“Alright, alright. Ahh,” she said, her eyes widening. “Tell me how it’s all looking. I’ve been stuck in here too long.”
I described the beautiful and sunny afternoon outside in as much detail as I could. She concentrated on every word, a half smile playing on her lips throughout. In contrast I took in her surroundings as I spoke. The staff did their best and Caroline and I tried to bring in some homely things, but there was no getting away from the sterile and oppressive atmosphere of the room.
“And when are you jetting off yourself?” she asked keenly. “Canaries isn’t it?”
“Yeah, Lanzarote Auntie Grace. It’ll be nice – start of next week I go. I’m looking forward to it.”
I tried to be careful not to sound too excited – it’d be downright insensitive not to. But I was very excited. I had saved and saved to splurge on a big holiday. It’d be me, the pool, the beach and all-inclusive food and drink. I just felt like I really needed some ‘me’ time.
“You’ll have a super time dear. You deserve it. I really hope you enjoy yourself Vicky,” she said, taking my hand.
“I will – but I’ll miss you Auntie Grace. I’m away for a week – so I’ll see you in just under two. Okay?”
“I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
I never would tell her all about it. I would never tell anyone all of the details, the police included. To be honest I’d question why anybody would want to know it all. Ignorance is bliss.
I’d driven back through the country route towards Saintfield, past emerald fields and old stone churches. I felt a touch despondent from seeing Auntie Grace’s decline, and maybe some guilt at how cushy I had it really. I made a mental note to try and be a happier person, a better person. I suppose I had known some hard times, but there were a lot much worse off than me. I would try harder to make the best of things.
But I had no idea then of what was coming.
No idea at all.
That night I had attempted some early packing and a little drinking alongside it. The drinking won out and put pay to the packing. I gave up on both and was starting to watch my guilty pleasure of Love Island, when my phone rang.
“Alright wee girl, how’s it going?”
“Enough of the ‘wee girl’ Mike. You’re interrupting my highly organised packing,” I said, tapping the mouse on my laptop – pausing some exceedingly sculpted beach bods.
He laughed and it sounded like he took a draw on a smoke too.
“I imagine it’s more likely your house is in fuckin’ chaos and you’re sprawled out in front of some shite TV.”
I laughed then too. “Not even close.”
“Anyway, I’m a wee bit housebound and might go for a spin. Do you wanna go for a ride?”
“Who are you – Greg Dulli?”
“What?”
“Greg Dulli – singer in The Afghan Whigs – he always says ‘Do you wanna go for a ride?”
“You’ve lost me Vick, you must be trippin’ balls or something,” he said, chuckling to himself. He was definitely smoking a joint.
“Fucksake – they were like the one band we both liked when we were going out. Black Love? Remember Faded with all the slide parts and all?”
“Black love? Oh yeah, shit – I remember. Yeah, it’s a good album – should give it a spin some night. Anyway – do you fancy coming out?”
“Sounds cool and I might get to musically educate you some more – but I better pass. I gotta do my chores!”
“Alright ya big square, I’ll catch you soon.”
“See you Mike, take it easy.”
I hung up and clicked ‘play’ on my laptop.
After I watched a couple of episodes, I had what you might call a ‘sentimental night’. I kept thinking about how Auntie Grace was deteriorating, and it worried me. Maybe I was just being selfish. She was really all I had now. I leafed through old keepsakes, letters and photographs. There were pictures of birthdays and holidays, some that I hadn’t seen for years. At about nine o’clock a text came through from a fella I had been seeing off and on, about wanting to meet up. He would probably say we were something like ‘fuck buddies’, but I wouldn’t call it anything so coarse. In saying that, he didn’t mean anything much to me and that’d be a close enough description. I gave him the cold shoulder, enough so that he’d hopefully not try again. Maybe that’s not the greatest way to handle these kinds of things.
I carried on with my ‘memory lane’, leafing through a shoe box filled with letters and cards, finding a poem that I had written. When my dad took his heart attack, he was in hospital for three days before he finally gave out. I stayed there the whole time with him, and I can remember writing this down on the second day:
Racing up to Hospital in a Bubble
Racing up to hospital in a bubble,
Wrestling with roads and rain,
While racked with fear,
And flickering dread.
Radio off, wheels spinning,
Isolated in the moment of travel.
Not travel for travels’ sake.
Movement is but a means to an end.
Nearly there, the yearning almost met now.
The need to be present,
The desire just to be close.
Others arriving for lives beginning,
But I for one close to the end.
I carefully returned it beside all of those other pieces of paper that meant so much to me, and perhaps nothing to anyone else. I hadn’t been expecting so much emotion that day, so much reflection. Sometimes it’s just that these things have been building inside you.
Then I wept.
***
I sat smoking in my little hotel room, tears running freely down my face. I just let them come, feeling almost detached. It was like a bath I’d left filling in another room. Maybe they needed to fall,
