And that’s how I spend Boxing Day night—introducing Joel and his family to nature’s subtle majesty. I couldn’t have asked for more.
44.
Joel
It was scarily straightforward in the end, to open the door on an entirely different life. I could easily have missed it: that quick glint in the darkness of Dad’s loft, where I’d been sent to fetch two extra chairs before our Boxing Day lunch.
It was the dust bag for Mum’s one concession to indulgence, a large leather shopper the color of marzipan. That holdall accompanied her everywhere. Quick trips to the shop, bus journeys into town. Long drives to see our grandparents in Lincolnshire. And, eventually, her final trip to hospital.
I noticed the dust bag’s crest. It was identical to the gold-embossed one I knew so well from the shopper. Lifting the thing up, it felt heavier than it should have. So I opened the dust bag, and then the holdall inside.
A heart-puncturing onrush of scent. Decades-old leather, memories mildewed over. In the bag were the things she’d taken with her for her last-ever stay in hospital. He’d never unpacked them.
Her cotton-soft nightdress with the candy-pink floral print. I held it up to the loft’s strobing strip light, remembered how my chin had rested against its neckline the very last time I hugged her. A toothbrush with the bristles splayed (very Mum, so fastidious about hygiene she’d make her gums bleed). And her glasses. I turned them over in my hands. They usedto nestle in the contours of her face so perfectly, seemed to magnify her kindness somehow.
And the book she was reading too. It was a thriller by an author whose name I’d never registered, though I do remember she’d been trying and failing to get through it for months. One of the pages was turned down, about two-thirds of the way in. It must have been the place she’d reached when she died.
I flicked fruitlessly through it, then landed on the inside front cover. And there it was.
•••
Later, I drive us home. Callie’s feet are on the dashboard, Santa socks on full display (cheers, Dad).
The traffic’s heavy tonight, but I don’t mind. I’d like to stay in this car with Callie forever, going nowhere fast. A slow burn of good feelings, always.
It’s been a decent day. The chaos of Christmas and hyperactive kids meant I could at least take a break from worrying about the situation with Dad. Plus I’m buoyed by the thought that, after dreaming last night, I’ll likely be dream-free for the next few days. The feeling’s as close as I ever come to relaxation.
“Want to know a secret about Doug?”
“Always,” Callie says.
“He’s got a phobia of trees.”
She laughs, which is what most people do when this comes to light.
“He’s afraid of branches falling on his head. Works from home in high winds. An official dendrophobe, apparently.” I look across at her. “So all that ribbing about you running the other way while you’re chainsawing was just machismo. Bluster.”
She smiles sleepily, rests her cheek against the rain-mottled window. “I thought as much. He’s quite alpha male, your brother, isn’t he?”
I nod, then frown. “It doesn’t work like that anyway, does it—you cut and run? Is that where the expression comes from?”
“No, isn’t that to do with boats? Anyway, if you’ve made your cut right, you should know exactly where a tree is going to fall.”
“Good,” I say, a bit too emphatically.
Up ahead, the road becomes a river of red neon.
Callie puts a hand on my leg as I brake for the traffic. “Joel, do you ever think...” Her voice is languid now in the warmth of the car. “I mean, have you ever thought of your dreams as being... you know... a gift?”
“A gift?”
“Yeah, I mean... being able to see the future is pretty powerful.” Her fingers play against my thigh. “That night with the water main, in town, really made me think.”
“What did you think?”
I feel her look across at me. “That in some ways your dreams put you in a position of privilege. Knowing things that no one else does.”
“No.” My voice is stiff. “I’ve never really thought of them like that.”
