I blow-dried and curled my hair, wanting to look my best for my sister, and finished the look with oversized Dior sunglasses.
The sun was just starting to rise as I walked down the lane towards Amy’s house. I took a nip of vodka from my hip flask before letting myself in.
Mike was asleep in the chair in the living room in yesterday’s clothes, an empty bottle at his feet. He reeked of whisky, and his eyes were red and puffy. I ushered him upstairs to shower and shave before the kids could see him.
I sent a message to Hannah, as she seemed much more comfortable communicating by text than actually talking. Hey, whatever worked.
Good morning, rise and shine. I’m downstairs. Do you want a cup of tea?
She replied right away:
Thanks, but I’ve been awake since 4 a.m., and already had tea.
P.S. I don’t think I can do this.
I tiptoed upstairs. Hannah was sitting up in bed, her cheeks streaked with sticky tears and a shoebox of photos on her lap. She shuffled along to make space for me. The battered shoebox was familiar. Amy never threw photos away, and any that didn’t make it to a frame or album were all in here.
There were pictures from when we were kids, Mum and Dad almost unrecognisable as thirty-something-year-olds. Group shots of school trips and sleepovers with teenage girls who were grown women now. People from university whose faces I recognised, but whose names I had long forgotten. Amy and Mike on a beach. Separate photos of them at the same table of a Greek taverna, long before selfies existed, back when people used to take it in turns to take pictures of each other.
I picked out a photo of me and Amy. She was laughing, a full toothy cackle, her head tossed back and her hair in wild curls. The familiarity of her features – the shape of her nose, her teeth, the colour of her eyes – made me want to climb in to the photo and touch her. I knew every freckle on that face.
There were hundreds of photos, and I wanted to take my time and devour every single one. But first, we had a funeral to get through.
In her room across the landing, Betsy was still sound asleep and breathing in delicious snuffling snores. She was so peaceful, and I didn’t want to imagine what the next few hours had in store for her. If I could have left her sleeping and come back for her when it was all over, I would have gladly done it. I stroked her shoulder, singing her name. She slowly blinked awake and there was a flicker, precious seconds before she remembered and reality hit. I held her tight, inhaling the scent of her hair, permanently perfumed with sea air.
I walked into Lucas’s room and found him curled up on his bottom bunk, contorted by great body-wracking sobs that made no sound. My heart broke and I collapsed onto my knees beside him.
‘I don’t want to… don’t make me go!’
He pressed his face into my neck, his hot tears rolling down my collar. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him as close as possible, wishing that I could absorb his pain. I wasn’t prepared for this. Was I supposed to force the kids go to their mum’s funeral, even if they refused?
Mercifully, Rachel had arrived and come upstairs to find me. She stuck her head around Lucas’s door. I turned to her, silently begging for an answer. She joined me at the foot of the bed.
‘You know what, Lucas? Me and Auntie Izzy were just saying yesterday how proud your mum would be of you. Of all of you. And she would hate to see how much you’re hurting.’
Lucas snivelled.
‘And if you don’t want to go to the funeral, you don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. This is just a chance to say goodbye to Mum and celebrate her life, but there will be plenty more chances. You don’t need to do it today, or in church. We can celebrate and remember her every day for the rest of our lives.’
Rachel looked at me, her eyes wet with tears.
Lucas bravely nodded and shuffled to the edge of the bed. Rachel put a hand on his knee and talked to him softly.
‘Why don’t you get ready, and then see how you feel? You still have time to decide. Now, would you like some help, or can you manage on your own?’
I breathed a sigh of relief as Lucas traipsed off to the bathroom. ‘Thanks for that,’ I said to Rachel. ‘I don’t know what I would do without you. In fact, I don’t know how we would manage any of this without you.’ My lip started to tremble.
‘You’re doing great. And I’m so glad you’re here.’ She wiped away a tear. ‘I just miss her so much.’
Mum and Auntie Sue were waiting downstairs. Auntie Sue’s face was red and puffy and her eyes shone wet. Mum was moving slowly, and her speech was a little slurred. I wondered what she had taken.
Not that I could blame Mum for self-medicating on a day like this, I thought, as I popped to the downstairs bathroom for a few sips of vodka.
St Cuthbert’s had been our parish church for as far back as we could trace the Morton family history. It was the church that everyone got married in, where Amy and Mike had their wedding, and for a long time, I had imagined I’d get married there too. Amy and I, and all her children had been christened here. It had formed the backdrop to life events and hundreds of ordinary moments – nativity plays, harvest festivals and carol services.
And on one of the hardest days of my life, we had come here
