‘There’s no rush. Take your time.’ I don’t mean a word of this, of course.
‘When have you ever known me to take my time?’
Fair point. ‘Shall I come over?’
I hear her smile down the line. ‘Did you think we were going to do this over the phone?’
And so it is that, in the presence of Emma and her six-day-old twins, I discover I am a father and a grandfather at exactly the same time.
Emma cries straight away, assures me with a smile it isn’t personal. I laugh through my own tears, then put out my arms. She creeps between them, sets her head on my shoulder. She smells of grief and happiness, a life forever changed.
‘I guess two browns can make a blue,’ she says.
‘I guess so,’ I say with a smile. ‘Who knew?’
The babies squirm slightly on the table, in seats designed to bounce. They seem entirely unfazed by our bombshell, perhaps even a little bored.
I press a kiss into her hair. ‘How do you reckon Lawrence will take it?’
‘Badly, I should think.’
‘He’ll still love you no matter what, you know.’ Because how could he not?
She draws back, gazes up at me. She looks tired, but happy too. ‘You have grandchildren,’ she whispers.
Emma and Kai have decided to live at Rachel’s for a month or so, while they recover and get settled with the twins. I offer to stay for a few days, to help out. Emma lets me have Rachel’s room.
Nobody has been in it since the day she died.
Opening the door, I step inside.
I go over to her bed, try to imagine lying down in the space she has left. Attempting sleep, then waking tomorrow, remembering she is gone, the pain like swallowing broken glass.
Dusk and silence have flooded the room now. Downstairs, even the babies are taking a breather from bawling in stereo.
Through the gloom, I let my gaze explore, lingering on every detail. The final bunch of flowers I brought her, blush-pink roses from our old garden, wilting now on the windowsill, their heads bowed in grief. All of my books, lined up on a shelf. The painting she did of me and Emma, hand in hand on an ice rink one Christmas.
Rachel must have found the rings where I’d left them, because she was wearing them when she died. The thought both burns and comforts me.
I feel around in my pocket, then take out my own wedding ring. I hold it in my outstretched palm, just for a second, then slip it on to my finger for the first time in twenty-five years.
Next to the ring dish is my favourite photo of the two of us, in each other’s arms on the dance floor at Polly’s son’s wedding. My daughter must have taken it, though I didn’t know it at the time. Mydaughter.
In the photo, the air is tinted gold by a million lights. Rachel is smiling, maybe in response to something I have said. I wish I could remember what.
But the thing that strikes me most is that we don’t look odd, or incongruous, or in any way remarkable.
We look just right.
