‘Thanks.’ I was already pulling on my jacket, hunting around for my bag. ‘I’ll call you when I know more.’
Going outside, I ran towards my car. Getting in, I was shaking as I started the engine, a million worst-case scenarios filling my mind. You had to be OK. You had to be…
I don’t remember the drive there. When I reached the hospital, I sprinted to A&E. ‘My daughter’s here. Lexie Carmichael.’
As I waited in reception, the longest minutes of my life passed before a nurse came and took me to you. In a small cubicle, your eyes were closed, your face bloody, a drip in one of your arms.
I went to your bedside. ‘Lexie?’ I whispered. ‘It’s Mum. I’m here.’ As gently as I could, I took your hand, questions filling my head. I hadn’t even known you were going out, let alone who with. What else didn’t I know about you?
‘You’re going to be OK,’ I said softly, fiercely, as if sheer force of will could keep you alive.
You were taken for a scan, then an X-ray, before being admitted to ICU. I sat with you that evening, listening to the machines measuring your every breath, every beat of your passionate heart.
In the days that followed, I barely left your side, the reality slowly sinking in that everything I’d ever dreamed for you was suddenly in question. No longer was life filled with endless possibilities. Uncertainty lingered, a mist I couldn’t shift that permeated our days.
There were no guarantees. No way of knowing what the future held.
Now, after driving home from Ollie’s, as I go inside and lock the door behind me, it’s as though I’m surrounded by ghosts. I go through to the kitchen, a deep sense of sadness hanging over me. It’s the first year that there aren’t presents under a Christmas tree lit with fairy lights; no fridge stuffed with festive food. But the way I see it, when I’m the only person here, there is no point.
The strangest, quietest Christmas Day arrives. As the sun rises, I walk to the churchyard where your grave is, lay a small posy of winter fir and berries. As I gaze at your headstone, my denial fades, waves of grief coming at me, hitting me head on. You are not in some far-off country where my letters will reach you. Wherever you are is much further away.
Standing there, I miss you with all my heart. As I walk home, I pass a man walking his dog. He wishes me a happy Christmas and I imagine him going home to a wife who loves him, to a house full of life, of family.
Our house used to be like that. I think of you as a child, your excitement unbridled as Christmas came closer. Holding my hand, skipping beside me. I will never forget, Lexie.
Your voice startles me. Those rose-tinted glasses, Mum. They’re not doing you any favours. Christmas with you and Ollie was nice. But not when Dad was around.
It’s as though you’re with me, but when I look around, there’s no sign of you, just rays of sunlight through winter trees, fallen leaves that are sodden underfoot, hedgerows still laden with overripe sloes. I remember picking them with you once, the two of us making sloe gin. Unbottling it at Christmas when you took a sip that triggered a coughing fit.
Mum! That’s really strong!
I used to be grateful that neither you nor Ollie had much of a taste for alcohol. Growing up with Ryan, you had been subjected to the worst kind of aversion therapy. Not realising until much later that for you, it had the opposite effect.
This is where I am, Lexie. Caught up in grief; unable to see beyond it. I miss you, every day. It’s too much to imagine I’ll never see you again. It’s why I write you letters. Will keep writing. Whether it’s through the ether, or through the connection there’s always been between us, I still hope in some way they will reach you.
Christmas is a funny time. As Lucy said, emotive. Weighted with expectations that sometimes, though not always, can’t be met. There are only so many times you can field the disappointment. And when it came to Ryan, I reached my limit.
Then I’m thinking back to the Christmas everything changed between us.
It was Boxing Day and I’d gone for a walk – felt the wind blowing in my hair, the freedom that came from being alone, outside in the elements. When I got back, Ryan announced he was going to the pub.
I looked at him, knowing he was already drunk, that the moment had come that should have happened a long time ago. Momentous, yet I was oddly calm. ‘Do what you like, Ryan. But when you come back, we need to talk.’
He frowned, as if he didn’t understand. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It isn’t complicated. I can’t go on living like this.’
I waited for him to argue. But he didn’t – and I felt nothing as he went out. In reality, he probably thought everything would carry on just the same. But in my head, I was fast realising. I was reaching the point I couldn’t.
Then you’re back in my mind.
I don’t know why it hurts so much. But it does, Mum. I wish I had a dad who cared. But he’s never going to change, is he?
Hindsight, when it comes to you, casts the past in brilliant, clear light; illuminates events that at the time were blurred in fog. It’s how I’ve spent too many years: fogbound, my life observed through the blurred lens of a busy life. Life-blindness… I wonder if that’s a thing; if it’s something we’re all guilty of at some point in our lives.
Getting in my car, I push thoughts of Ryan out of my head as I set off for Ollie’s, a new determination filling me to appreciate what I do have, even if just for today – and it will be a good day. As I turn onto the main road, I take a fleeting glance at the houses I pass – the wreaths decorating front doors, the windows decked with fairy lights; imagine the family gatherings inside, each with their own traditions. Then I think of Ollie, Jenna, the baby who’s yet to arrive, my thoughts intertwined with memories of you, savouring the burst of love I feel. Holding on to it tightly; along with you, they are the heart of what to me, my family is about.
13
