“You’re sure?”
“Yes. I bought it for her.”
“It was found by the cliffs on the coast path,” he says, then pauses as though waiting for me to fill in the gaps. I don’t want to. An uncomfortable silence parks itself between us like a no-man’s-land of unspoken words. Then he stares at me, and I stare at him, both trying to process the things we think but don’t say. I blink first.
“Are you saying that my wife has committed suicide?”
“No. We can’t be sure of anything yet,” he tells me, but his face says something different. “We know that your property was broken into and that her car was stolen last night—”
“By that woman pretending to be Eden. Have you foundher? Have you found the car?”
“No.”
“This must be a mistake. My wife was here last night—” I start to say, then I begin to frantically search for Eden. I leave the kitchen without a word of explanation and look in every room downstairs. When I don’t find her there, I run upstairs and do the same. I end my search in our bedroom, where her side of the bed has clearly not been slept in. I snatch my mobile phone from the bedside table, impatiently stab the screen with my finger, find my recent calls, and dial Eden. I experience a full range of emotions in the next few seconds when I hear a phone ringing in the distance. I follow the sound, running so fast down the old stairs I almost fall—the top step is bigger than the rest and a terrible trip hazard. I hurry back into the kitchen where the police officer is waiting. The ringing has stopped so I dial my wife’s number again. The sound is definitely coming from this room. I trace it to a kitchen drawer next to where the boy cop is standing. I yank the drawer open, and there, right at the back, is Eden’s phone. What a strange place for it to be.
The unspoken question is too loud now.
“Is my wife dead?” I ask.
“It’s too early to—”
“I am bullshit intolerant, so please don’t. Is my wife dead?”
“I’m very sorry. I think she might be.”
21BIRDY
October 31
I think I might be winning at life for a change. It was surprisingly easy and dirt cheap to rent a room above the pub in Hope Falls. At this time of year, without the tourists, the place is a bit of a ghost town—not at all like the bustling and vibrant village I remember it being when I was a child. Every single room at The Smuggler’s Inn was available and I was able to take my pick. I chose the one at the end of the corridor, farthest away from the bar and the other empty rooms, overlooking the harbor with a wonderful view of the sea. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Private. Just what I needed.
My boss in London was shocked when I said that I wanted to quit. I didn’t tell him the real reason why. I haven’t told anyone that I’m ill; I don’t see the point. I don’t need or want their sympathy. People give awaysorrys like sweets at Halloween and swallowing too many can make a person feel sick. People are grief vampires. They just want to suck on your sorrow, feed on your fear, and feast on your failures. It makes them feel better about themselves. What I need is to make the most of the time I have left, and that’s what I’m doing, by returning to where my story started: Hope Falls.
Being here feels like being a tourist of my own past. I was born here and it feels as though the place has been calling me back.
Or maybe it’sher.
Now that I know I’m dying, I find myself wanting to visit my mother’s grave and talk to her in a way I never did when she was alive. I never knew my father—she wouldn’t even tell me his name—so she was all I had. I’ve spent years hating her for leaving me, and now I miss her more than I ever did before. I’m stuck somewhere between hate and forgiveness and I don’t pretend to understand it. Some people leave a mark on your life, others leave a stain.
My mother left me when I needed her the most.
What a fucking unforgivable thing to do.
I try not to think about the past too much. Mining my memories only seems to result in disappointing nuggets of regrets and mistakes. I’ve taken a few too many wrong turns but it’s never too late to try to steer your life back on track. It took a couple of months to make all the necessary arrangements, but once I was ready it all happened pretty fast. In the last few weeks I have quit my job, sold my flat in London, given away almost all my belongings—even my precious books; can’t take them with me once I’m dead—then I packed a single suitcase and moved here with Sunday. According to Thanatos, I had just enough time to make some changes to my life, so that’s what I’m doing. Today is the first day of the end of my life, and I plan to make it a good one.
I shower and dress—putting on my normal uniform of a white shirt, tweed jacket, and skinny jeans because some things never change—then I polish my shoes until they shine before tying the laces in perfect bows. I put on my glasses, examine my reflection, turn my head from side to side, and see that my braids are perfectly symmetrical. I’m ready.
It’s still a smidgen too early, so I walk into the village with Sunday by my side. We make our way along the coast path, where thesea is wild and rough and loud today. There is something calming about being surrounded by something more powerful than you, and being this close to the ocean makes me feel alive. Huge waves, taller than me, crash against the mighty granite walls of the harbor, and I see a storm on the horizon. I stop at the Driftwood Café on the corner, where I am the only customer, and order two cups of coffee. The place looks like it was last decorated in the seventies, and it’s crammed full of carved pumpkins and Halloween knickknacks.
“I like the decorations,” I say sincerely. Halloween has always been my favorite holiday.
“I like your tattoo,” replies the old woman standing behind the counter as she gives me my change. She has a thick Cornish accent that reminds me of my childhood. I thank her and stare at the swallow on my hand—a reminder that some birds fly far from home but return eventually. Swallows leave these shores because they have to, and because they learned over time to come back to the place they are born only when it is safe to do so. I can relate in more ways than one.
“You seem to be the only place in Hope Falls ready for Halloween,” I say, admiring the assortment of pumpkins.
The café owner grins. “Most folks in the village make a point of only celebrating the Day of the Dead. It’s a local tradition. But at my age every holiday is worth celebrating,” she says with a twinkle in her eye.
I tell my face to smile and take my coffee. Then I hotfoot it out of there and walk along the cobbled streets, past the pretty pastel-colored terraced houses, and make my way toward the little cottage with the blue door at the end of the lane. If it weren’t for the old-fashioned police station sign you would never know that’s what it was. My steps seem as unsure of themselves as I am now that I’m here, so I stop for a moment to enjoy the view while I still can. Sunday sits down by my side as though doing the same. I take a deepbreath. Then I take one last look around Hope Falls as it is now, wanting to enjoy this last moment of freedom. Nothing will be the same once they know who I am and what I have done.
