... I could really do with a hug.
... I’m a bit chilly. Is there a blanket?
Practical requests to which she could provide a practical solution. Something, anything, to make it all a little bit better.If only.
‘Your hair looks nice.’ She tried again.
This one of many small phrases designed to break the silence, lobbing a verbal pebble, hoping to provide a moment of distraction, of joy. Joy maybe too much of an ask. But wanting more than anything for the time to pass, so she could do as Midge had said, gather around the kitchen table with a cup of tea and talk about how it had all gone.
‘Janet did it.’ Ruthie didn’t look up from her handkerchief.
The hairdresser had indeed done a good enough job in styling her mum’s sparse grey locks. Old-lady hair. Remy patted her own mop, almost entirely grey and still as wiry and unruly. Her curls, her trademark. She had in recent years chopped it, so it sat below her chin, far easier to manage now that practicality took precedence over trend and beauty.
‘Sophie and the boys have gone for a walk. God only knows why, it’s bloody freezing.’ Ruthie tutted.
Remy’s shoulder ached on cold days such as this. She now rolled it, making a face as the muscles pulled and twinged in a way that was so familiar she could almost count,one ... two ... three ...knowing that until it had popped and caused a needle of sharp pain to fireright through it would remain a dull, pulsing throb of discomfort. Far better the ritual and routine of the predictable hurt that eased after she encouraged it with this movement.
Having spoken to Tony last week, he had commented something similar about the cold exacerbating his old bones, now held together with pins and wire. Not that he had much cold to contend with, living just outside of Sydney. The lucky thing. He and Raul were still toned and handsome and looked a good ten years younger than their ages. He’d explained how tweakments were the key, not that she liked the sound of it. Needles, urgh!
‘We must suffer for beauty. You know this!’ Still his go-to phrase, that had made her laugh out loud.
Remy envied their sunshine life, not that she’d willingly swap her cottage for the surf at Bondi; she’d never been too good in the water. It thrilled her that her darling friend had found such love, such happiness. It was no less than he deserved.
FaceTime was a godsend, to see his lovely face at the press of a button. He had called last week to say how sorry he was about her dad, how Dennis had never judged, and only ever shown him kindness, and how much it had meant to a teenage boy doing his best to navigate a less than conventional life in a small suburban place.
‘He loved you,’ she had told him in earnest.
‘Not all dads would have been so good to me. Your whole family ...’ He paused, and they shared a knowing smile. ‘Particularly you and Ash.’ As was his habit, he took the opportunity to try and bring her and her sister closer, to restore harmony.
‘Your sister’s not here yet then?’ Ruthie called across the lounge and pulled her from her thoughts.
Yes, she is, but I’ve gaffer-taped her mouth, shoved her in a cupboard and not told you.
Actually that didn’t sound like a bad idea.
‘No, not yet, Mum. Shouldn’t be too long.’ Her pulse jumped at the thought.
‘You did tell her two, didn’t you? She knows to be here by two?’
‘I did, and she does.’
‘Maybe someone should give her a shout and make sure she’s on her way. No hold-ups.’
‘She’ll be fine, Mum.’
It wasn’t easy, the awkwardness between them. Not easy on her, not easy on her mum, and she knew it hadn’t been easy on her dad, a fact that filled her with regret. Her lovely dad.
‘You spoken to your sister?’ he’d ask softly with a crinkled smile of hope around his eyes. She couldn’t stand to think of it now.
Midge walked in, her handsome marine. There was a split second when, admiring him, she forgot why he was wearing his dark suit, white shirt, black tie, and the moment she remembered, a rush of sorrow caused her throat to almost close. She had to gasp to take a breath.
‘You okay, Ruthie?’ He walked over and quietly yet confidently placed his palm briefly on his mother-in-law’s shoulder.
‘For the love of God! Don’t you start!’ Her mum closed her eyes, as if exasperated, as she folded her hands into her lap. Her thin legs clad in black tights dangling in her wheelchair. It had felt practical to get her into it to save having to shift her from the sofa into her chair, then from her chair into the car. This, she figured, was one less move, like a game of chess for their queen.
‘And how’s my girl?’ Midge sat on the arm of the chair and ran his hand over her back.
‘Don’t know really. Bit wobbly.’ She smoothed invisible creases from her black shift dress.
