent women. Being a parent is hard, you spend your whole life wondering what you did wrong, what you could’ve done better, worrying that you’re fucking up your kids for life with your own hang-ups. But looking at you two now, I think maybe I didn’t fuck up too badly.
I know it’s hard now, but try to celebrate life, for me. Try to live life to the fullest, take chances, follow your hearts. I know that’s a terrible cliché, but it’s true, you really have to seize every moment. I don’t doubt that you’ll both have amazing full lives and incredible experiences like I did,
