Ellen takes a breath.
‘Joe called me a few weeks before his diagnosis.’
Tilly lifts her head, her eyes tracking across Ellen’s face as she speaks.
‘We talked for a long time. He started by calling me out on the way I’d reacted at Thanksgiving – which I knew I deserved.’ She says the last part firmly, taking a breath before continuing. ‘Then he talked about you. He told me how happy he was. That he’d been happy since the day he met you. He told me how excited he was to spend his life with you. And that it was a life that would take place in the UK.’
Tilly freezes, her entire body stiffening.
‘He promised he’d always come and visit as much as he could. But he said it’s where you’d built your life together. He talked about your career and how proud he was of you, and that he’d realized he didn’t want to uproot you from that. He told me I had to accept it, because it’s what he wanted. And I did. I’ll be honest, there was part of me that was disappointed. Who wouldn’t want their child close by? But I respected his choice. I had to. Because he was happy. I heard it then, even if I should have realized it sooner.’
A silent howl tears through Tilly’s body. Joe was willing to stay. And she was willing to leave. She sniffs loudly, wiping at her face.
Oh, Joe.
‘I wish …’ The sentence is left trailing, containing too many things to possibly put into words.
‘I know,’ Ellen says softly. ‘But he was happy. You’ve got to know that, Tilly. That’s what I’ve been wanting to tell you. My son was happy with you. Really happy. That’s all I ever wanted for him. And I’m sorry I didn’t make that clear to you sooner. To you both.’
When Ellen reaches out for Tilly this time there is no hesitation. Both women soften into one another’s arms, holding on tightly.
Tilly gives Ellen an extra squeeze. Into her mother-in-law’s hair she says, ‘And that one’s from Joe.’
Ellen squeezes her back, tightly, fiercely, and Tilly feels herself letting go of things she doesn’t need to carry any more.
The family gather on the pontoon the next day, Joe’s birthday.
His parents, brothers and their wives and children climb on to the family’s boat, the children dressed in life jackets and their smartest clothes, not quite understanding the occasion, chattering with the excitement of a group off on a school trip. It helps, as does the way Hank squeezes Tilly’s hand as he helps her aboard. Tilly gave him his hug from Joe earlier too, and Hank held her back with such strength that she worried for a moment he might squeeze the breath out of her.
From the shore the dogs bark at them as Hank eases the boat away from its mooring, the sun bright above them. When they reach the centre of the lake he cuts the motor and they drift for a moment. Tilly reaches into her bag for the blue ceramic urn that travelled with her from London. It was nerve-wracking watching her backpack go through the airport scanner and wondering what the security staff would make ofthe contents. But after reading Joe’s letter that accompanied her August book she realized what she had to do. It felt like time.
‘Do you want to say anything, Tilly?’ says Ellen. ‘You’re the words person in this family, after all.’
The word ‘family’ makes a lump rise to her throat. For the first time, she feels like she truly is part of the family. It’s messy, but aren’t all families?
She closes her eyes and recalls the lines of a poem she stumbled across inThe Poetry Pharmacybook Joe gave her, a poem that particularly stuck with her.
She recites the words of the poem ‘Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep’ from memory, grateful to have found someone else’s words to express what she wants to say.
Maybe this is what books do, she thinks – whether stories, real or imagined, or poems compiled in one place for people to flick through in search of what they need. They offer something universal but allow you to find your own meaning amongst the words. They are for everyone and yet they are foryoutoo.
The morning Tilly is due to leave, she finds Ellen in the kitchen, the usually spotless surfaces littered with packets and dustings of flour. Ellen is barefoot and dressed in her yellow apron, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders and a smearing of what looks like butter on her cheek.
‘I felt like baking,’ she says with a bright smile.
Tilly smiles back, having woken feeling lighter. ‘I can see that!’
Ellen chuckles, turning back to stir a large bowl with a wooden spoon. ‘All set for your few days in New York?’
‘I am. I’m looking forward to it. Thank you again for having me. I’m really glad I came.’
‘You’re welcome any time,’ Ellen says, putting down the spoon and wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I wish I didn’t have to say that. But I know I do. I hope you’ll come and visit us again. I know it might seem too late but I’d really like to get to know you … properly.’
‘I’d like that too.’
‘Good. There’s something else I want to say before you go.’ She takes a breath. ‘You’ll always be part of our family, Tilly. That’s what Joe wanted, and I might have made a mess of things in the past but I want that too. But I hope you know that we don’t expect you to mourn forever. You’re still young. You’ve got a whole life ahead of you. And I hope you’ll grab it with both hands. I know that’s what Joe would have wanted.’
Her voice wobbles slightly on the last words and Tilly stares at her, a stone lodged in her throat.
