I wanted to talk about the possibility that Amy’s death wasn’t an accident – but the thought was so ugly, so terrible, that I wasn’t sure where to begin. We sat in silence, listening to the crackle of the fire.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Mike didn’t look at me, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on his glass. ‘What did Amy say in her letter?’
I squirmed, struggling to think of a way of explaining it to him, of conveying the message Amy had known only I would understand. ‘She knew more than anyone how hard it is with only one parent. She thought it would be easier on the kids if I could help.’
‘Did she think I was a bad father?’ His eyes started to fill.
‘No, goodness, no! Don’t ever think that.’ I moved to sit next to him on the sofa. He smelled like he hadn’t showered. ‘She definitely, specifically said: Mike is a great dad. Quote-unquote.’
He smiled.
I took a gulp of whisky. ‘I haven’t decided what I’m going to do, yet.’
The words came out before I’d thought them through.
Mike shrugged. ‘You shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to. She wouldn’t want you to be unhappy.’
We clinked glasses in a toast to Amy and sat in silence, watching the flames flicker down to the embers.
It was past midnight when I left for the short walk back to the pub, my footsteps echoing down the empty street. In Hong Kong, the noise never stops – the buzz of millions of engines, animals, and humans packed together. You can be alone but never lonely, permanently insulated by strangers. I missed being amidst that sheer volume of people.
The night air was crisp and it was a cloudless sky. In Hong Kong, you couldn’t see the stars – in Seahouses, there were too many to count. I tipsily gazed up at an eternity of lights and wondered which one was Amy. I wished she could help me decide what to do.
My phone pinged. It was Hannah:
Thanks for today. I needed a good scream. I’m glad you’re here
I texted back: We all needed it. Same again tomorrow?
Then I sent a message to Amy.
I miss you. We all miss you. xo
The next few days were shapeless, without form except for the ticking of the hours, the passage of day to night, and the certainty of the tide. Daily beach walks became the foundation of what little routine we were able to construct and the only thing that buoyed our spirits. Adam, Mum, and Auntie Sue came too, and we showed them our trick of screaming at the water. It relieved some tension, although Auntie Sue was sure the police would give us all ASBOs if anyone heard. One step at a time, putting one foot in front of the other and screaming at the waves became our way of coping with grief.
With the funeral only a day away, we needed a distraction. Mike had shut himself up in his office again, leaving me to watch the kids, and I decided everyone would benefit from another dose of salt air. We covered miles, making it all the way to Bamburgh and back again.
After lunch, we crowded into the living room to watch one of Amy’s favourite films – The Little Mermaid – and Adam and Rachel cajoled everyone into a singalong. It was a grey and drizzly afternoon, perfect for snuggling up together under blankets and throws. Amy would have loved it.
The mood darkened at bedtime. The children were coping so well, but choosing their funeral outfits led to questions about what their mum would have wanted them to wear, and the tears came again.
Between me, Rachel, and Mike, we helped each of them pick out their clothes, with Mum and Auntie Sue on hand for extra hugs when needed. We rallied each other, and I couldn’t help thinking that Amy would be proud.
I walked back to The Ship with Adam and we headed straight up to my room. I bought another bottle of Grey Goose – the first two had gone so fast – and he took some ice from the bar. I started to weep as I climbed into bed. It was cathartic. I realised I’d been bottling it up all day, and it was a release to let it out.
Adam reached for the box of tissues by my bed and handed me one.
‘I’m so proud of you. And if your sister could see you now, she’d be proud too. No matter what happens, you were there for the kids when they needed you.’
I bawled, letting the tears flow freely. ‘I don’t know how we’ll get through tomorrow. It’s just so hard. When Dad died, I remember feeling how bloody unfair it was. And this is ten times worse.’
We sat like that for a while, me choking on sobs while Adam rubbed my back. Eventually, I managed to calm down enough to breathe properly. I downed the rest of my vodka.
The phone pinged twice. The first message was from Hannah:
Can’t sleep. Can’t stop thinking about Mum. I miss her.
I miss her too. Try and get some rest, I texted back, the screen blurring beyond my tears.
The second message was from Mum:
I’m doing my best, Izzy. I don’t always get it right, but I won’t let you down this time.
I sighed. How many times had I heard that?
The windows were frosted with condensation and it was still dark outside when I woke up. I figured I could squeeze in an hour of work – just checking in – before I’d have to start getting ready for the funeral. But Bethany was all over my inbox and there were disappointingly few emails that needed my urgent attention. I picked at a cuticle.
Adam had helped me to select an outfit, and I knew it was perfect. Amy’s favourite colour was purple, and by coincidence, Adam had packed some violet wool trousers that I quite honestly had forgotten I owned. He’d paired them with
