Hewasalways too worried. He can’t be worried anymore. Because he’s dead.
Paula considers sitting down on the floor, but she’s not sure she’d be able to get up. Does it matter though? If she can’t get up again? Why would she ever need to get up again?
She slides down, finding the frigid cold tiles beneath her, and then stares back up at that stain on the ceiling. She’d meant to turn the light on for a better look. But now the switch seems too far away and she was right before: standing up is going to be a complex negotiation. The stain – or shadow – will have to stay where it is. Unresolved.
‘Mum?’ It’s her son, Seb, squinting at her from the open back door.
He looks so very young. Thirtyisstill young, she thinks, though she didn’t feel it at the time. She had two babies at his age, whereas he’s yet to learn how to use the washing machine by himself. Seb rubs his eyes and Paula notes how red they are, how tired he looks.
Perhaps he’s been crying about his father? Except he doesn’t know yet, does he? She’s going to have to tell him. And Tilly. She wonders how she’ll find the words and looks at the phoneon the floor, wondering if 1471 still tells you the last number to ring. Maybe she can get the nice man with the nice accent back on the line to explain it all to her children.
‘What are you doing on the floor?’ he asks, looking a little alarmed. ‘Did you get hold of Dad yet? Did you tell him the big news?’
‘No,’ Paula says softly.
It really is such bad timing that John’s dead. Just when the biggest thing to ever happen to either of them – to anyone she’s ever met! – has occurred. Just when she and John have won twenty-one million pounds on the lottery.
How is she going to manage this on her own?
And how in the world is she going to get up off the floor?
2
From: [email protected]
Subject: Some news
Dear John,
Oh my goodness, I’ve only just realised how funny it is that I’m sending you a Dear John letter! I’m sure you would laugh at me for that.
Would’ve laughed.
That is hard to get used to.
Frankly, John, everything has been hard to get used to. These last couple of weeks without you in the world have been so . . .
I’m afraid I don’t have the right words.
Seb would probably call the whole thing bananapants, but I know you never liked it when our children used made-up words. You would probably peer at him over your reading glasses and ask what exactly about the situation involves a banana or a pair of pants. And you can’t argue with that kind of logic.
Although I did have a banana for breakfast this morning, if that matters.
You would no doubt find it strange that I’m writing you an email, of all things. When would I ever email you? Never! Not when I saw you every day. I can’t remember the last time I really even used it, except to confirm my work schedule with Gary. The only emails I get are from Facebook about the community group page upset about potholes, and JustGiving because of that time Tilly ran a 5k.
Tilly’s been taking care of everything since you . . . She’s been calling people and letting them know. About what’s happened. She’s desperate to arrange your funeral, but we have to wait for your remains to arrive back in the UK before we can do that. I spoke to the nice man with the nice accent again about it yesterday, and he says it might be a few more weeks. Some of the paperwork has come through, but not your death certificate or your . . . ashes. I’m told they take longer to arrange.
Tilly cancelled your mobile phone contract yesterday. I didn’t want her to do that, not yet. Not with so much going on that I need to talk to you about. But you know what she’s like; she said it was important to get everything sorted out as quickly as possible. She said it would allow me to ‘deal with all the tentacles of grief’. She really liked that analogy, but I’m afraid I don’t. It just made me picture an octopus handing me a hankie. And you know how I feel about seafood.
Either way, I tried to ring you this morning. It’s not like I expected you to answer, but I wanted to hear yourvoice on the answering machine and I needed to tell you something. Of course, it was dead.
Not dead. Just . . . not working.
I’ll stop waffling, I know you hated it when I waffled.
The point is, John. We won the jackpot.
