‘I’m really glad you’re here, and I’m glad you are both very chill, but I have unprocessed trauma that I need to sort out quietly and alone. I bid you both adieu.’
‘Oh, come on!’ Vincent says. ‘The trauma can wait. We’ve both put ours on hold! And you’ll love it, I promise.’
‘We’ve got something very groovy planned, Lia, I swear,’ says Jack.
I return to the kitchen, dressed in a robe and a pair of hiking socks, and see them both seated at the table in semi-darkness. They have three tall glasses of rum in front of them, and the door to the deck is wide open, letting in a light breeze.
‘Do you want me to turn the lights on?’ I ask, taking a step towards the switch.
‘No, we can see the moon like this.’ Jack looks out at the sky. ‘Shooting stars and such.’
I slide into a chair opposite the pair of them, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness.
‘We are part of nature, you know that?’ Jack says to Vincent before taking a sip of rum.
‘I do know that,’ Vincent says, sliding a glass across the table towards me.
‘Is this the plan?’ I ask.
‘Where the bee sucks, there suck I …’ Jack continues, pressing his glass to his cheek. ‘That’s Shakespeare.’ He takes another sip.
‘It’s about feeding from the same tit, isn’t it?’ I say.
‘No, it’s like emerging from the same water, rising and falling with the same sun,’ Jack says.
Vincent nods.
Jack continues: ‘This might sound bonkers, Lia, especially considering the two of you are experts in it, but do you want to hear what I know about grief?’
‘Okay,’ I say. The rum is strong, and I am tired.
‘It’s ancient. It’s primal.’
‘It’s all-consuming,’ Vincent says. ‘Devastating.’
‘I’m dying with it,’ I say.
Jack tilts his head to the side. ‘Honey, we think it’s time you plucked it out …’ He mimes yanking something out of his body. ‘And we think you should take it, set fire to it, and watch it burn.’
I squint at him, unsure.
‘So, we are going to help you.’ He knocks back the rest of his rum.
‘Enough is enough,’ Vincent agrees, draining his own glass.
‘Let’s go,’ Jack says. He stands up, grabs the bottle and slides the screen door open.
Vincent and I follow him down the steps and onto the lawn.
Jack unscrews the lid from the bottle and begins to run in large circles, pouring rum on the grass in large arcs.
‘Stop!’ I say, raising both hands.
‘Lia, this needs to happen! We are burning your grief, and we are doing it all together.’
‘You’re wasting it,’ I say.
‘No, I’m not—I’m writing her name down, just like you did on the window!’
Vincent motions to Jack. ‘This is so important—very symbolic. He has really great ideas.’
Jack has slowed down, puffed from his initial efforts, and he now ambles back and forth, loosely throwing the rum around, as the desperate croak of frogs nearby overlap each other, reaching a deafening chorus, which in turn makes the cicadas buzz even more loudly, competing for attention.
‘Now, you’re going to burn it.’ Jack tosses me a box of matches. I’ve never seen him look so happy. Is it the company? The booze?
‘We’re really close to quite a few dry trees, and it’s summer, so I’m just a little concerned …’ I look to Vincent, who has picked up the hose reel and carried it closer. He drops it at my feet and they both stand waiting for me.
‘You can do this,’ Vincent says.
I light a match and hold it to the grass, which quickly catches fire.
‘Stand back!’ Vincent yells.
‘Fucking hell,’ says Jack.
We spread out across the lawn, watching as it burns in uneven patches.
‘This should help,’ Jack says after a minute.
‘I can’t imagine how it wouldn’t,’ says Vincent.
I look at the grassfire slowly blowing out in the breeze. There are singed lines across the yard, and I know she would have loved this. Every part of it. The rum. The three of us facing the dark black of the water. Her name on fire. The honking of the frogs.
The cruelty of it all is that we could have had this years ago, if everyone had agreed to puncture their own ego for the sake of the family. We could have had holidays together, spoken on the phone in the same room. Vincent and Jack could each have added the other to their small circle of friends. It is a bitter shame that it took her dying for them to be like this, with me.
Vincent lifts his arms, letting the wind cool him.
‘She would love this,’ says Vincent.
‘It’s very alchemical,’ says Jack.
‘I …’ My voice fails me.
‘Go again,’ says Jack.
‘I am glad she was mine. My mother. I’m glad.’
As the frogs and cicadas echo around us, I join them, letting out a long shriek into the night. Vincent swiftly joins in with a screech, which makes the frogs stop altogether. Jack comes in with a sorrow-filled wail. When I get to the end of one breath, I take another, continuing the cycle of bellowing on the lawn in the darkness, all three of us louder than everything else in the night. I finish with a long howl.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘We’ve got an unusual case for your first shift in the prep room,’ Shell says, licking the side of her cup to catch a drop of tea. She’s got one leg up on the arrangements desk and is reading through the morning news on her iPad as I tidy a shelf of urns, making sure each one faces out. Barbara has kindly made me a foamy coffee from the new machine and I sip on it after finishing each row. So far, my favourite urn is the porcelain rococo one. I consider buying it for my mother.
‘The client today is a stillborn.’ Shell puts down her iPad and coffee and gazes at
