By morning, I learn Ms. Fernsby makes a to-die-for English breakfast.
I’ve never cared for beans, but there’s something special about Ms. Fernsby’s not-too-sweet, smoky baked ones. So flavorful and stewed to perfection. While eating the beans and bacon, I watch Heathcliff chatter to Ms. Fernsby about his Batman comic book. I zone out, remembering Philip and me making marvelous weekend breakfasts—quiches, specialty pancakes, hash brown casseroles, and French toast. For the French toast, Philip would make a sourdough bread starter a few days earlier, allowing the yeast to properly ferment. Then by Saturday, we’d make thick cinnamon French toast, sprinkled with dark brown sugar. Working next to each other in our tight, warm kitchen was like a type of foreplay. We felt especially close while cooking together, and we both agreed that post-cooking weekend sex was the best sex.
I haven’t used my stove since Philip’s death and instead heatup all the frozen casseroles in the microwave. The stove sits untouched like a sacred relic.
I glance up, meeting Ms. Fernsby’s sympathetic gaze.
“Why don’t you and Heathie start exploring things today? The weather is supposed to be lovely.”
“How does that sound, Heathcliff?”
“Good, I guess,” he says, mouthful of toast.
On my way upstairs to get ready, I turn on my phone and check my messages. Bella had replied almost immediately to mine from last night:Hey Lizzie! Yes, we’re heading to London! Getting ready to board ared-eyein a few minutes. Our agents want us to be seen at some events before the sequel news is announced!Sofreaking exciting! And YES—I’d love to meet up!
Sequel? I haven’t written a sequel yet, so this is curious.
I jump over to my texts and see a quick response from Sarah:Good news, and it’s all happened at lightning speed. We MIGHT have a sequel deal (book and film!). I’m up to my eyeballs in conference calls regarding offer details this morning, but I’ll be in touch very soon!
I blink, unbelieving, trying not to pinch myself. Writing a sequel would be amazing, but between Mom’s illness and then losing her and then Philip, my brain has felt like mush. Still, if my audience is hungry for more Cathy-Heathcliff-Linton windswept angst, I can provide it.
We start with the British Museum. By midmorning, Heathcliff and I find ourselves in the Egyptian gallery featuring mummies. “These arerealdead people?” he exclaims, running up to the exhibit.
“Very real. They once lived and breathed and ate like us.”
Staring into the glass, I tell him about how the Egyptians removed the organs and placed them in jars and this had to do with beliefs about the afterlife.
“Was Daddy made into a mummy?”
“No, we found other ways to honor him.”
Gently, I explain cremation. I tell him how we put Daddy’s ashes in different places to memorialize him, and how when we hold the little bird urn, we think of Daddy. Heathcliff’s eyes glaze over soon, and he starts shaking his longish hair from side to side to watch the blond locks fly.
Philip’s little bird urn weighs heavily in my satchel as I stare at the beautiful inner coffin of an ancient priest. I’m mesmerized by the gilded mask, the intricate designs and bold colors. After losing Philip, I agonized over where to place his ashes. Now, as I neurotically keep some of his ashes with me, a piece of his hair in the jet brooch around my neck, I realize the Egyptians and the Victorians understood that the care and placement of bodies, arms, limbs, and organs matters. The Victorians were quite romantic when it came to death: Thomas Hardy’s heart rests with his wife, Emma. Writer Radclyffe Hall lies buried at the foot of the vault belonging to her lover, Mabel Batten. Famously, Robbie Ross wanted his ashes placed in the modernist tomb of his lover, Oscar Wilde. The final resting places signified fidelity and eternal intimacy.
Mom hadn’t been cremated. She’d been buried in a peaceful corner in the cemetery of the little Methodist church I’d grown up in. As we walked away from the site after the funeral, I looked back and saw Dad lingering in front of her open grave. His name had been engraved next to hers on the stone. He didn’t cry. Dad just stared at the stone blankly, hands in his trouser pockets. I felt sorry for him then and even more so now. I understand the weight of separation. It had been strange the first time I saw my name next to Philip’s on the niche—me on one side and him the other.
A child bumps into me, knocking me into the glass.
“Careful, Heath...” But it’s a little blonde girl in a cap. She murmurs an apology and runs back to her mother.
“Heathcliff?” I look around me. There’s a moderate crowd in the gallery, but I don’t see him anywhere.
He’s probably just looking for a bathroom.
Quickly, I walk through the gallery. All the glass cases look the same with mummies, jars, hangings and exhibit descriptions. I approach a middle-aged security guard who looks like he wants to be anywhere but here. “Did you see a blond-haired child run by?”
“We have many blond-haired children here.”
“He’s wearing a Batman shirt and worn white tennis shoes.”
The guard audibly sighs and motions for me to follow him.
“You’re taking me to him?”
“I’m helping you find him.”
He says something into his walkie-talkie about locating a missing child.
